Vampire Cabbie

by Fred Schepartz

  “No, I am new to town.”

  “Oh. Rennebohm’s used to have drug stores all over town. Now they’re all Walgreen’s. That statue on top of the Capitol? Joke used to be that was Mrs. Rennebohm pointing to where the next store would be. Had one right on the Square, at the top of State Street . Me and the other girls, we’d work the lunch counter, knock off about three or four, then go to the Paradise for cocktails. They closed the last Rennies ’bout five years ago.”

  “Did you seek employment elsewhere?”

  “Naw, I was already over sixty. Figured I’d retire. It’s okay, but I miss the girls, and I miss the Paradise. Don’t get downtown much, living on the East Side, ’sides, can’t afford going out for cocktails any more than one or two times a month.”

  The numbered streets marked our penetration into Madison’s East Side. First, Second and so on, until the sign with the left turn arrow with a line through it marked Sixth Street . I cursed in a long dead language, then at the last moment saw the fine print, “4 PM to 6 PM,” and Granny was absolutely correct: it was after six.

  “That is three dollars and fifty cents,” I said, once parked in Granny’s driveway.

  She handed me a five-dollar bill. I laid the crumpled note on my thigh, then handed her a dollar, but she stopped me before I could dig out the remaining 50 cents change.

  “You’re a very nice young man,” she said, handing me back the dollar, reaching for the door handle.

  I jumped out of the cab and opened the door for her and watched her until she was safely inside her house, then turned the volume up on the radio and listened.

  Feel free to work at your own pace, at least in the beginning.

  In order to pay Granny the proper attention, I had lowered the radio’s volume, relegating the dispatcher’s crackling transmissions to mere background noise.

  “West near the U Hospital. West on the Lakeshore. Frances and U. Friendly Corners. Union Corners.”

  When in doubt, bid.

  “Shifty,” the dispatcher said. “Shifty, your bid.” His voice had grown quite impatient. “Mister Farkus, do you care to bid, or are you just hitting your bid button to exercise your index finger?”

  Shifty—he was using slang of an unfamiliar nature and then berating me for not understanding. What a disagreeable fellow! I looked up at the street signs. “Johnson and North.”

  “Anybody beat North and John for the Town Dump?” A moment later, “Fifty, get the Town Dump for Evan.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, feeling puzzled. The Town Dump? Who would be there at this time of night? A city sanitation specialist?

  “The Town Pump, Mister Farkus. It’s a bar. At Union Corners.”

  “Where exactly?”

  The dispatcher sighed. “Union Corners is the intersection of East Wash, Milwaukee and North, so called because it’s one block west of Union Street and because the Union House bar is right there. The Town Pump is at the northeast corner. Do you copy, Mister Farkus?”

  “Ten-four.” I opened the map to determine the precise location.

  “Update your radio, Mister Farkus,” the dispatcher said, moments after his previous transmission. Hastily, I punched the acknowledge button, then consulted the radio zone map, just to make sure to update into the proper geographic zone. That completed, I proceeded onward to my next call and proudly managed to find the Town Pump on the first attempt.

  The sight of a large yellow vehicle with a light on top prompted no movement from the patrons of this particular establishment. After the requisite minute, I went inside, only to quickly discover why the dispatcher had called this charming little bistro “the Town Dump.”

  The white walls had long gone yellow from the cigarette smoke and were dotted with the crushed remains of insects. The stench of stale and fresh vomit hung luridly in the air. The barrel-chested bartender wore a large, black patch that covered nearly half of his pockmarked face.

  “Somebody call for a cab,” I said, lowering my tone a couple octaves and adding a pinch of gravel to my voice. The patrons, an odoriferous collection of scraggly beards and unwashed clothes, turned and stared. My nostrils pinched shut, trying to beat back the assault of unappetizing throats covered with sour-tasting flesh, yet this saloon bore a fond familiarity, it being the kind of place common in the forgotten areas of bigger cities, often near the docks, where one can take sustenance with utmost prudence.

  An old man staggered forward. He was sinewy, his face weather-beaten, like he had slept 40 years in a sand storm. “Yeah, I’m comin’,” he growled.

  “See ya, Evan,” the bartender said, showing teeth that, much to my surprise, were intact and not rotted. “You take good care of Evan, ya hear?” I nodded, then held the door for my passenger.

  “Where may I take you?” I asked once inside the cab.

  “Paddy’s Pub. At the East Side Shop.”

  “Do you have a favorite route?”

  “Well, back up a few feet onto North Street , then turn left at the light.”

  “I am afraid I cannot do that legally, sir.” Or at all. A line of cars sat at the intersection, just around the corner from the bar, making that prescribed maneuver impossible.

  “Then just go around the goddamned block. I don’t give a fuck.” Quickly agitated, he spoke not with flow, but with single, clipped sentences, the beginning of each one punctuated by a sound not unlike a freshly spun top, with several grains of sand imbedded within the works.

  “Right away, sir.”

  “Over here to your right.” We had traveled a mere quarter-mile east of Union Corners. “Right in here. Right over there.”

  The fare was $1.75. He handed me a pair of sweaty, crumpled dollar bills.

  “Keep the fucking change. You probably need it more than I do.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Yes, indeed. Thank you very much. Time to call my broker and order ten-thousand shares of my favorite blue-chip stock.

  With a Neaderthal-like grunt, he was out of the cab and very quickly inside Paddy’s Pub. I updated the radio and made the proper notations on my waybill, then consulted the list of official cab stands and was in for a pleasant surprise; the East Side Shop was an official stand. I hit my stand button, plucked Seutonius from the dashboard and resumed my reread of The Twelve Caesars while waiting for my next call. After all, Kern did say the cab stands were there to keep drivers from wasting too much petrol by driving aimlessly all over the city in search of fares.

  According to my book, upon hearing that the Roman Senate had declared him a public enemy and that soldiers were near, Nero had decided to take his own life. He pressed a dagger to his throat, but could not complete the task that he knew would preserve the little that remained of his honor. A slave was about to help Nero come to an honorable end when the dispatcher interrupted.

  Thirty minutes and 40 pages had passed. “Fifty, where are you?” The sweet-as-vinegar voice of the previous dispatcher had been replaced by the excited, high-pitched yodel belonging to none other than Dexter. I had met him during my training. As I was told, he was the full time graveyard dispatcher and had served in that capacity for quite a number of years. Or as he had said, “When the company moved into this building, I came with the place.”

  Dexter was a tall mass of protruding bones. His face was ruddy to the point of being lurid, and his most prominent Adam’s apple would rapidly bob up and down when excited. I’d been told Dexter’s knowledge of the city was downright arcane.

  “East Side Shop,” I replied.

  “Well, you been sitting there awhile, fifty. The business is uptown. Do you wanna come up for a call or sit and wait for your inheritance?”

  “All calls are good calls, are they not?”

  Dexter laughed. “Fifty, come up to the Willy Bear.”

  “Where is that?”

  “It’s the old ‘Jack of Diamonds.’ At Few and Willy. Twelve-ten Willy.”

  “Ten-four.” There was no Willy Street in the directory, but I presumed—correctly—that
“Willy” was slang for Williamson, which runs northeast from East Wilson and South Blair to the Yahara River , making it another one of the four thoroughfares that cover the length of the Isthmus. And if I did have a problem finding the Willy Bear, at least this new voice over the radio would provide instructions without editorial comment; while the previous dispatcher croaked like an angry toad, Dexter chirped like a happy cricket.

  After consulting the map, the Willy Bear proved quite easy to find. And the passenger was waiting outside the bar! And she moved quickly to the cab! And, when the fare ran $2.50, she handed me a five-dollar bill and told me to keep the change!

  Ah, sweet mystery of life, at last I have found you.

  ———

  The evening’s commerce eventually settled into a mildly lucrative rhythm, providing a tolerably balanced mixture of satisfaction and confusion. All in all, the shift proved uneventful, the meter totaling $74.00, with another $15.00 in tips. No millionaire gave me a hundred-dollar bill for a five-dollar fare and said keep the change; however, no one saw fit to vomit in my cab.

  As I would discover, most of our business centered around the downtown/campus area, though a few longer, cross-town fares managed to present themselves, providing a greater meter, though leaving me far away from the downtown. At least, all the peripheral areas are only a few miles from the downtown, a situation more preferable than, let us say, Paris , where a ride to the city’s edge might be lucrative, but the return to the Champs-Elysées would take an eternity.

  As Kern had suggested, I did work at my own pace, running a call, then proceeding to the nearest cab stand to be optimally prepared to receive the next assignment. After all, if, as Kern had said, time is money and a vampire has nothing but time, then would I not be a rich man indeed?

  Perhaps, not today or tomorrow, but my situation allowed for a high degree of patience, thanks to the fact that my rent and auto insurance for the next year had been paid in advance. Heat and electricity bills would still come due every month, but surely the figures would be nominal. Food, of course, was free and, as observed thus far, plentiful. As the Americans say, most of my earnings this first year would be gravy.

  Such was my evaluation of this maiden voyage on the good ship Co-op Cab as this first shift neared conclusion. And then the opportunity to run one more call presented itself, thus ending the shift on a positive note.

  “Fifty,” Dexter said, “get the Irish Pub at three-seventeen State, just east of Gorham. That’s the old Merlyn’s. For Sheena, the bartender. Comes east toward your office.”

  “Ten-four,” I replied. Dexter had quickly gotten accustomed to my lack of geographic proclivity, but was nothing less than cooperative and helpful, freely giving instructions, thus allowing me to more easily unearth the locations of all the bars where he had dispatched calls. Motherless spawn of Satan! How many bars were there in this city?

  Again, his instructions proved useful, allowing the greatest ease seeking my quarry, and Sheena was watching through the front window, keys in hand, immediately able to secure the bar as soon as I pulled up.

  “Eight-sixteen Spaight,” she said, adding, “please.”

  “Right away. Do you have a favorite route?”

  “Sure. Just turn here on Johnson. Take it to Patterson, turn right and take it right to Spaight.” Her soft contralto seemed to smile. Lilac perfume tickled my nose, but underneath that artificial scent lay the true richness of her flesh. I opened my nostrils, letting her bouquet wash over my inner being. Deep inside me, something stirred, something to subdue because yes, there was a purpose here—to make money.

  “I trust you have had a nice evening?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Busy as hell. I’m beat. Can’t wait to crawl into bed. I feel like I just wanna sleep forever.”

  “I understand. It has been an interesting night for me as well.”

  “Were you guys busy?”

  “To tell the truth, I am not certain. This was my first night driving a taxi.”

  “Ohhh. How’d it go?”

  “Not too badly. I am new to this town and do not have the easiest time finding where my calls are, but I am not entirely displeased.”

  Sheena laughed lightly, like soft rain. “I’ve thought about driving cab. Sometimes, when I’m getting real sick of bartending, I think about it. One advantage I could see is while you might have an asshole in your cab for only five or ten minutes, I might have that asshole in my bar the whole damn night.”

  I laughed. “Do you see any sort of similarity between these two vocations?”

  “A bit. You guys help us out a lot. When someone’s been getting in our hair, we can just call a cab, and you make ’em disappear.” She snapped her fingers. “Like, poof! Gone. And a lotta bartenders take cabs a lot. I mean, I have a car, but I don’t feel like driving after hustling drinks for eight hours. Besides, I feel a lot safer having you come right to the door. I’d just as soon not walk in the dark to where my car is parked.”

  “Do you see many cab drivers on the other side of the bar when you are at work?”

  “Hell yeah. You guys are great customers. Always tip well. Goes hand in hand. Cabbies tip bartenders well. Bartenders tip cabbies well.”

  The turn onto Spaight revealed a sudden, breathtaking view. Ahead, lay Lake Monona, its blackness flickering brightly under a gibbous moon, the downtown Madison skyline defining the northern shore.

  The fare was two seventy-five. I flicked on the interior light and turned to collect the fare from Sheena, noticing her pleasingly rounded figure, her warm smile and her eyes, which were the color of nurturing earth.

  She handed me a five-dollar bill and told me to keep the change. I watched her glide to her house, watched her open the door and step safely inside. Watched her disappear up the stairs. Watched as an upstairs light flicked on then off. Watched as she disrobed in the darkness, then disappeared, presumably into the sweet embrace of her bed, which she had said beckoned her so invitingly. Briefly, I considered parking the cab, but decided just to proceed back to the office.

  “First night, huh, Al?” Dexter asked when I stepped into the dispatch office after refueling and parking my cab. He took my cab key, hung it on the appropriate hook and handed me my call slips.

  “Yes, it was. Was my performance satisfactory?”

  Dexter smiled and gave me a slightly quizzical look. “Not from around here, are you?”

  “I have not been long living in Madison .”

  “Didn’t think so.” He took a deep drag from a cigarette. The expelled smoke enveloped the small dispatch office in a blue haze. “Well, you’re not the best rookie I’ve ever seen, but you’re not the worst. You’ll do fine. Once you get to know where things are. Just remember, if you’re having a problem finding something, feel free to ask. I’d always prefer that you ask instead of spending a half-hour driving in circles.”

  “I appreciate it. I much prefer your attitude to that of your predecessor. He was most uncooperative.”

  Dexter pinched his face in disgust. “Fucking twerp! Guy’s a jerk. Gets a couple dispatch shifts, and he thinks he’s God’s fucking gift. Hell, he’s only worked here a couple years. I remember when he started. Couldn’t find his own cock in the dark to save his life. Go ahead and ask him whatever questions you need answered. If he keeps acting like a cocksucker, complain to Kevin or Maureen. They’ll set him straight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “De nada.”

  Thus, with satisfaction, that first shift ended. On the way home, driving on Williamson Street , I suddenly recognized that Spaight was two blocks away, and Sheena’s scent seemed to fill my nostrils once again.

  Drive onward, fool. Yes, my pleasure was there for the taking, but I chose not to do so, common sense wisely governing my actions. Taking is most often what we do, simply because it is usually awkward to ask. However, accepting what is given is always superior to merely taking, though this lesson was one learned dear.

  ———

&nb
sp; What remained of that first two-week pay period proceeded much in the same manner as that very first shift, with various peaks and valleys relative to the first night’s revenue. The compensation was not great, but I despaired not, feeling relatively satisfied with my progress.

  It was with great anticipation that I collected my first paycheck. Heavens! When had I last earned a paycheck?

  The amount of money was not large, but when would it ever be, compared with those astronomical sums of which I had been previously accustomed? Considering it was a first paycheck, in an occupation that requires experience and geographic proclivity, I found myself not displeased by the amount of money which could be deposited at my leisure in an automatic teller machine—a Tyme machine that bore the inscription, “Tyme is Money,” thus sparing me the trouble of finding a bank that remains open after dark.

  My enthusiasm was dashed by a memorandum attached to the paycheck:

  To: Al Farkus

  From: Maureen Hellenbrand, General Manager

  Re: Payroll fortification

  I wish to call your attention to the fact that your paycheck has been fortified to raise your hourly wage to federally mandated minimum wage. As I’m sure you know, cab drivers are paid commission. However, according to federal law, all drivers must earn no less than minimum wage. Therefore, due to your low earnings for this pay period, your paycheck has been fortified.

  This being your first pay period, it is understandable that your earnings might be low. I do want to let you know that if this situation persists, you may be required to undergo more training, and if you still are unable to significantly raise your revenue, you may find your probation extended. If your paychecks consistently need to be fortified, you may not pass probation.

  Feel free to seek help if you have questions about any of the procedures or techniques necessary to do your job adequately. And also, feel free to see me with any questions or concerns regarding the above described situation.

  We hired you because we believed you could do the job. Hopefully, you will prove that our faith in your abilities was not misguided. Good luck.