Vampire Cabbie

by Fred Schepartz

  Damn the earth under my feet! Federally mandated minimum wage? What in the name of the false gods was that? The notion of a minimum wage seemed inconceivable. The last time my actions had earned money was when the sale of a Gaugin provided a net profit of almost four million dollars. How could I be concerned with pebbles when I had been accustomed to lifting boulders?

  I was so stunned that Kern’s approach escaped my attention.

  “Hey, Count.” He slapped the paper as I read it. “A fortune, ain’t it? Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  Quickly, the piece of paper was folded and secreted within the back pocket of my blue denim trousers. Yes, I had resorted to wearing such attire. It seemed that to blend in, it would be prudent to dress as these slovenly young people do.

  “Perhaps not a fortune.” That was all I could bear to say; there would be no force in Hades that would open myself to any abuse from the likes of this fellow. Hastily, I turned on my heel and strode to my cab.

  And it was not a bad shift, having booked $80 with $15 in tips. At shift’s end, Nicole sat across from me, struggling to get the numbers on her waybill to balance. She looked up at me, eyes shimmering.

  My stomach sank. I do not want this. I do not need this. I do not want to even think about anything to do with this.

  She smiled warmly, her perfect white teeth almost sparkling. “Al, how’s it going. Haven’t seen you since training.”

  “Busy,” was my terse reply.

  “You have a nice shift? Damn!” She looked down at the tangled mess of charge slips and slapped the adding machine.

  “It was adequate. Yourself?” Though not really interested, it seemed the polite thing to ask.

  “Not too bad.” She rummaged through the crumpled piles of currency. How can people be so sloppy with their money? My cash always was always very neatly folded and sorted by denomination. “Not bad for a Tuesday.”

  Suddenly, I was curious. “How much did you book, if you do not mind me asking?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t mind. Like I said, it was okay. Coulda been better, coulda been worse. Not quite one-twenty, but the other night I pulled in one-sixty, with nearly forty on the side.”

  One-fifteen had been my best effort thus far.

  Suddenly, warning bells started ringing inside my skull. My revenue should have been higher. Somehow, there was a flaw in my work, though the thought still rankled me about the concept of minimum wage, as if just under is inadequate, while just over would be perfectly fine. How simplistically arbitrary!

  Maybe Kern was to blame. Maybe he did a poor job in training me. “Nicole,” I asked, “out of curiosity, who was it who trained you?”

  “Kern.” She nodded. “He was very thorough. I’m happy I got him. I’ve heard bad things about one or two of the other trainers, but I think Kern did a good job. Why?”

  “No reason.” Yes, yet another lie, but I did not want to discuss my failings with these children. My waybill was complete, and all I desired was to get home, listen to some Rossini and try to determine if this scrabbling for spare change was really what was most desirable at this time and under these circumstances.

  As I rose to depart, Nicole’s gaze locked upon me. “I was wondering....” She folded her waybill and tucked it into an envelope. “Doing anything? Wanna go get a drink or something?”

  A drink. What irony. “I am sorry, but I think not.” Too harsh. She looked hurt. “Please forgive me.” I softened my voice. “I am just preoccupied, but I do not think I would be interested in a drink at this time.”

  She shrugged, her self-esteem still seemingly intact. “Okay, maybe some other time.” Nicole smiled warmly, obviously taking seriously the notion of “some other time.” Being polite can be such a burden.

  Chapter 6

  Marked

  You may cease that infernal tittering. Yes, this situation was most humiliating, and having to seek help from Kern only exacerbated my shame.

  I attempted to ignore the predicament, but that lasted about a week. Sitting in the cab stand at the Concourse Hotel, someone opened one of the back doors of my cab. Unfortunately, it was not a fare. It was Kern, as always, flashing that ridiculous grin.

  “How’s it going, Count?” His legs stretched across the entire back seat.

  “Adequate.”

  “Just adequate? Thought you’d be making the big bucks my now.”

  I stared straight ahead. “I have simply chosen to follow your advice and work at my own pace until feeling comfortable. That is what you recommended, is it not?”

  “Time to shift gears.”

  I turned. He sat up, his smile gone. “What do you want, Kern?”

  “Just here to help.”

  Translation: whip one of the cooperative’s workhorses to get more money out of it. “I do not require any help.”

  He shook his head. “Not the way I hear it, Count. Been talking to Maureen. You’re not even making minimum wage. I saw your revenue per hour. You’re making three bucks an hour. That eats shit.”

  A hot, red flash washed over me. Three dollars, six dollars. What was the difference? “I thought this variety of thing was confidential,” I said, attempting to hide my rancor.

  “It is normally.” He sighed loudly. “Look, as a trainer, I try to follow up on the people I train. I asked how you were doing. Maureen told me she had to write a warning letter about having your paycheck fortified.” Suddenly, his grin returned. “Hey, we can’t be having that sort of thing. Makes me look bad.”

  Ah, ha! Makes him look bad, and then perhaps they take away from him the lucrative privilege of training. “I do not require your assistance,” I repeated.

  “You’re wrong there, Al. Hey, you don’t need to take this personally. Hell, you’re working under a tremendous handicap here, not knowing the city and all. We’ll carry you a little while, but you’re gonna be under the microscope, so the sooner you start pulling your own weight, the better your chances of passing probation.”

  “Why are you so anxious to help me?” A good question, or so it seemed. The centuries had long taught me to be suspicious of anyone offering assistance for no apparent price or reason.

  “As I said, you’re my trainee, and therefore, you’re my responsibility.”

  “Does that mean you get in trouble if I do not become an adequate driver?”

  “Nope. Look, I want you to do well. I want all my trainees to do well. I want all of us to do well. It says in the statement of purpose right in our articles of incorporation that we will ‘provide a humane working atmosphere and jobs at a living wage.’ That’s where I’m coming from.”

  For the first time, Kern struck me as sincere. “Very well,” I said after a long, silent moment. “I will consent to whatever you think best.”

  “Then, you’ll let me ride with you tomorrow night?”

  “Yes,” I answered, resigned to never be free of his vulgar presence.

  “Good. I’ll be home tomorrow night. Gimme a call when you get a cab.”

  “And what do you expect in return for your generosity?”

  “You become a good cabbie, it’s good for the whole co-op. Just buy me a beer sometime. Or maybe two.”

  Ah ha! I knew there had to be some form of ulterior motive at work.

  ———

  “That’s your first mistake.”

  “To what are you referring, Kern?” As planned, I had collected him at his home after getting a cab. We had just run our first call, and he had already seen fit to have an apoplexy.

  “You’re empty, right?”

  “Correct. There are calls in close proximity. We shall accept our next assignment shortly.”

  “But you could’ve already been dispatched a call before dropping off your previous passenger. Now, with no call in front of you, you gotta drive around aimlessly, wasting time, and time is a valuable commodity. Like I’ve said a zillion times, time is money.”

  “But did you not say that I should work at my own pace, take
my time and not ‘bid on the run’, as you say, until I felt comfortable?”

  “Jesus Christ, Al, I didn’t figure you taking me so literally. I meant maybe you might do that for the first shift or two. But you’ve been on your own for a good two weeks. Time to put on the long pants.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just get yourself another call, but this time, I want you to bid while running the call. I want you to make sure you have an assignment before you drop off your next passenger. Shit, no wonder you’re not making any money.”

  “You will help me?”

  “No, I won’t. You gotta learn to do this for yourself. Look, you can do this. It’s simple, really, but you have to be able to bid on the run if you’re ever gonna make money. Just take it easy. Pull over to the side of the road if you have to, to copy the call. Or tell the dispatcher you’ll hit your HiQ when you’re ready to copy. Okay?”

  I shook my head. “Very well, Kern.”

  “Be ready,” Kern said, after we had loaded the next call. “Listen carefully. The dispatcher’s about to call the board.”

  “West near the U Hospital, west on the lakeshore, Breeze and Hoyt, Randall and Spring, Lake and Dayton, Lake and Langdon, top of Wisconsin, Crystal Corners, Friendly Corners.”

  “Do it,” Kern said.

  I pressed the bid button, lifted the microphone from its cradle and watched for the nearest intersection.

  “Seventy-five,” the dispatcher said.

  “Charter and John to one-hundred West Gilman.” 121 W. Gilman actually, but Kern had said to just say what hundred block if I was unable to recite the exact intersection.

  “Seventy-five, get the Edgewater.”

  “The Edgewater. Ten-four.”

  “See, wasn’t that easy?” Kern laughed loudly.

  “Yes. Quite easy.”

  “And now you can proceed immediately to your next call, getting maximum efficiency out of your time. You see, you’re going to Carroll and Gilman, and the call was at Langdon and Wisconsin . That’s only two blocks away. Of course, if you’re downtown and there’s calls downtown, you should always bid, even if you’re not sure which call you might be up for. And sometimes, it’ll be real busy, and you should just bid as soon as you load, even before you hear the dispatcher call off the board because, if you know there’s tons of calls and they’re everywhere, you know the dispatcher’s going to need you to run some call, so just bid, and you’ll get a call. That’s what’s called ‘bidding blind.’”

  “I was wrong to have ever doubted you, Kern.”

  “You’re right about that, Count. So, do you know where the Edgewater is, even though I just told you?”

  “I am not certain.”

  “No problema. Just look it up after you drop off your current passenger.”

  ———

  “Seventy-five, where now?”

  “Randall and John,” I replied.

  “The call’s at five-eleven West John,” the dispatcher said. “Eighty, where now?”

  “Pick it up,” Kern said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you know where five-eleven West Johnson is?”

  “Yes. It is right before Bassett, is it not?”

  “Then, pedal to the metal, dammit. You’re in a race. Christ, you drive like my grandmother.”

  “Did you not tell me to drive safely?”

  “I did, but you gotta pick it up a bit. You can drive a little faster than the speed limit. Hell, cops won’t pull you over if you’re within ten. Lotta times Madison cops give us cabbies the benefit of the doubt. Floor it.”

  “Seventy-five, where now?”

  “Park and Johnson.”

  “Eighty, where now?”

  “Goddammit!” Kern spat. The traffic light at the next intersection was red, but would turn green momentarily, having turned yellow the other way, but then a Co-op cab made a left turn onto Johnson, the number eighty visible on the side of the cab. Kern loudly slapped his hands against his thighs. “Dammit, Count, don’t you have any killer instinct at all?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re in a race, dammit. My grandmother would’ve beaten you, and she’s eighty fucking years old.”

  “Again, as I told you, I am merely trying to drive carefully.”

  Kern slapped himself in the side of his head. “You can drive fast and carefully. Look, you’re in competition out here. When the dispatcher calls a race, you’ve got to pick up the pace a bit. You’ve got to say, ‘this is my call and ain’t no one gonna take it from me.’”

  “But is this not a cooperative? We are not out to slit each other’s throats, are we? Or are we?”

  “Usually, no. We try to keep racing to a minimum. As opposed to Capitol Cab where they race for nearly every call. A few years ago, two Cap Cabs were racing for a call, and they collided on West Wash. The cops who showed up couldn’t stop laughing.”

  “So, that means we are a cooperative most of the time, but not all the time?”

  “No, I didn’t say that. Like I said, we try to keep racing to a minimum, but sometimes, it’s just a dead heat. The dispatcher will keep checking with the drivers until someone has a clear advantage. If no one does, they call a race. Just remember, any time you’re being considered for a call and you know other cabs are being considered for the same call, pick up the pace a bit. Don’t drive like a total maniac. Don’t do anything illegal, like run red lights, or go the wrong way on a one way street, or drive on State Street , but pick it up because you know the other cabs will. Capeesh?”

  “Yes, I understand. Killer instinct. I think I know what that is.”

  “I don’t know about that. God, you’re so fucking genteel, Count. You need to drive with more joy, more passion. Maybe some music might help. This cab got FM?”

  “Yes, but there is nothing palatable to listen to at this hour.”

  Kern turned on the radio. “We’ll see about that. Ah, here we go.” He began humming along with the hideous, high-pitched screeching wail blasting from the radio. Why could he not listen when I had said there was nothing palatable on the airwaves? No classical, no jazz, just that wretched rock and roll, that children’s music born from twelve-bar blues with three-chord progressions—possibly the lowest form of music ever known to humanity. Or even worse was country, which I found just too pathetic for words and sadly enough seemed to be growing in popularity. Was the collective IQ of this nation dropping lower than it already was?

  “The Allman Brothers,” Kern gushed. “‘Jessica.’ Man, the best cruising music ever. These guys are speed, man, just pure, ethereal speed. And that’s what killed them, too. Duane—fucking god on the slide—drove his motorcycle into a peach truck after ‘Eat A Peach’ came out. Barry Oakley drove his motorcycle into oblivion exactly a year later, in almost the exact same place.”

  “Ah, but their music lives on.”

  “Damn right.”

  I was being sarcastic, but Kern was too daft to notice.

  “So, what do we do now?” he asked. The board was clear.

  “Find the nearest stand? We are merely a few blocks away from the Concourse Hotel. Is that not a good stand at this time of night?”

  “It is, but I’ve got something else in mind. Let’s go to the airport.”

  His manner was quite puzzling. “Just simply drive to the airport?” What was the term? Dead-head? Is it not a waste of fuel to drive clear to the other side of town for the mere possibility of loading a fare? Somehow, it seemed that Kern was not instructing me in the same kind of cooperative manner as when he had officially trained me.

  “Sure, Count. Board’s pretty quiet right now. It’s about nine, there’s a few planes due to land any time now. Sometimes, the airport can really make you a lot of money. Didn’t you check out the airport schedule?”

  I nodded, but honestly, the airport simply did not seem as high a priority as other aspects of the job that needed to be mastered, such as, as the Americans say, knowing
my ass from my elbow.

  “It’s a hot time. Let’s go. And pick up the pace a little bit. You can drive faster than the speed limit. Time is money. Let’s go. Don’t want all the fares to be gone by the time we get there.”

  The cab lurched forward as I depressed the accelerator, paying close heed to not exceed 35 miles per hour, which was ten over the legal limit. Kern would have me risk this job just to live up to what he thinks a cab driver should be? No gentleman he.

  “The airport’s made me a lot of money over the years,” he babbled. “Not without paying my dues. Had to learn. You betcha. That comes from sitting for a couple hours before loading someone going to the rent-a-car stand. Then, you go back and wait another couple hours, or just give up the ghost and leave. But then the time comes when you pull up and get a split-load, and it’s all worthwhile.”

  “Split-load?”

  “Yeah, didn’t I tell you about split-loading, Count? At the airport, the bus stations. Man, it’s the Holy Grail. It’s better than sex! You load up your cab, charge people individually at a discounted rate, turn in what’s on the meter and the rest goes in your pocket. It’s fucking legal and doesn’t violate any work-rules, as long as you follow proper pricing procedures and as long as everyone consents to sharing.”

  After crossing the Yahara River , which marks the end of the Isthmus, the road veered sharply north before splitting and turning into Packers Avenue , so named because it is where Oscar Mayer is located. The noxious stench of cooked meat floated into my nostrils as I spotted cabs moving south, all with passengers. Kern also noticed.

  “Pick up the pace, Count.” Kern’s voice had changed from gently cajoling to authoritative. He tapped me on the shoulder and pointed toward the cabs in the southbound lanes. “Look at that. Count ‘em. One. Two. Three. Four. There’s action at the airport. Let’s move.”

  A certain excitement crept into his voice as we reached the airport access road. “Okay, listen carefully. I got a feeling there may be a big crowd when we get there—”

  “How would you know? How can you be sure?”