“Instinct. Intuition. I just know, that’s all. Anyway, listen carefully. If there’s a crowd of people, do not make eye contact with anybody. If someone tries to hail you before we get to the loading area, do not acknowledge them.”
Something sounded improper about that. “But are we not going there for a fare?”
“Yes, but if there’s a possible split, we don’t wanna blow it by agreeing to take someone before we know where they’re going. If they’re going downtown, south or west, fine. But if they’re going north or east, we’re screwed.”
I tried to protest, but Kern stopped me.
“You wanna make money, this is a great way to make money, and don’t forget, it’s all perfectly legal. It would be illegal to refuse service, so that’s why we don’t consent to take someone until we know where they’re going. If we establish that everyone wants a cab, we can pick and choose, but if one person approaches us, we have to take them. Capeesh?”
“Not exactly.”
“Don’t matter. Just follow my lead.”
On the way into the airport, two more cabs passed on the outbound, both full of passengers, their trunks overflowing with luggage, the lids tied down with straps. Kern rubbed his hands together vigorously, a lusty laugh coming deep from within his gut.
The scene at the taxi loading area reminded me of Constantanople when under siege by the Turks. The sudden appearance of an ox cart that might take them to safety had sent people into an excited frenzy, all begging the driver for a ride though he barely had room for himself. Even before the cab came to a stop, people streamed toward us, waving their arms. Following Kern’s instructions, I stared straight ahead, fighting hard to ignore the thirty or so people all desiring transportation.
With a loud, throaty laugh, Kern jumped from the cab. “Who needs a cab?” he shouted. The crowd of thirty all raised their hands and shouted in affirmation. He laughed again and turned to me. “Pop the trunk, Count.” He grinned broadly, then again faced the crowd. “We can’t take you all, but we’ll try our best. Okay, who’s by themselves and needs a cab?” Several people raised their hands and stepped forward. “Who’s going west?” Two people raised their hands. “Where you going?”
“The Radisson Hotel,” a man in a gray suit said with a thick drawl.
“The Best Western Inntowner,” a young woman said.
Kern nodded. “Count, load their luggage into the trunk. Anyone downtown? Campus?” Several hands raised. Kern surveyed them as to their destinations then selected a pair of college students, one man, one woman, both going to separate destinations on Langdon Street .
Momentarily, a not insignificant pile of luggage sat next to the cab. I commenced the task of loading the parcels into the trunk, but had run out of space with half the luggage still sitting on the pavement.
“Having a problem, Count?” Kern asked, after telling the people to be left behind that other cabs would be arriving soon.
“Another thing for you to teach me,” I replied, pointing at the overflowing trunk and the pile of luggage still sitting on the pavement.
“Just watch and learn.” Kern removed all the luggage, then placed the smaller items along the ledges that surrounded the well inside the trunk. He lifted the three full-sized suitcases and stood them up in the well with the bottom edges sitting against the lip of the trunk, stacked the remaining garment bags atop the suitcases, attached a bungee cord to the lid, pulled it shut and hooked the other end to the bottom of the license plate. Just to make sure the load was secure, Kern yanked at one of the suitcases, then plucked the bungee cord as if it was a violin string.
“Bungee cords,” he said with a grin, “they’ve made me a lot of money over the years.”
Kern had finally impressed me, but what kind of situation had he created here? And what on Earth was I supposed to charge these people? And where would we put them all?
“Don’t worry,” Kern said in reply to my concerns, seeming to read my thoughts. “Tell them that because they’re sharing, they get charged individually, but at a discounted rate. Tell them they’re being charged limousine rates, which are the lowest rates allowed by law. And it’s five apiece for the students, seven to the Inntowner and ten to the Radisson.”
As I was about to get back behind the wheel, I glanced at the crowd that stared longingly at my cab. In Constantanople, the mob had killed the ox-cart driver in the process tipping over the wagon. A wheel broke, rendering the wagon useless. The ox bolted and broke a leg when the mob chased it into a ditch.
“Can you send more cabs?” a haggard-looking old woman pleaded, a pile of luggage at her feet.
“Of course,” Kern replied. “Okay, we need two in the front, two in the back.” He looked at me. “This cab has a bench seat so you can legally take five passengers, but you gotta have two up front.” Kern directed the two men to sit in front with me, while he sat in back between the two women.
“Oh, and Count,” Kern said as we left the airport, “hit your LoQ and tell the dispatcher there’s action at the airport. Always let the dispatcher know if there’s action at the airport. Just make sure you wait until after you leave. You don’t want to attract too much attention to the situation until after you’ve got your split.”
———
Kern spent most of the ride conversing with the two women. Even without his attention, all the transactions were completed smoothly. The meter ran $15.00, but the cash collected totaled $33.00, $27 in flat-rated limo fares and six dollars in tips. Holy Grail indeed!
Afterward, Kern had me take him home. I tried to share some of my good fortune with him, but he would have none of that.
“Just go out there and make some money,” Kern said, “now that you know how. And don’t make me have to retrain you again.”
Still, one question remained.
“Why was this manner of training so dramatically different from our previous session? Are you trying to tell me that being a good cooperative member and making money are states of conflict and contradiction?”
“Hell, no, Count. Like I said, the co-op wants you to make money. If you don’t make money, the co-op doesn’t either. It’s just that during training, we gotta cover the basics, and we gotta make sure everyone drives safe. Again, I’m not telling you to not drive safe, but you could drive just a smidgen faster. See, again, the co-op wants you to make money, but I can’t exactly tell you all the finer points of making money while in my official capacity as a trainer.
“That’s why I don’t train on Sundays. That’s the big day at the airport and the bus stations. Hell, makes it hard to demonstrate how to be a good cooperative member if I ignore the board and dead-head to the airport all the time. Besides, other veterans get pissed if I let out too many secrets to a rookie. After all, we need rookies to run calls that allow us airport rats to do what we like best.”
“And what’s that?”
“What you just did. Now, get outta my hair, Count. Buy me a few beers sometime. You owe me.”
———
At first, Kern had just seemed ridiculous, then selfish, then finally he revealed himself to be a combination of all the possibilities, almost a microcosm of the cooperative itself and all its seemingly diametric contradictions, simply demonstrating that a cooperative is a rather peculiar organism of a whole comprised by many individuals, attempting to balance the interests of the many with those of the one.
Kern’s message, however, eventually became clear; the best thing a driver can do for him or herself and the cooperative is to make money. And, thanks to Kern, that was exactly what I began to do. He had been correct in his assessment of my performance, and with his help those bimonthly paychecks began to increase steadily, albeit with certain peaks and valleys.
In my first three months, thanks to Kern’s advanced instruction and bitterly cold weather in January and February, I managed to save about two thousand dollars, which then went into a reliable mutual fund. Long-term Madison residents commented that it was the harshe
st winter experienced in a long time, with the wind-chill dropping as low as fifty degrees Fahrenheit below zero, and it seemed that once the snow began falling in late December, it did not cease until late February.
However, another factor had asserted itself, contributing to the cab company’s overall boom. Following what many had called “the annual January thaw,” the naked body of a university coed was found on the west end of campus, near the University Hospital , amidst the remains of what had been a massive snow bank. Though the crime generated much sensational publicity, details were sketchy. It was publicly reported that her body was badly mutilated and covered with queer cuts, rips and tears. Rumors circulated like wildfire that the body had been drained of blood. That notion struck me as preposterous, merely the puerile imaginings of these vulgar Americans who seem to feel a need for that sort of grisly event.
I did not take the matter seriously. Instead, I just worked hard, as we all did, to provide service for all those people too scared to walk—for awhile at least, until the matter seemed to have been forgotten.
After three months, my probation finally neared completion. It had been a truly profound education in procedures, geography and defensive driving, especially considering the nasty weather conditions Wisconsin offers during winter, be it wet roads, wet roads covered with damp leaves, sleet, snow or one of the greatest dangers of all, glare ice, also known as black ice, which manifested itself as winter loosened its icy grip, this after it felt as though winter would never end. When the daytime temperatures climbed above freezing, the icy tongue of night would coat the streets with this invisible menace.
My first encounter with that fiend shall prove unforgettable. The invisible demon had transformed the roads into a dangerous creature to be respected and feared, and this creature’s influence was felt all over town, making even the simplest maneuvers in a parking lot an adventure too exciting for this cab driver’s taste.
In a level parking lot, I was unable to get the cab moving without quickly shifting back and forth from drive to reverse, thus creating a rocking motion that garnered enough forward momentum to get the cab moving. Stop signs and traffic lights were all ordeals; even increasing stopping distance by a factor of ten could not prevent the cab from sliding into crosswalks and intersections.
After a few hours of this farce, I had a party of students going to the Field House next to Camp Randall Stadium. When a traffic light near the stadium had turned yellow, I proceeded through the intersection with no hesitation. The creature had made it very clear that it did not want me to use my brakes in any but the most gentle and gradual manner.
A block later, I glanced at the rear view mirror and saw the flashing lights. I immediately pulled over, hoping the vehicle would pass, hoping it was a City of Madison officer in a good mood; Kern had said the Madison police usually give cabbies the benefit of the doubt.
As the Americans say, no such luck. In the rear view mirror, I watched the squad car pull behind my cab. Then I watched the officer approach, noting that his uniform was not navy blue, but sky blue, marking him as University Police.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked, his voice a lisping, whining tenor. His face was round and fleshy, his nose flat, eyes dull. By the way his upper lips met, as if torn apart, then pulled up and stretched too taut in the center and cobbled together, I determined that he had a cleft pallet.
“For running a yellow light?” I replied meekly.
“The light was red,” he snapped.
“The light was yellow when I entered the intersection,” I countered. “I am sorry, officer, but I was concerned that there might be ice in the intersection.”
The officer removed the flashlight from his belt, turned and shined the beam at the intersection. The asphalt shined inconclusively, its blackness glowing flatly under the streetlights.
“I don’t see any ice,” he said.
I held my breath and counted to ten. I knew it was especially important for me to cooperate with the officer, though I would certainly state my case, respectfully, of course. “There is glare ice all over town,” I said finally. “I was simply attempting to exercise caution. It matters not whether there is ice in the intersection, only whether I think there might be.”
“Hey, I don’t care if there is ice in the intersection. I’m gonna write you a ticket. You gotta to stop when the light turns red. I was right behind you. I didn’t see any brake lights. You didn’t even try to stop.”
“Christ, what an asshole,” I heard one of my passengers say. The officer shined his flashlight into the cab.
“You mean,” another passenger said, “you’d expect him to risk losing control of the cab just so he can stop for your precious traffic light?”
Thank you, I thought.
“These passengers?” the officer asked.
“Yes,” I replied haughtily. “I am taking them to the Field House, which is just around the corner from here. If you would allow me to do just that, I promise I will be much more careful. I can assure you I have no outstanding warrants.”
The officer gave me a scrutinizing look while fondling the various implements of torture hanging from his belt. “Gimme your driver’s license,” he said.
Reaching for my wallet, my eyes never leaving his, I thought of the cost of a traffic ticket and considered the importance of this petty little constable in the greater scheme of things. If reincarnation truly exists, I had previously encountered this gentleman when fleeing Germany after the incident in the Black Forest with the highwaymen who had attempted to rob me. He had said my traveling papers did not permit me to ride my horse, just transport it. This constable came too close to arranging a rendezvous between me and a burning at the stake.
“Just a moment,” I said smiling. The officer frowned, his expression impatient.
I stared deeply into his eyes, watching them grow larger. My mind opened, projected. Sometimes the minds of others feel like granite, sometimes like steel, sometimes like a well-clenched fist. I almost laughed out loud; it was as if I had plunged my hand into a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal.
The frown dropped off his drooping face. Without a word, the officer turned, walked to his vehicle and drove away.
“Geez,” a passenger said. “He’s gone? What the hell?”
“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” another passenger said.
I shifted into gear and moved forward slowly. “Sometimes, you get lucky,” I said, “and catch them in a good mood.”
Apparently, Kern’s lessons were well learned. I had adjusted to harsh and hazardous weather conditions. My paychecks no longer needed to be fortified. About a week following the incident with the constable, half a shift had passed when I realized that I had not yet referred to my map or street directory.
And then came the opportunity to prove my mettle in a race. Grateful for dry streets, I had just taken the curve on Gorham where it becomes University Avenue , right before the east edge of the campus. Ahead was another Co-op Cab, which displeased me because that cab would beat me out of most calls in the area.
“Lake and Dayton ,” the dispatcher said. Obviously, that had to be Witte Hall, a dormitory just a couple blocks away, most assuredly the other cab’s call. But not necessarily.
The other cab crossed Frances Street just as the light turned yellow. As the Americans would say, I gunned the engine and squealed through a left turn onto Frances, just before the light turned red—that constable damned to hell!—then floored it toward the next intersection, the light snapping green just as I reached the crosswalk. The dispatcher took my bid, then took the other cab’s bid. The race was on!
I felt myself grin as my cab flew through the intersection, the rear of Witte Hall on the right, the main entrance on the opposite side of the building, in the next block. Kern would tell me to stomp on it, and that is exactly what I did.
Stop sign, right turn. Squealed a right turn at the next intersection and pulled up to the main entrance of the dormitory
just as the other cab got the green light.
My grin would do Kern justice. Not only had I arrived first, but my cab was on the correct side of the street.
The other cab crossed the intersection, then stopped when even with my vehicle. Even in the darkness, it was easy to see that the driver was glaring angrily at me. Then, his expression changed from anger to close scrutiny, like he was looking right through me.
Then, the expression turned to fear.
And suddenly I recognized the driver. It was the fellow who had given me a ride from the airport when first I had arrived in Madison .
———
Shift’s end, and it was a good shift, but now that it was over, my paramount desire was to wash my hands; as always, at the end of a shift, they were filthy. One thing I dislike about cab driving is how dirty my hands are at shift’s end, having been wrapped around that filthy steering wheel for eight, ten or even twelve hours at a time. Not that I have ever minded dirt, of course, if the dirt in question is earth. However, sweet soil besmirches not the steering wheels of those cabs, but the sweat and oil from countless hands which makes the steering wheel sticky and better able to attract all the carbon from exhaust and unmentionable grit and grime from the road that gets agitated into flight from all those turning wheels.
Without even turning on the dome light in the cab, I knew my hands were filthy. I could feel the filth. Confirmation came when I did turn on the light to take my final meter readings. I stared accusingly at the steering wheel, then ran a saliva-moistened finger along the royal blue plastic. A baby blue streak appeared under my finger. Before doing anything else, a trip to the washroom was in order.
I have always found hand-washing relaxing, not to mention pleasurable, feeling the blood-warm water flow over my flesh. However, the experience was always a cause for concern in the washroom at Co-op Cab.
A mirror covered the wall directly above the sink.
As much as I enjoyed hand washing, I tried not to linger, washing vigorously with my head down—mirrors have never frightened me, but it is rather unnerving to see one’s clothes standing up by themselves.
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