Christmas in a Cab

The trouble with not marking holidays is that the world won't let you forget. The abandoned streets that one's accustomed to at 4AM, are odd, eerie, and lonesome at 4PM on a Christmas Day. The few wandering souls that cross paths are the kinds that'd fade into the scenery on a typical day. The absence of others brings them into higher relief, into sharper focus than they warrant or than anyone would ever want them to be in. The unkempt man talking to the brick wall to the side of the shuttered storefront might not catch the eye with a stream of pedestrians ignoring him, but today he's the only show in town...The few that require transport seem more in their own worlds than on other days. Maybe it's the long pauses between encountering anyone, but these rides feel like intrusions into foreign lands; care must be taken not antagonize the natives or break local customs while backtracking out and onward...

Two teenaged girls preface every direction and request with 'sir' making one wonder whether it's an ironic game or whether they were raised with some stilted out-of-date formality and this was the one day of the year that they were allowed out among the commoners...

A young, well-dressed Asian woman towing a mountain of gifts hails me in a tony neighborhood. She asks to be taken to a black ghetto area. There's no chatter during the trip and upon arrival she hurries out, shielding her face as if she doesn't want to be seen going where she's going...

Much of the day the rain beats down, making the streets appear even emptier than they do already with the dormant vehicles and unpeopled sidewalks, but toward evening it finally begins to form into flakes, to whiten the city and shrink visibility to but a few hundred feet in any direction. I head out to O'Hare in the hope of catching a stray, weary traveler or two, to maybe find a hot meal as well...

The little restaurant at the Taxi Staging Area is miraculously open, so Christmas dinner's a fairly tough couple skewers of beef kebab over an ocean of rice with a side of wilted lettuce. The option to drown this last in Ranch Dressing proves too tempting to resist. The steam rising from the styrofoam container fogs the car's windows along with the visible breath in the cold, making the surrounding cabs and the airplanes beyond the fence, already being blanketed in snow, fade further and further from view...After several hours, kept company by a radio rendition of "It's A Wonderful Life", it's time to head to the terminals...

The little round-faced man stomps around, finishing his cigarette, near the head of the line at American Airlines. He crawls in and asks to be taken to Hoffman Estates. I look in the book for directions and an estimate on the fare. In an indeterminate Central European accent, he asks incredulously, "They no allow GPS? I trucker and without this I'm lost..." I explain of how little use that system is to a city driver and we shove off westward...Turning into his cookie-cutter subdivision, I start clicking the Extras button on the meter, explaining that we charge the meter plus one half to go out to the suburbs. This prompts the following bit of Old World wisdom from my passenger, "Rules. Too much fucking rules this country. I from Europe...I go boating. No drinking, no make noise, go bed 10 O'Clock. Why I go out then? Crazy living this country, everyone always chase money...Akhhh, glad be home anyway!" he pays two dollars over the required $53 and bids me farewell...

Back in the city, a woman stands shivering, clutching a white Toy Poodle close while trying to hold on to a bunch of sloppily over-stuffed bags. She thanks me profusely for stopping despite the dog, "Most of you guys won't stop when you see him," she says, though that anyone could feel threatened or put off by the little guy is beyond confounding. Seems her boyfriend chose to celebrate the birth of Jesus by getting lit and smacking her around. She points to the cop cars clustered down the street, "We were having a good time. All I asked him to do was to stop drinking," she's headed to her office to spend the night on the couch. "Luckily my business has one." Still in shock, she thanks me profusely and over-tips extravagantly as if to regain some control over a situation that's knocked her on her ass with no warning whatsoever. Driving away, no apology for the human race would suffice to make this thing right...

Many hours later, toward dawn, the woman in the over-sized parka in the middle of the road is the last fare of the night. She asks about my Christmas, tells about eating way too much and getting most of what she'd asked for this year. We pull up to a house and she says to wait while she runs in and grabs her kids before disappearing through the gate, down a gangway and into the dark. Ten minutes later it's time to cut losses. The $10 isn't worth the bother, maybe Santa had one last gift for her after all ...

The holidays magnify all that one lacks, forcing one to brood over deficiencies and failures. The best thing is that they end and everyday life resumes, giving the world back the scale and focus necessary to keep getting by. Being a stranger among strangers providing some small comfort missing when those others gather behind closed doors for their celebrations...

The Fellas

Every night in this city they go out. Some begin in packs to plan their moves, work out the finer points of strategy, while others prefer to keep their techniques to themselves, to travel solo. Their moments in the cab present fragments of a process that repeats and repeats with minor embellishments and deviations on any given evening. Whether with their prey in tow or still alone, the mating dance of the urban male is a thing to behold. And often that's not for the best of reasons...

Four pile in early in the evening. We all know them too well. A few years out of school, just married but before the kids and the inevitable move to the 'burbs, or still playing the field, getting obliterated every weekend. Get them together and the collective I.Q. might not muster the insight to change a bulb. They call each other only by last name as if they're teammates or from some residual custom of fraternity days. They kid about fucking the girlfriends of buddies that aren't there. As we near the bar, final preparations are made. Jenson's definitely gonna be the wingman, while Jones and Fletcher'll hang back, then come in to close the deal. There BETTER be some talent at this joint...They're hanging at The Ledge, should you wish to join them...

He waves me over, then lets her in first, mid-argument. "Guarantee you you'll be bitching about those heels within the hour." He's in scuffed-up jeans and a ball cap while she's dressed to kill. Instead of telling her how good she looks he remains on the attack. Doing otherwise would be to admit that he left the house without a second's thought to his appearance. He's already got her so why bother with that shit, right?

Stopped at a red, I look to the left. On the sidewalk outside the Tavern on the Crotch, a shirtless man balls his fists, ready to take on all comers. Eyes flit this way and that, muscles flex, then go slack. There's no one within ten feet of him, so, seeing no takers, he picks up his white t-shirt off the ground and puts it back on. Tucking it in carefully, he gives the street a last once-over and goes back into the bar. The light turns green...

Two men and a woman stumble out of the soft loft. Deciding whether to go for the left or right door becomes a complicated operation, but they eventually persevere. "Guess I'm sitting bitch," the one in the middle announces to all concerned. They're making two stops, the bitch's being first. The fella by the window's in Mardi Gras beads in the dead of winter, his eyes might as well have Xs on them like they do in the old cartoons; he's no longer on this plane. He knows however that he wants to keep partying with his pal. The girl will have none of it, informing him in a stern, motherly tone that it's time to go home...Extricating the 'bitch' is accomplished at a glacial pace with phones and crumpled bills dropped and picked up again and again. His friend makes one more attempt to talk her into prolonging the revelry before climbing back in and laying his head on her lap...At their house, she hands me the fare, accompanied by a look that says that this kind of thing's getting old fast, "C'mon Jeff, it's time to go home!" she says and stalks off. There's a glove left on the back seat and when I hand it to him, he grins, "Hey, thass Coleman's glove!", as if discovering a lost toy. He waves it my way then staggers in the direction in which she disappeared...

Advice

4AM, Saturday-Sunday transition, time to head home, but the girl at the bus stop across Western waves both arms frantically; sigh and make that illegal u-turn, the damsel-in-distress routine hardly ever fails...

"Can I use your phone? I'll pay you, I promise...Please, just dial this number," she dictated it, then put the phone to her ear and waited, "Would you call it again? I'm sorry I'm sorry..." This was repeated three or four times to no avail before the story started spilling out. We still hadn't moved, the meter still hadn't begun clicking, paused at that bus stop...

"I just want my phone charger back. Nothing even happened, I barely know him...Ok we're going to Audobon, don't worry I'll pay you," she kept mentioning Audobon and I had no clue whether it was a town or what, because it sure wasn't any Chicago street that came to mind. "Alright, do you want to go on a secret mission? You don't have to, I'd understand, I just want my shit back..."

I didn't want to go anywhere but home so a cardinal rule had to be broken. Advice had to be dispensed. Insinuating oneself into the lives of the fares runs counter to everything that's good and proper; can't truly see the story if you're part of it, but the alternative here was even less attractive. Sizing her up. A striking young woman dressed to the nines working herself up into real upset over a one-night stand gone sour. Showing up at the guy's door with her to pick up the phone charger left from the night before. Since he wasn't answering her calls and she'd spied him going home with someone else earlier that night, seeing the two of us at his place at 4:30AM on a Sunday morning would be a real treat...I sketched out the many reasons why it was best to leave it alone and the effect was to start the tears flowing. "I just feel so stupid. my phone's about to die. I'm working 6-7 days a week. I don't even care about him, " she went on and on, but began to back up from the precipice a bit...

She lived a block away. She wanted to pay but taking her money for refusing the trip would've been wrong. It's rare that any bit of ugliness can be averted, so when that rare case presents itself why would anyone want to cheapen it? "Dudes suck," she said, thanking me and went her way. I went mine, thankful for the trainwreck avoided and the clear path home...

Freakeasy

They were in luck. The address I'd been sent to twice didn't yield a soul, so they could stop shivering on that windswept corner and get in. There were two girls and two guys, all barely into their twenties. Among the couple dozen articles of clothing covering them no two could be said to match. If colors came close, then sizes diverged; a loose furry top paired with the tightest skirt; unkempt scraggly hair and shiny dance shoes; a straw cowboy hat and a green Day-Glo bracelet. They only get to be this young once...

The chick in the cowboy hat sat up front and wanted to get to know me better. At the close of the night it's sometimes tough for them to turn it off. This one would have a parade of victims before she was through. From batted lashes to a dozen different smiles to the feigned amusement at any and every word, she showed off just a bit of the repertoire. "We were at the Freakeasy tonight," she said...

A loft in an industrial stretch of the city, a DJ, a light show, dancing, drugs; in other words, a rave. No, the bearded kid in the back insists, well sort-of but more sophisticated, you know, because they're way beyond THAT. "If you're not into a bunch of hot bitches shaking their asses all night, then I don't recommend it," he snickers. "There's like a bunkbed above the DJ booth and they've taken out the mattresses and it's like a chill-out area," the chick chimes in. There's knowing references to various illicit substances and giggling. "Not that we do any of that," someone in back reassures me, "Gotta be super careful man, especially in Chicago..."

Every succeeding generation discovers much the same vices and acts as if it's only their select band of trailblazers that's privy to their forbidden charms. These kids were hardly out on their own and it was vital for them to let the world know how far out they were. I asked the girl why they were going home so early, only 3AM after all, and she said, "My ladylove back there has an early morning thing she's gotta do and we live in BuFu, Egypt, so..." Asking where this Bumfuck, Egypt was situated revealed it to be Dyer, Indiana, about forty-five minutes drive out of the city...

"You should go back to the Freakeasy, man, it was like $20 to get in but they probably won't charge you. Just like tell'em you're there to pick someone up. They'll be going 'til the sun comes up, " she paid up with a collection of crumpled bills, flashed a dazed grin, then followed her friends out of the cab...

Gangway

The dispatcher directed me to an address off Fullerton near Logan Square. I pulled up and a woman with ratty bleach-blond hair and a tie dyed shirt came out carrying a bunch of plastic bags. Placing the load in the back seat, she gave an Oh-Well kind of look and shrugged before shivering against the chill and retreating back toward the house. A heavily made-up Latina was next out. She seemed more intent on her phone conversation than actually making it from the doorway to the cab, but gradually that gap narrowed, then closed...

"43rd & Western, you can take the highway," she directed before lapsing into silence. Her curly hair shone slick with oily product, lipstick applied and reapplied generously to a sort of patina, enough mascara to cause a raccoon envy, and various other tinctures to alter or hide the true nature of her visage. She had those long acrylic nails. The ones encrusted with fake diamonds. The parts that were unadorned were a Day-Glo teal shade...

As we sped past Downtown she quietly intoned into her cell, "C'mon baby, I know you can do it...I believe in you, you make me so proud...you the MAN, don't be a negative, baby...just the way we talked about, I love you sooo much..."

We got off the Stevenson and she directed me up Archer toward Western. McKinley Park was dead-still at this hour. As with most neighborhoods in the city, 1AM on a Sunday was a time to quietly gird for the coming work week. We sped down the avenues, unchecked by other vehicles, hardly slowed by traffic lights, before coming to rest on a narrow one-way street in front of a neatly appointed single-family abode. She hurriedly rechecked her make-up in the mirror, "...so tired," she murmured under her breath while counting out the price of the fare...

"Do I look OK?" she asked, making eye contact for the first time, revealing the faint, mostly-healed bruise on her left cheek. She gathered up her belongings and dragged them to the black metal gangway gate on the side of the house. She'd asked me to stay until she made it inside, so I sat there, watching her fumble with the lock. The motion detector lit and darkened the porch light every other minute. Giving up, she came back to the cab, "My key won't work, I need to call my fiance to come out and unlock it. Don't leave please"...She argued her case into the cell for what seemed like eons before a guy in a hoodie and shorts appeared and grudgingly unlocked the gate. They disappeared between the two houses without looking back...

Lost Souls

Making countless passes up and down the thoroughfares of the city, one begins to seek out the landmarks as a way of reconfirming one's own place in it. Some of them turn out not to be prominent structures, but characters that make an area their own through persistence and stubborn refusal to fade away. Most of them wouldn't exactly be considered pillars of the community. In fact, they aren't part of it, yet their presence marks the mental image of the locale they haunt more than any neighborhood booster ever could...

The double-amputee at Dearborn & Congress waits patiently for the light to go red before wheeling up to the stopped vehicles, looking for alms. He's been here for years and doesn't hurry. He seems to know the precise second to hit the sidewalk, avoiding injury and dirty looks...From the Magnificent Mile to Wacker Drive, a regular visitor will spot him sooner or later. He's got brushed long grey hair and clothes that hang off him in that coat-hanger way, as if to prove that they were given to him rather than chosen. From a distance, he reminds of Daniel Day-Lewis with the prominent nose and deep-set eyes; up-close, the blotchy skin and bad teeth won't recall a movie star of any kind. He isn't dirty and his clothes, while not his own, are always clean and I've never seen him ask for money or much of anything. Mostly, he fills his days crossing and re-crossing major Downtown streets. It's as if he's been put out there to wander, cleaned up and re-dressed overnight, then told to do it again and again again...

She's made Chicago & Western hers. Any of the bus shelters or benches in the vicinity are liable to hold her bundle of bags and rags. Her hair dreaded into one ugly grey-brown clump to the side of her bent-over head as she makes her way glacially down the sidewalk. The object is to transport one or another of the many pieces of her self-styled luggage from one spot to the next. Sometimes it's all gathered together to board the #49 or #66 to the great annoyance of the passengers on board; the operation takes many minutes and she's years past caring about any kind of recrimination. The picking up and putting down of all those worthless bits is just another way to bide away the years 'til the sand in the hourglass runs out...

She patrols the six-way intersection of Damen, Fullerton, and Elston. Walleyed and slight, she staggers toward cars, holding out an over-sized plastic cup. Her mouth hangs open and to the side at an unhealthy cant and the sounds she makes can't truly be classified as words. It's customary to make oneself pitiful to elicit sympathy and remuneration, but she takes it to an absurd extreme if indeed it's any of her own doing. That face wouldn't be out of place in one of Bosch's tableaus of Hell. Her replacement is a black man who's limbs all move the wrong way as he walks; a worthy substitute to play her part on that stage...

These, and many others less memorable, serve a signposts all across this town. There's some kinship as these forgotten shades serve as the only constant company on deserted streets at any hour of the day or night. Their presence reaffirms one's own while also reminding of the merciless repetition of this work. Like them, we must return again and again to the same intersections, to seek just enough fortune for the chance to do it all over once more...

Sleepover

Halloween Night, sometime late...

A few nights a year stand out: New Year's Eve, 4th of July, St.Patrick's Day, and, more and more, Halloween. Seems that the kiddie candy-gathering aspect of it is eclipsed by the nocturnal masked bacchanale with each passing year. The packs of chaperoned, orderly children hauling pumpkin-hued plastic bags of sweets disappear with the setting sun to be replaced by more or less creatively disguised hordes on the prowl for new ways to forget whatever it is that needs forgotting...

This year, to add to the hijinks, the time-change fell on the same night, adding an extra hour of imbibing to the delight of the reveling masses. No chauffeur of any standing would pass on it. Nevertheless, after a time, the marauding crowds spilling from all directions make for a chaotic and exhausting work environment. We truly earn it on these nights...

There was no shortage of funny get-ups; Forrest Gump giving me chocolates and debating the dubious merits of the film that spawned him; two pretty girls dressed as Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dum; half a dozen mostly mediocre Fred Flintstones; the guy in the very professionally-constructed Whoopee Cushion costume...She didn't stand out for what she wore but more for her approach...

It had to be past the second 2AM, the one that was really 3AM, that I picked her up. She was in a short black dress, fishnets, and very red lipstick and nails. Plopping in the back seat, she immediately asked whether it was OK to smoke, then, if she could sit up front. This is normally a big no-no; unless there's no room in the back, no one sits in the passenger seat. Besides the possible safety concerns, it implies a familiarity that few drivers would welcome when confronted with the average passenger. These are not our friends, we aren't giving them a lift, no matter how casually we're often addressed this is still a business transaction. For whatever reason I let that all go...

"Thank you for taking me home", she smiled, a bit bleary-eyed, "So I invited him to a slumber party and he turned me down. I said, Wanna come over for a sleepover, just you and me?, and he said no...What's up with that?" In response to the half-assed comforting cliches offered, she wasn't having it, "You don't know me, I'm not that kind of girl. This is the one for me. He's only thirty and a partner in a law firm. He's everything I ever wanted. I'm straight-up small-town. I just wanna be taken care of, you know? He opens doors for me, it makes all the difference..."

She'd been at a girlfriend's party texting her dreamboat, making arrangements, and when it didn't turn out as she'd hoped, she was in no mood to celebrate any longer. "Anyways, she's moving to Mexico ON MY BIRTHDAY! So fuck her...So, what about you?" She refused to believe that her driver had no personal life, but unable to glean any details, she let it go to blow clouds of smoke out the window...

"I can tell you're a decent guy or I wouldn't have sat up front," she said as we slowed at her doorstep, "Will you give me a hug?"...I do...