During my entire ridiculous life, I can only remember being inside three taxis, or cabs, or whatever you choose to call ’em. Oh, I should’ve summoned dozens of the things during an earlier, more irresponsible bar-hopping era. But you know how that goes…
Believe it or not, I’ve been in far more limos than cabs. Back during my high-flying record weasel days I rode in limousines on a semi-regular basis. And now that I’m removed from all that craziness, I find it hard to believe it ever really happened.
Anyway, when I was a kid my parents, my brother, and I were in Washington D.C., and took a cab from our hotel… to somewhere. I can’t remember. But the driver was a complete maniac.
You know those car seats for little kids, with a steering wheel attached? And you know how the confined kid always grasps the wheel and violently whips it from side to side? That’s how our driver was doing it. He was constantly in and out of traffic, tailgating, rocketing down the shoulder(!), and just generally scaring the living shit out of us.
But he got us to our destination in record time, despite near-gridlock traffic. You certainly couldn’t question the outcome, it was the execution that almost turned my rectum to stone.
I think that was my first exposure to taxis, and it might have something to do with my lack of cab experience during the years that followed. I was certain we were all gonna die, as a result of fire and trauma.
In New York City, on one of those record weasel junkets, a bunch of us shared a cab to some ludicrous hipster bar across town. Again, the details are a little hazy…
But our driver smelled horrible, I remember that part clearly. The car was like an August crotch, along with afternotes of recent sex. The driver could barely speak English, and was from some country… I don’t know, where bathing is apparently taboo? The dude’s pits were alive with bacterial activity.
All of us were trying to use our shirts as makeshift filters, and just sat there with tears in our eyes, while “music” that sounded like people banging pie pans blared from the speakers. The whole ride was nothing short of excruciating.
And, of course, we continued to smell it deep into the night. I think the funk adhered itself to our nose hairs or something.
My third exposure to the world of cabs was in Georgia. When Toney and I were first married we only had one car, and once had to call a taxi when it was in the shop. It’s a long story…
But the thing showed up at our house just thirty minutes late, a beat-to-hell station wagon with bad shocks, and hand-painted words on the doors: Shitty’s Taxi and CorriEr Service. Something along those lines.
The driver was a big ol’ Baby Huey hick, with a giant rub, or dip, or whatever it’s called, in his bottom lip. But, as these things often go, he was really nice and helpful, and went above and beyond the call of duty. And earned a large tip for his efforts.
When you’re in need of human kindness, I’ve found, big Baby Huey hicks are usually a good bet.
And that’s my history with cabs. Do you have anything to share on this subject? Have you had any especially memorable rides in a taxi? If so, tell us about it, won’t you?
And I’ll see you guys again tomorrow.
Have a great day!