I've received some emails recently from readers trying to figure out if I plan on continuing this thing I've started here. First off, let me say I appreciate you taking the time to inquire about the status of this thing. Personally I think that speaks volumes about what we've been able to accomplish here so far. And it's flattering to say the least. Fans were not really a potential byproduct that I had considered when I started this thing. So allow me to dispel any thoughts that I've given this thing up, in fact quite the opposite is true.
However much like Trey said about Big Cypress, when I finally got that Christmas story done it did kind of feel like the whole blog was done. From the onset, I had no intentions of that being the case. But I feel like the wave that is this blog had been building and building, higher and higher, finally crashing into the shore with the completion of that story. Part of me felt like I am unable to "top" that story, and if that's true than what's the point of going on? After I finished it it just felt like a natural time to stop, although I've never had or have any conscious plans to.
That said I am thinking of taking things in a completely different direction. I've been brainstorming a lot lately and have many ideas that I'd like to try and execute at some point or another. But before I start there, I wanted to try and get some feedback from you guys.
Basically what I'm thinking is this: Let's make this blog, an actual blog. What once was merely just an archive for my cab adventures could become much much more. Of course, I would still include the notable cabbie adventures as they occurred but other possible cab related topics could include things such as:
-Prior cab stories that were omitted for content. A "from the cutting room floor" of sorts
-Day to day happenings in the cab world. (Otherwise undeserving of their own story)
-General Cab driver concerns and all things pertaining to the business itself.
-Stories about tips or lack thereof.
-One Liners. Generally just quick quips that I use in the cab all the time and they generally kill. However they really have no place in a story. None that I have yet found anyway
-General Las Vegas information/concerns/issues
...and even broader still
-General societal issues. (Actually had planned another site for these but am now thinking I should just add them here)
-Tales of my existence prior to cab driving, life story of sorts, anything else I've experienced that was funny or interesting. (I really hate this idea, but it is just that)
-Anything pop culture related. (I'll probably point out that Ashlee Simpson doesn't know what the terms "sharp" and "flat" mean early and often)
..These are just a few of the ideas, unfortunately I take issue with most all of them for various reasons. I mean, I've had some of these thoughts for a while and generally dismiss them as bad ideas. Here's why:
From the beginning I really wanted to make every story/post a strong one. I'd often choose saying nothing over saying something if I had concerns if it would work or not. A long time ago a reader named Eric commented: "...One of the few blogs I actually read since most blogs are done by self important assholes instead of people with interesting stories to tell." This was a comment that has really stuck with me, and thank you Eric for that, mostly because that's exactly what I was trying to do. I mean, I read a lot of blogs myself and it just seems that many bloggers fall into the pitfall of either feeling like they should or are supposed to blog about something, or to Eric' point, are just people who like to hear themselves talk. I remember reading a post on a blog once where the first sentence read something like: "Well nothing really interesting has happened lately..." It's like, dude, the first thing that you decide to tell me is that you have nothing interesting to say? Am I really expected to continue reading? These are things I consciously try to avoid and only posting the best of events as I saw them was how I attempted to do that. Initially I tried to loosely model this blog after the HBO Taxicab Confessions show. If you think about that show, the only thing you get to see is from the time that door opens and a passenger gets in to the time they get out. Nothing else. And you know what? That's all that's interesting in my opinion. That's all that should be interesting. The main attraction is the person in the backseat. Nothing more, nothing less.
That said this really isn't a blog at all is it? At least to date. It's a memoir. I think it might be high time to turn this thing upside down. And I'd like to know what you guys think about this. Or even better if there are topics you would like to see covered we can try that too. I'm really just brainstorming right now. Any ideas are good ones.
My only fears are simply that broadening the scope might be synonymous with lowering the standard. Furthermore I also fear that by saying a lot more it's only a matter of time before I'll say something completely moronic or self incriminating. Nonetheless I think I'm ready to play some jazz. What do you think?
...and all this on the day this blog achieved 100,000 unique visits (and just short of 200,000 page views). A very big thank you to all of you out there that for some reason or another, find this voice entertaining. So far I have not made a dime off of this en devour, save a few very generous gratuities from readers who managed to track me down while they were in town (and huge props and thanks to you guys you know who you are). And for the record I am perfectly fine with that. In fact that is by design. My payment was received when you finished reading this....
Cheers - Andrew
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Monday, December 03, 2007
XXXIX
I've never been much of a crier. I'm certainly not your prototypical macho man by any means but for some reason or another, it's a rare thing for me to be brought to tears. Prior to today, the last time I wept was when my grandmother passed away. The last time before that was when we lost in the state playoffs my senior year. Today however just happened to be one of those days, as untimely as I mistakenly thought it was at the time. And to think, all of this because I drew my brothers name out of hat full of them, and soon thereafter decided that I was going to buy him a car for Christmas.
Yesterday I found myself on a plane en route to Montgomery, Alabama for Christmas. The only perk of having family in the military is that you never know where you might need to end up on a given holiday, and this year was no exception. I was looking forward to spending some time in the real South for the first time. I like visiting places that I've never been and the South was one of those, save a week stint at Disney World when I was a kid and I don't think that counts. Throughout my 5 hour airborne journey, I had plenty of time to think about this years Christmas and what it was to mean to me and my family. Perhaps even what it was to mean to the spirit of Christmas in general. Of course Christmas itself, and the act of giving is one of the most rewarding aspects of the holiday. Ultimately however, it comes down to people. My father would tell you that spending time with those that you love is the meaning of life. I can't say I disagree with his wisdom.
My family is as normal as anybodie's I suppose. And by normal of course, I mean FUBAR. "A fine balance of In-laws and Murphy's law" I like to call it. But don't get me wrong, we've also had our lions share of great times too. For instance, I remember the time my dad almost killed us while off-roading in Colorado. Now, that might not seem like a great time, but in hindsight it was and it quickly became a legendary moment amongst our family. I remember each of us occasionally taking our shot at Uncle Ray's backgammon title, in defeat every time I think. Rest in peace Uncle Ray, we love and miss you. I remember the day my sister Sharon asked when the 4th of July was. That was a good one. I remember the legend of a certain buttermilk biscuit/hockey puck. I remember the Castle in the Sky. I remember when the real police responded to the house on account of my brother Scott's misguided indie-movie murder scene. Or the time when that guy broke into our hotel room in the middle of the night and Dad chased him naked all the way down the hallway. I remember Sgt. Pepper. I remember setting the entire lawn aflame on Easter Sunday via a killer amateur firework display gone wrong. I remember when my oldest nephew Matt was born. My mom's whistle is a distinct sound I could never forget. I remember James Gibson, may our dear friend rest in peace as well. I remember that one time my brother Nick got me to school before the final bell sounded. I remember a Six Flags trip whose score included 2 huge stuffed Garfield's, 1 life sized stuffed clown and a dropped down Buick for the ride home. I remember that time I fell through Scott & Kandy's ceiling, racking myself on an I-beam in the process. Matt's rehearsal dinner is something that will forever be etched into my brain. I remember that time Sharon drove somewhere and didn't have an accident or citation to prove it. But most importantly, like many families I suppose, we have our quirky holiday traditions. If it isn't ham on Thanksgiving, it's lasagna on Christmas. If it's not pumpkin bars, it's banana split cake. If it's not Oreo Cookies as an actual present wrapped and all, it's the time we had to nail the tree to the floor because Dad snatched one out of the woods that was far to big for the stand. Of course, I couldn't go on without mentioning our most important tradition of all, the Secret Santa gift exchange.
As much as we'd like to, our family is too big for each of us to try and buy gifts for everyone else. So years ago, we adopted a policy of a secret exchange as I'm sure many families do for similar reasons. Each year after all the gifts are opened, everyones name goes in a hat and you'll draw one to see who you'll be buying for next Christmas. The rules are simple: The kids don't participate, you can't have the same person two years in a row and the max is $100. This means that you have an entire year to figure out what you want to buy your Secret Santa Getter Person, as I affectionately call them. If perchance throughout the year you forget whose name you drew, it'll cost you a 5 spot for the holder of the list (the oldest child under 18) to refresh your memory. Last but of course not least, you have to keep it a secret. You can't say who you have and you can't ever ask who has you.
As sounds of engaging flaps and landing gear locking into place filled the airplane cabin, my thoughts wandered further towards this years gift exchange that was quickly approaching. But, we can't just simply start here. In order to completely understand the upcoming event and the ripple of episodes that preceded it, one must understand what took place last month during the SEMA/AAPEX auto show which invades the Las Vegas Convention Center annually. Furthermore, to fully understand the event that took place last month on November 1st, 2006, you must understand the event that took place many many years ago, on May 17th, 1987.
So the story as it goes, begins there....
It was the weekend before Memorial Day, 1987. My oldest brother Scott, had his week long plans to continue construction on the tree house in our woods curbed when a thunderstorm decided to persist throughout the day. Scott having already reached the age where the novelty of playing mud bowl football with his younger brothers had worn off, sought refuge inside. Not that there was much to do in there either. For these were the days where Beta Max still had a leg up on VHS and the internet hadn't even been invented yet. That didn't matter much however because even if it had, there was no way we could have conned the old man into letting us have it. Hell, we couldn't even get Dad to spring for more TV channels. Although there was no internet, there was cable TV. But, you could have fooled Pops on that one. Our TV was born with a set of rabbit ears on it and she never knew any differently. Nevertheless, Scott grabbed a seat on the once neon green, now dark brown disco couch. But of course, not before hitting the power button on the set and choosing between the vast expanse of channels known as either: "4", "6" or "8." For after all, these were the days before remote controls too.
After seconds of warming, the TV finally lit up to reveal "ABC's Wide World of Sports" and their telecast of The Winston Select. The Winston as it became known to NASCAR fans at the time, was the annual mid-season, non-points awarding all star race. Only former champions, pole position and or race winners were allowed to compete. The Winston was a race by champions for champions, where in true bootlegger fashion, the only things at stake were bragging rights and cold hard cash. Prior to that rainy day in 1987, Scott was never a fan of NASCAR, or any other racing circuit for that matter. However on this day, the day of the rain out, the day when all the books on the shelf had already been read, the day when all the boardgames had already been played and beaten, the day when giving the piano one last attempt still wasn't an option, the day with beta max, the day without internet or cable TV, there was something about watching fast cars go around in a circles that seemed incredibly entertaining.
Dale Earnhardt Sr. historians would tell you that this was not the day Earnhardt's legendary status began. In fact he had already accumulated two championships prior to 1987. But they would probably all agree, that this was the day it would vault into the stratosphere.
With seven of the ten laps to go in the mad-dash finale of the star studded event, Earnhardt lead the race with a row of seemingly faster cars immediately behind him. All of whom eager to push him aside and make their own name for themselves in the process. Bill Elliott running second at the time, was doing everything he could to get around the then blue and yellow Wrangler #3 car. But no matter which direction Earnhardt turned his Chevrolet, it managed to be ahead of Elliott and the others at every pass. Most notably including an incident where Earnhardt, with a little help from Elliot, lost control of his car along the front stretch and found himself flying through the infield grass at close to 200mph. Like a madman, Earnhardt didn't lift up on the gas at all and was somehow able to steer his Chevy back onto the track and in front of Elliott and the trail of other cars. Subsequently, Elliott had to drop out of the race with a flat tire and Earnhardt successfully held off Terry Labonte among others at the checkered flag. Shortly thereafter, the phrase "The Pass in the Grass" was coined and the moniker "The Intimidator", was born.
Unfortunately, I did not witness this fantastic display of driving. I was outside playing mud football with my other brother Nick that day.... The day of the rain out. The day with three channels. The "Pass in the Grass" day. The day my brother Scott, fell in love with Dale Earnhardt.
Now, you may take a seat beside my brother on the old disco couch and watch the end of the race if you'd like.
"The Pass in the Grass", 1987 Winston
With each passing race and each passing season, my brothers heart grew more fond of Earnhardt and like any true fan, his collection of all things #3 grew massive along with it. Eventually, the endless array of keep sakes overtook all of the wall and shelve space in his entire basement. For a long time there it was incredibly easy for whomever drew Scott's name out of the gift exchange hat. All that lucky person had to do was find something, anything, with a black #3 on it and Scott was sure to cherish it. But after almost two decades of collecting it became increasingly difficult for the person who drew Scott's name, for the chances were very high that he already owned whatever it was you were thinking of buying him. It was that bad. I mean, God forbid somebody get him a box of nice cigars or some fucking golf lessons. Lord knows he could use those. But that just wouldn't seem right and it certainly wouldn't be in the tradition of things. Because of this conundrum, I'm positive he has duplicates of some artifacts in that basement of his. For it really was impossible for anyone, his wife Kandy included, to determine what he didn't have and what, if anything, he needed. And things had remained that way, until about five years ago.
Sadly, Scott's love of NASCAR seemed to parish along with Earnhardt on that fateful February day in 2001. Eventually Scott made it very clear to anyone that would listen that he had every piece of Earnhardt memorabilia that he ever wanted, with only one exception. His collection was complete save the only item that had managed to elude him throughout all his years of acquiring all things #3. A 1:64 scale diecast model of Earnhardt's 2000 Peter Max designed Monte Carlo.
You see, the pride and joy of Scott's collection is a series of little match box sized cars. Each one different and each one an exact scale model of a car that Earnhardt drove at one time or another. Every time Earnhardt changed a sponsor, raced in another circuit or even raced with a special paint scheme, a trend so popular in the sport these days, they would make an exact diecast replica of it to scale for collectors. Throughout the years Earnhardt must have raced over a hundred different paint schemes and cars among various circuits for various sponsors. This particular Peter Max paint design was only raced once, ironically in the 2000 Winston Select All Star race. Thirteen years to the day when Scott had watched Dale race for the first time. The brightly colored attention drawing mirage this car featured was a complete departure from the usual all black #3. Later dubbed "The Rainbow Car", Earnhardt said after driving it that day that he hated the cars colors. He claimed it reminded him of Jeff Gordon's car and he vowed to never drive it again.
So after Scott's collection began to swell and he got his hands on the first few miniature replicas, he knew he would eventually need to find all of them. He saw no point in getting one of them if he wasn't going to eventually track them all down and complete the set. For years there every race he attended, which were many I might add, Scott would spend time sifting through the numerous vendors surrounding the tracks he visited looking for the cars he didn't have. Once finding the missing ones became more difficult, he implored his friends, his family and anyone else who would listen to do the same for him. Of course the more of them that he found, the harder it became to find the remaining ones. It's like playing the McDonald's Monopoly game when you have three of the railroads and you can never seem to find the last one. For all you know, you already have the rare one but every time you get lucky and peel off a railroad, you are able to quickly determine that it's one that you already have. Between his own efforts, that of his friends, family and various Secret Santa Giver Persons throughout the years, Scott eventually had all of them. All of them but the "Rainbow Car" that is. And a collectible that was rare to begin with became near impossible to track down after Earnhardt's passing.
That brings us up to last Christmas, when the small piece of paper I drew from the the hat had "Scott" written neatly on it. I knew immediately what I had to find. Something that years of searching and the efforts of all who knew him couldn't seem to turn up and as of that moment, I was officially on the clock. I had 364 days and a handful of hours to find the 2000 Dale Earnhardt Sr. Peter Max designed Winston Select 1:64 diecast. "The Rainbow Car".
After returning to Las Vegas from last years Christmas trip my quest quickly began. I searched online on Ebay and other miscellaneous online auction houses. I found manufactures. I found private collectors and I found public ones. I contacted them all. I contacted companies that never even had the rights for the thing I was searching for. I called around to the few NASCAR and various sports collectibles shops in Las Vegas, Phoenix, Fontana and beyond. I even drove out to the Las Vegas Motor Speedway one day to visit the store there, hoping less that they would simply have it and more just as a shot in the dark that somebody there could at least point me in the right direction. In some instances, I was able to find the larger version of the car I needed to find. The 1:24 scaled model. That one is closer in size to a remote controlled car as opposed to a HotWheel. Like it is with all collectibles of this nature, after Earnhardt's passing, you were lucky to stumble across anything of value because nobody was selling anything. Ten months of searching revealed no fruit, not even a seed in which to plant. It got to the point that I contemplated throwing in the towel and taking a day trip down to T.J. to smuggle a box of the finest Cubans I could find across the border. That was until the day the calender read November 1st and I just happened to pick up a nice lady at the convention center.
I loaded Marcia at the Sands expo at about 4:30 that afternoon. I had just dropped off there and afterwards pulled right up to the loading area which contained at least hundred or so people all waiting patiently for cabs. I stepped out to help the nice looking middle aged lady place her bags in the trunk. We both climbed into the cab and Marcia soon stated her destination of the MGM.
It wasn't long into our trip until I started in on my, dare I say mundane, conventioneer small talk bit.
I asked.
She asked surprised.
She agreed. I think she was just as curious as I was as to where this conversation would lead. So I told her the story. I told her about my oldest brother Scott and his fascination with everything Earnhardt. I told her about how hard he took it when Earnhardt died and how his love of NASCAR seemingly died with him. I told her about his near perfect collection of Earnhardt memorabilia. Lastly, I told her about the gift exchange, how I was on the clock to find the collections only missing piece and how my time was running out. She seemed interested in my story and after I finished she quickly asked the very thing I was hoping she would:
I said and she nodded as if to say, "yeah that is a tough one". Before I knew it we had arrived at the MGM and as I was unloading her bags from the trunk. I closed the trunk lid and practically begged her for any assistance at all with my dilemma.
I sensed for the first and only time in the conversation that she really wasn't too excited about the idea of having to go out of her way to help me out. It was strange. Based on her initial reaction I thought for sure she would jump at the chance to help me. Perhaps it was because after all, I am just a low life cabbie. I don't know. I thought briefly about asking for her number again but not wanting to overstep my bounds, I thought better of the idea. I wrote the information she requested down on the back of one of my cards, positive that it would end up in the trash shortly thereafter. I handed the piece of paper to Marcia and thanked her again as she held out payment for the fare.
She stared at me for a second and I believe in that moment she realized that I was in fact, not kidding. I really did desperately need her help and was willing to do just about anything to get it. After all, I really had no other place to turn.
I confirmed and thanked her in advance for her efforts. But in reality, the only thing I was completely sure of was the fact that that card of mine was soon going to be joining some of its brothers, in the landfill.
I was convinced that the checking of my email throughout the following days was as much of an exercise in futility as I've ever taken part in. But I did it anyway, and for 11 days that's exactly what it was. But miraculously on the 12th day, an email with the subject heading of "Andrew, It's Marcia from Action Performance!" graced my inbox. I couldn't believe my eyes. The exclamation point gave her away and my stomach dropped as I read about her successfully contacting a private collector in Illinois. Coincidentally, located in a town less than an hour away from where I grew up. Apparently she had previous relations with the guy and after informing him of my plight, he agreed to help. He told Marcia that he actually had the exact thing that I needed already and was willing to hold it for me until I contacted him. I dialed the collectors number seconds after reading the email and not only did he provide me with simple instructions in order to obtain the car, but his price even fell within my $100 limit. I couldn't believe my good fortune, and I couldn't believe that good old Marcia, was in fact a lady of her word. I thought at first that surely it was coincidental that I received that email from Marcia on the 12th day. However, I had no choice but to believe in the idea that good natured people are still out there. I had no choice but to believe that indeed, where there is a will there is a way. But come to think of it, I really can't believe in coincidences at all anymore because now I had no choice but to believe, in the spirit of Christmas.
My plane finally touched down in the Southland. I grabbed my things from the overhead compartment and patiently waited for those in front of me to deplane. I made my way to the baggage claim area where my sister and a few of my nephews & nieces were waiting for me with hugs and kisses. After obtaining my luggage from the carousel, we made the 20 minute drive to my sister's place in her giant conversion van. My sister and her family lived in a beautiful white picket fenced home located just off the Air Force Base property, still within an earshot of the nonstop comings and goings of the military crafts. Throughout that rest of that day and night, the remaining absent family members slowly arrived via their various means of travel. Once everyone had made it, we all enjoyed Scott's chili and Kandy's pumpkin bars for supper. We tried to catch up as best we could in the limited time we had and of course, I was cornered into telling a few Cabbie Chronicles. Thankfully, I managed to recall enough material that was suitable for all ages, all the while refraining from telling the story I had traveled so far to tell. That had to remain a secret for one more day. We capped off the evening with family poker night and Mom's special eggnog kept us going until the wee hours of Christmas morning.
Upon waking up this morning, the kids dove into their presents feet first and quickly managed to cover the entire living room floor with destroyed wrapping paper. We cleaned up the mounds of paper much like you would leaves in the backyard, with a rake and a giant black garbage bag. After a big breakfast for everyone, it was finally time for the adult gift exchange. I shot out of my seat and insisted I present my gift first. I'd been biting my tongue for more than a month now and it was killing me. It took me a minute to find the tiny box under the Christmas tree that was still surrounded by larger presents. Once I finally found it, I walked across the room and placed the gift in my brothers hand. Knowing the exact size of these boxes besides being very keen at guessing what his presents always were anyway, he already knew what it was before he opened it. Even if he hadn't, I suspect the look in my eyes would have given it away. Scott unwrapped the gift in one smooth motion and for the first time, he laid his eyes upon the very thing that had eluded him for years. The thing that his own best efforts, those of his family and fellow NASCAR geeks couldn't seem to track down. The thing that would culminate his collection. It was soon obvious to everyone in the room what Scott held in his hand. Everybody was shocked and couldn't believe that I had not only found it, but managed to keep it a secret the whole time. Everyone began asking questions at once, they all knew what this meant. Scott just stared at me, able to utter only one word:
I slowly walked back across the room and took my seat again. I had been preparing for this moment. I knew that the story would need to be told at this moment and like I often do, I had been ironing out my mind to press out the best way to go about telling it for weeks now.
I decided to begin with how this whole thing started with a thunderstorm, and a day spent on the old disco couch. Then I talked about Scott's collection, his years of compiling it and how the incomplete nature of it just wasn't right. Somehow, it wasn't true. Afterwards I talked about my first NASCAR experience. How Scott had come out to Vegas for a weekend and taken me to my first race. Prior to that day I never really "got it". Strangely, this very race occurred just two weeks after Earnhardt's early departure from this earth. I found out later that Scott had lost all desire to go to that race with me that weekend. Considering the recent events of the time, I can't say I would have blamed him had he not shown up. But the plane tickets were nonrefundable, the race tickets were already in hand and a promise had been made to his little brother. His hero was dead, but he came anyway. I talked about how I could never forget that day. How we sat in the grandstands high up in turn four and watched the missing man formation fly by in honor of Earnhardt before the race started. The sound of the shear power exploding overhead from the four F-16's thunderous engines, combined with the sight of one of them pulling straight up and going vertical until he disappeared into the clouds, symbolic of a fallen soldiers ascent into heaven, brought my oldest brother to tears that day. It's the only time the rare military honor has ever been performed for a fallen civilian. My brother's tears that day made me understand what a hobby I used to kid my brother about actually meant to him. Lastly, I talked about how after picking his name from the hat last year, I immediately knew what I had to find and how my efforts had turned up nothing for months. That was until a chance occurrence one day in the cab lead me to the very person I needed to find. I told the story about my fare that day, and about how Marcia, had made this whole thing possible....And that was when I noticed it. It had probably started long before but that was the moment when I first noticed the tears racing down my face. Clearing them from my cheeks became as pointless as wiping clean the fingerprints off of a well used piano. Thus, I began having a difficult time finishing the tale I had gone through so much and traveled so far to tell. I was overcome with sadness, overcome with joy. I was overcome, for the first time in years. I looked up and everyone else in the room, my brother included were being effected in the same way. Scott walked over and gave me a long hug. Afterwards, the family sat together and talked about what had just happened for some time. We talked about how it's funny how something so seemingly unimportant is actually no such thing at all. In fact at times it can be quite the opposite of that. I think half of this was piqued interest in the event that had just unfolded and the other half was that no one dared be the next person to present their gift. Thankfully, Mom had whipped up another batch of her famous eggnog brew and in no time our tears slowly faded, into laughter.
Two days have passed since I last cried and again I find myself on a plane. This time, enduring the red eye back to Vegas. Another vacation and another Christmas in the books. This year's Christmas was certainly one for the ages. Certainly one that will rank right up there with our family's most memorable moments. Halfway through my long journey home and wanting to make sure I had remembered it correctly, I reached into my carry on bag. I found the scratch piece of paper in order to double check the name inscribed onto it one last time. I unfolded the small, crumpled, hand torn fragment and on it in bright blue ink it clearly stated:
I have no idea what I'll be buying my sister for Christmas next year. This year will be very hard to beat that's for sure. Lucky for me, I still have 362 days and a handful of hours to figure it out.
Happy holidays everyone!
Yesterday I found myself on a plane en route to Montgomery, Alabama for Christmas. The only perk of having family in the military is that you never know where you might need to end up on a given holiday, and this year was no exception. I was looking forward to spending some time in the real South for the first time. I like visiting places that I've never been and the South was one of those, save a week stint at Disney World when I was a kid and I don't think that counts. Throughout my 5 hour airborne journey, I had plenty of time to think about this years Christmas and what it was to mean to me and my family. Perhaps even what it was to mean to the spirit of Christmas in general. Of course Christmas itself, and the act of giving is one of the most rewarding aspects of the holiday. Ultimately however, it comes down to people. My father would tell you that spending time with those that you love is the meaning of life. I can't say I disagree with his wisdom.
My family is as normal as anybodie's I suppose. And by normal of course, I mean FUBAR. "A fine balance of In-laws and Murphy's law" I like to call it. But don't get me wrong, we've also had our lions share of great times too. For instance, I remember the time my dad almost killed us while off-roading in Colorado. Now, that might not seem like a great time, but in hindsight it was and it quickly became a legendary moment amongst our family. I remember each of us occasionally taking our shot at Uncle Ray's backgammon title, in defeat every time I think. Rest in peace Uncle Ray, we love and miss you. I remember the day my sister Sharon asked when the 4th of July was. That was a good one. I remember the legend of a certain buttermilk biscuit/hockey puck. I remember the Castle in the Sky. I remember when the real police responded to the house on account of my brother Scott's misguided indie-movie murder scene. Or the time when that guy broke into our hotel room in the middle of the night and Dad chased him naked all the way down the hallway. I remember Sgt. Pepper. I remember setting the entire lawn aflame on Easter Sunday via a killer amateur firework display gone wrong. I remember when my oldest nephew Matt was born. My mom's whistle is a distinct sound I could never forget. I remember James Gibson, may our dear friend rest in peace as well. I remember that one time my brother Nick got me to school before the final bell sounded. I remember a Six Flags trip whose score included 2 huge stuffed Garfield's, 1 life sized stuffed clown and a dropped down Buick for the ride home. I remember that time I fell through Scott & Kandy's ceiling, racking myself on an I-beam in the process. Matt's rehearsal dinner is something that will forever be etched into my brain. I remember that time Sharon drove somewhere and didn't have an accident or citation to prove it. But most importantly, like many families I suppose, we have our quirky holiday traditions. If it isn't ham on Thanksgiving, it's lasagna on Christmas. If it's not pumpkin bars, it's banana split cake. If it's not Oreo Cookies as an actual present wrapped and all, it's the time we had to nail the tree to the floor because Dad snatched one out of the woods that was far to big for the stand. Of course, I couldn't go on without mentioning our most important tradition of all, the Secret Santa gift exchange.
As much as we'd like to, our family is too big for each of us to try and buy gifts for everyone else. So years ago, we adopted a policy of a secret exchange as I'm sure many families do for similar reasons. Each year after all the gifts are opened, everyones name goes in a hat and you'll draw one to see who you'll be buying for next Christmas. The rules are simple: The kids don't participate, you can't have the same person two years in a row and the max is $100. This means that you have an entire year to figure out what you want to buy your Secret Santa Getter Person, as I affectionately call them. If perchance throughout the year you forget whose name you drew, it'll cost you a 5 spot for the holder of the list (the oldest child under 18) to refresh your memory. Last but of course not least, you have to keep it a secret. You can't say who you have and you can't ever ask who has you.
As sounds of engaging flaps and landing gear locking into place filled the airplane cabin, my thoughts wandered further towards this years gift exchange that was quickly approaching. But, we can't just simply start here. In order to completely understand the upcoming event and the ripple of episodes that preceded it, one must understand what took place last month during the SEMA/AAPEX auto show which invades the Las Vegas Convention Center annually. Furthermore, to fully understand the event that took place last month on November 1st, 2006, you must understand the event that took place many many years ago, on May 17th, 1987.
So the story as it goes, begins there....
It was the weekend before Memorial Day, 1987. My oldest brother Scott, had his week long plans to continue construction on the tree house in our woods curbed when a thunderstorm decided to persist throughout the day. Scott having already reached the age where the novelty of playing mud bowl football with his younger brothers had worn off, sought refuge inside. Not that there was much to do in there either. For these were the days where Beta Max still had a leg up on VHS and the internet hadn't even been invented yet. That didn't matter much however because even if it had, there was no way we could have conned the old man into letting us have it. Hell, we couldn't even get Dad to spring for more TV channels. Although there was no internet, there was cable TV. But, you could have fooled Pops on that one. Our TV was born with a set of rabbit ears on it and she never knew any differently. Nevertheless, Scott grabbed a seat on the once neon green, now dark brown disco couch. But of course, not before hitting the power button on the set and choosing between the vast expanse of channels known as either: "4", "6" or "8." For after all, these were the days before remote controls too.
After seconds of warming, the TV finally lit up to reveal "ABC's Wide World of Sports" and their telecast of The Winston Select. The Winston as it became known to NASCAR fans at the time, was the annual mid-season, non-points awarding all star race. Only former champions, pole position and or race winners were allowed to compete. The Winston was a race by champions for champions, where in true bootlegger fashion, the only things at stake were bragging rights and cold hard cash. Prior to that rainy day in 1987, Scott was never a fan of NASCAR, or any other racing circuit for that matter. However on this day, the day of the rain out, the day when all the books on the shelf had already been read, the day when all the boardgames had already been played and beaten, the day when giving the piano one last attempt still wasn't an option, the day with beta max, the day without internet or cable TV, there was something about watching fast cars go around in a circles that seemed incredibly entertaining.
Dale Earnhardt Sr. historians would tell you that this was not the day Earnhardt's legendary status began. In fact he had already accumulated two championships prior to 1987. But they would probably all agree, that this was the day it would vault into the stratosphere.
With seven of the ten laps to go in the mad-dash finale of the star studded event, Earnhardt lead the race with a row of seemingly faster cars immediately behind him. All of whom eager to push him aside and make their own name for themselves in the process. Bill Elliott running second at the time, was doing everything he could to get around the then blue and yellow Wrangler #3 car. But no matter which direction Earnhardt turned his Chevrolet, it managed to be ahead of Elliott and the others at every pass. Most notably including an incident where Earnhardt, with a little help from Elliot, lost control of his car along the front stretch and found himself flying through the infield grass at close to 200mph. Like a madman, Earnhardt didn't lift up on the gas at all and was somehow able to steer his Chevy back onto the track and in front of Elliott and the trail of other cars. Subsequently, Elliott had to drop out of the race with a flat tire and Earnhardt successfully held off Terry Labonte among others at the checkered flag. Shortly thereafter, the phrase "The Pass in the Grass" was coined and the moniker "The Intimidator", was born.
Unfortunately, I did not witness this fantastic display of driving. I was outside playing mud football with my other brother Nick that day.... The day of the rain out. The day with three channels. The "Pass in the Grass" day. The day my brother Scott, fell in love with Dale Earnhardt.
Now, you may take a seat beside my brother on the old disco couch and watch the end of the race if you'd like.
"The Pass in the Grass", 1987 Winston
With each passing race and each passing season, my brothers heart grew more fond of Earnhardt and like any true fan, his collection of all things #3 grew massive along with it. Eventually, the endless array of keep sakes overtook all of the wall and shelve space in his entire basement. For a long time there it was incredibly easy for whomever drew Scott's name out of the gift exchange hat. All that lucky person had to do was find something, anything, with a black #3 on it and Scott was sure to cherish it. But after almost two decades of collecting it became increasingly difficult for the person who drew Scott's name, for the chances were very high that he already owned whatever it was you were thinking of buying him. It was that bad. I mean, God forbid somebody get him a box of nice cigars or some fucking golf lessons. Lord knows he could use those. But that just wouldn't seem right and it certainly wouldn't be in the tradition of things. Because of this conundrum, I'm positive he has duplicates of some artifacts in that basement of his. For it really was impossible for anyone, his wife Kandy included, to determine what he didn't have and what, if anything, he needed. And things had remained that way, until about five years ago.
Sadly, Scott's love of NASCAR seemed to parish along with Earnhardt on that fateful February day in 2001. Eventually Scott made it very clear to anyone that would listen that he had every piece of Earnhardt memorabilia that he ever wanted, with only one exception. His collection was complete save the only item that had managed to elude him throughout all his years of acquiring all things #3. A 1:64 scale diecast model of Earnhardt's 2000 Peter Max designed Monte Carlo.
You see, the pride and joy of Scott's collection is a series of little match box sized cars. Each one different and each one an exact scale model of a car that Earnhardt drove at one time or another. Every time Earnhardt changed a sponsor, raced in another circuit or even raced with a special paint scheme, a trend so popular in the sport these days, they would make an exact diecast replica of it to scale for collectors. Throughout the years Earnhardt must have raced over a hundred different paint schemes and cars among various circuits for various sponsors. This particular Peter Max paint design was only raced once, ironically in the 2000 Winston Select All Star race. Thirteen years to the day when Scott had watched Dale race for the first time. The brightly colored attention drawing mirage this car featured was a complete departure from the usual all black #3. Later dubbed "The Rainbow Car", Earnhardt said after driving it that day that he hated the cars colors. He claimed it reminded him of Jeff Gordon's car and he vowed to never drive it again.
So after Scott's collection began to swell and he got his hands on the first few miniature replicas, he knew he would eventually need to find all of them. He saw no point in getting one of them if he wasn't going to eventually track them all down and complete the set. For years there every race he attended, which were many I might add, Scott would spend time sifting through the numerous vendors surrounding the tracks he visited looking for the cars he didn't have. Once finding the missing ones became more difficult, he implored his friends, his family and anyone else who would listen to do the same for him. Of course the more of them that he found, the harder it became to find the remaining ones. It's like playing the McDonald's Monopoly game when you have three of the railroads and you can never seem to find the last one. For all you know, you already have the rare one but every time you get lucky and peel off a railroad, you are able to quickly determine that it's one that you already have. Between his own efforts, that of his friends, family and various Secret Santa Giver Persons throughout the years, Scott eventually had all of them. All of them but the "Rainbow Car" that is. And a collectible that was rare to begin with became near impossible to track down after Earnhardt's passing.
That brings us up to last Christmas, when the small piece of paper I drew from the the hat had "Scott" written neatly on it. I knew immediately what I had to find. Something that years of searching and the efforts of all who knew him couldn't seem to turn up and as of that moment, I was officially on the clock. I had 364 days and a handful of hours to find the 2000 Dale Earnhardt Sr. Peter Max designed Winston Select 1:64 diecast. "The Rainbow Car".
After returning to Las Vegas from last years Christmas trip my quest quickly began. I searched online on Ebay and other miscellaneous online auction houses. I found manufactures. I found private collectors and I found public ones. I contacted them all. I contacted companies that never even had the rights for the thing I was searching for. I called around to the few NASCAR and various sports collectibles shops in Las Vegas, Phoenix, Fontana and beyond. I even drove out to the Las Vegas Motor Speedway one day to visit the store there, hoping less that they would simply have it and more just as a shot in the dark that somebody there could at least point me in the right direction. In some instances, I was able to find the larger version of the car I needed to find. The 1:24 scaled model. That one is closer in size to a remote controlled car as opposed to a HotWheel. Like it is with all collectibles of this nature, after Earnhardt's passing, you were lucky to stumble across anything of value because nobody was selling anything. Ten months of searching revealed no fruit, not even a seed in which to plant. It got to the point that I contemplated throwing in the towel and taking a day trip down to T.J. to smuggle a box of the finest Cubans I could find across the border. That was until the day the calender read November 1st and I just happened to pick up a nice lady at the convention center.
I loaded Marcia at the Sands expo at about 4:30 that afternoon. I had just dropped off there and afterwards pulled right up to the loading area which contained at least hundred or so people all waiting patiently for cabs. I stepped out to help the nice looking middle aged lady place her bags in the trunk. We both climbed into the cab and Marcia soon stated her destination of the MGM.
It wasn't long into our trip until I started in on my, dare I say mundane, conventioneer small talk bit.
So are you buying or selling?
I asked.
Neither. I'm in the marketing department of the company I work for. I'm just here to help oversee things.
Well that's good you don't have to "man the booth" all day then huh?
No kidding, I don't miss my sales staff days at all.
And what company do you work for?
I work for a company called Action Performance.
You're kidding?
Umm, no. What makes you say that?
The Action Performance Company? Based in North Carolina? Sole owners of the licensing rights for all of the Dale Earnhardt Motorsports diecast collectibles?
Yeah! How did you know that?
She asked surprised.
Lady, you have no idea. You seem like a nice person, and I think you might be able to help me. If you don't mind I'd like to tell you a little story if I may?
She agreed. I think she was just as curious as I was as to where this conversation would lead. So I told her the story. I told her about my oldest brother Scott and his fascination with everything Earnhardt. I told her about how hard he took it when Earnhardt died and how his love of NASCAR seemingly died with him. I told her about his near perfect collection of Earnhardt memorabilia. Lastly, I told her about the gift exchange, how I was on the clock to find the collections only missing piece and how my time was running out. She seemed interested in my story and after I finished she quickly asked the very thing I was hoping she would:
Which one is he missing?
The 1:64 2000 Winston Select. The Peter Max Rainbow Car.
I said and she nodded as if to say, "yeah that is a tough one". Before I knew it we had arrived at the MGM and as I was unloading her bags from the trunk. I closed the trunk lid and practically begged her for any assistance at all with my dilemma.
Is there any possible chance that you might be able to help me with this? Any chance that I can get your card so I might be able to bug you once you're back in the office? Really, I will be forever in debt to you if you can help me out in any way whatsoever....
I'll tell you what, why don't you write down the model along with your email address for me and if I turn up anything I will drop you a line, how about that?
I sensed for the first and only time in the conversation that she really wasn't too excited about the idea of having to go out of her way to help me out. It was strange. Based on her initial reaction I thought for sure she would jump at the chance to help me. Perhaps it was because after all, I am just a low life cabbie. I don't know. I thought briefly about asking for her number again but not wanting to overstep my bounds, I thought better of the idea. I wrote the information she requested down on the back of one of my cards, positive that it would end up in the trash shortly thereafter. I handed the piece of paper to Marcia and thanked her again as she held out payment for the fare.
That's ok, your money is no good here. An act of good faith if you will, towards the person who could make my year and my brothers lifetime.
Are you sure?
She stared at me for a second and I believe in that moment she realized that I was in fact, not kidding. I really did desperately need her help and was willing to do just about anything to get it. After all, I really had no other place to turn.
I confirmed and thanked her in advance for her efforts. But in reality, the only thing I was completely sure of was the fact that that card of mine was soon going to be joining some of its brothers, in the landfill.
I was convinced that the checking of my email throughout the following days was as much of an exercise in futility as I've ever taken part in. But I did it anyway, and for 11 days that's exactly what it was. But miraculously on the 12th day, an email with the subject heading of "Andrew, It's Marcia from Action Performance!" graced my inbox. I couldn't believe my eyes. The exclamation point gave her away and my stomach dropped as I read about her successfully contacting a private collector in Illinois. Coincidentally, located in a town less than an hour away from where I grew up. Apparently she had previous relations with the guy and after informing him of my plight, he agreed to help. He told Marcia that he actually had the exact thing that I needed already and was willing to hold it for me until I contacted him. I dialed the collectors number seconds after reading the email and not only did he provide me with simple instructions in order to obtain the car, but his price even fell within my $100 limit. I couldn't believe my good fortune, and I couldn't believe that good old Marcia, was in fact a lady of her word. I thought at first that surely it was coincidental that I received that email from Marcia on the 12th day. However, I had no choice but to believe in the idea that good natured people are still out there. I had no choice but to believe that indeed, where there is a will there is a way. But come to think of it, I really can't believe in coincidences at all anymore because now I had no choice but to believe, in the spirit of Christmas.
My plane finally touched down in the Southland. I grabbed my things from the overhead compartment and patiently waited for those in front of me to deplane. I made my way to the baggage claim area where my sister and a few of my nephews & nieces were waiting for me with hugs and kisses. After obtaining my luggage from the carousel, we made the 20 minute drive to my sister's place in her giant conversion van. My sister and her family lived in a beautiful white picket fenced home located just off the Air Force Base property, still within an earshot of the nonstop comings and goings of the military crafts. Throughout that rest of that day and night, the remaining absent family members slowly arrived via their various means of travel. Once everyone had made it, we all enjoyed Scott's chili and Kandy's pumpkin bars for supper. We tried to catch up as best we could in the limited time we had and of course, I was cornered into telling a few Cabbie Chronicles. Thankfully, I managed to recall enough material that was suitable for all ages, all the while refraining from telling the story I had traveled so far to tell. That had to remain a secret for one more day. We capped off the evening with family poker night and Mom's special eggnog kept us going until the wee hours of Christmas morning.
Upon waking up this morning, the kids dove into their presents feet first and quickly managed to cover the entire living room floor with destroyed wrapping paper. We cleaned up the mounds of paper much like you would leaves in the backyard, with a rake and a giant black garbage bag. After a big breakfast for everyone, it was finally time for the adult gift exchange. I shot out of my seat and insisted I present my gift first. I'd been biting my tongue for more than a month now and it was killing me. It took me a minute to find the tiny box under the Christmas tree that was still surrounded by larger presents. Once I finally found it, I walked across the room and placed the gift in my brothers hand. Knowing the exact size of these boxes besides being very keen at guessing what his presents always were anyway, he already knew what it was before he opened it. Even if he hadn't, I suspect the look in my eyes would have given it away. Scott unwrapped the gift in one smooth motion and for the first time, he laid his eyes upon the very thing that had eluded him for years. The thing that his own best efforts, those of his family and fellow NASCAR geeks couldn't seem to track down. The thing that would culminate his collection. It was soon obvious to everyone in the room what Scott held in his hand. Everybody was shocked and couldn't believe that I had not only found it, but managed to keep it a secret the whole time. Everyone began asking questions at once, they all knew what this meant. Scott just stared at me, able to utter only one word:
How?
I slowly walked back across the room and took my seat again. I had been preparing for this moment. I knew that the story would need to be told at this moment and like I often do, I had been ironing out my mind to press out the best way to go about telling it for weeks now.
I decided to begin with how this whole thing started with a thunderstorm, and a day spent on the old disco couch. Then I talked about Scott's collection, his years of compiling it and how the incomplete nature of it just wasn't right. Somehow, it wasn't true. Afterwards I talked about my first NASCAR experience. How Scott had come out to Vegas for a weekend and taken me to my first race. Prior to that day I never really "got it". Strangely, this very race occurred just two weeks after Earnhardt's early departure from this earth. I found out later that Scott had lost all desire to go to that race with me that weekend. Considering the recent events of the time, I can't say I would have blamed him had he not shown up. But the plane tickets were nonrefundable, the race tickets were already in hand and a promise had been made to his little brother. His hero was dead, but he came anyway. I talked about how I could never forget that day. How we sat in the grandstands high up in turn four and watched the missing man formation fly by in honor of Earnhardt before the race started. The sound of the shear power exploding overhead from the four F-16's thunderous engines, combined with the sight of one of them pulling straight up and going vertical until he disappeared into the clouds, symbolic of a fallen soldiers ascent into heaven, brought my oldest brother to tears that day. It's the only time the rare military honor has ever been performed for a fallen civilian. My brother's tears that day made me understand what a hobby I used to kid my brother about actually meant to him. Lastly, I talked about how after picking his name from the hat last year, I immediately knew what I had to find and how my efforts had turned up nothing for months. That was until a chance occurrence one day in the cab lead me to the very person I needed to find. I told the story about my fare that day, and about how Marcia, had made this whole thing possible....And that was when I noticed it. It had probably started long before but that was the moment when I first noticed the tears racing down my face. Clearing them from my cheeks became as pointless as wiping clean the fingerprints off of a well used piano. Thus, I began having a difficult time finishing the tale I had gone through so much and traveled so far to tell. I was overcome with sadness, overcome with joy. I was overcome, for the first time in years. I looked up and everyone else in the room, my brother included were being effected in the same way. Scott walked over and gave me a long hug. Afterwards, the family sat together and talked about what had just happened for some time. We talked about how it's funny how something so seemingly unimportant is actually no such thing at all. In fact at times it can be quite the opposite of that. I think half of this was piqued interest in the event that had just unfolded and the other half was that no one dared be the next person to present their gift. Thankfully, Mom had whipped up another batch of her famous eggnog brew and in no time our tears slowly faded, into laughter.
Two days have passed since I last cried and again I find myself on a plane. This time, enduring the red eye back to Vegas. Another vacation and another Christmas in the books. This year's Christmas was certainly one for the ages. Certainly one that will rank right up there with our family's most memorable moments. Halfway through my long journey home and wanting to make sure I had remembered it correctly, I reached into my carry on bag. I found the scratch piece of paper in order to double check the name inscribed onto it one last time. I unfolded the small, crumpled, hand torn fragment and on it in bright blue ink it clearly stated:
Sharon
I have no idea what I'll be buying my sister for Christmas next year. This year will be very hard to beat that's for sure. Lucky for me, I still have 362 days and a handful of hours to figure it out.
Happy holidays everyone!
Thursday, November 01, 2007
XXXVIII
I was on the nut at the MGM last night. The clock had just struck one and things were starting to slow down for the evening. I had the cab in park and had already been in the on deck circle a few minutes before an early forties white man sporting a pink dress shirt, blue jeans and loafers without any socks on finally walked up from around the corner. He began a conversation with the doorman but they were to far away for me to hear it. They talked for a while to the point that after I had engaged the cab in gear when he first approached, I had grown tired of holding the brake pedal down and eventually put it back in park again. Amongst the conversation, I noticed the doorman point in a generally westward direction towards the Excalibur on a few occasions. Shortly thereafter, the man took a few paces in that direction and then apparently thinking better of the idea, turned around and marched back to the loading area as if to say "fuck it, I'll just take a cab".
The doorman blew the whistle, I put the cab back in gear and pulled up alongside him so he could open the back door. The gentleman got in and quickly gave the destination:
I was pleasantly surprised in getting a decent ride at this slow hour, particularly after it initially appeared that where ever it was he was headed was within walking distance. So I activated the meter, wrote down the address on my trip sheet and made my way towards the left turn lane exiting the MGM's property onto Tropicana.
We sat for a minute at the red light, and after it changed I made the left going eastbound towards the 3400 block. As soon as I completed the turn my passenger says in a voice similar to that of an 8 year old who just scrapped his knees falling off his dirt bike:
It's obvious from this statement that he thinks that I'm long hauling him, or taking a route that's longer than necessary as a means of running the meter up. But of course, anybody who actually knows what the fuck they're talking about, or anybody with any common sense whatsoever, would tell you that the best way to get from the east 100 block of Tropicana, to the east 3400 block of Tropicana would be to travel farther east. You shouldn't need a two thousand dollar navigation system to figure that one out. So not really appreciating the accusation, I calmly turned down my sun visor to reveal what I had written down on my trip sheet, and read it out loud:
He immediately replied:
I said as I pointed towards my trip sheet.
He said as he points his thumb towards the opposite way we were headed, in a generally westward direction. I already knew the answer to my next question. Well actually, I knew the answers to all of these questions but I was having too much fun to stop now.
He said as points his thumb west again.
By this point he'd abandoned the Eight year old scrapped knee thing and jumped directly to the I have a pink shirt on and know more about this town than any low-life cabbie thing.
I guess at this point it's worth noting that I knew this guy was a pillow biter before he even got in the cab. If you're wondering what gave it away, it was less his attire and more just the way he carried himself. Furthermore, I also knew the place he was going, it's a place called the "Eagle" or something like that. I'd gotten a ride there a long time ago and it's a known gay bar. Nonetheless after I'd just finished saying perhaps the funniest words to ever come out of my mouth, our gay accuser wasn't so amused.
With that, I didn't say another word. Well, not until a mile or so went by and we drove past the airport and crossed over Paradise Road anyway. At that point our flamer friend couldn't help himself and he eventually repeats the question that we both knew the answer to:
Again I turned down the sun visor and pretended to read it aloud:
I abandoned the passive aggressive bit and skipped straight to the pissed off and don't fuck with me bit. I was having fun, but I'd had enough. So I continued:
That felt good actually. It's not very often I yell at a passenger but they deserve it every time and it feels good every time.
Neither of us said a word for the remainder of the ride. Which mind you, only lasted about 3 more minutes or so. When we got to the intersection at Pecos I made a left turn and then an immediate right into the massive strip mall containing the "Eagle" among dozens of other businesses. I positioned the cab so the passenger side was directly in front of the front door to the bar and turned the meter off.
I turned around in my seat and looked at the guy, but said nothing.
He laughed as he exited the cab and handed me forty dollars for the twenty dollar fare.
Back to work.
The doorman blew the whistle, I put the cab back in gear and pulled up alongside him so he could open the back door. The gentleman got in and quickly gave the destination:
3400 east Tropicana please.
I was pleasantly surprised in getting a decent ride at this slow hour, particularly after it initially appeared that where ever it was he was headed was within walking distance. So I activated the meter, wrote down the address on my trip sheet and made my way towards the left turn lane exiting the MGM's property onto Tropicana.
We sat for a minute at the red light, and after it changed I made the left going eastbound towards the 3400 block. As soon as I completed the turn my passenger says in a voice similar to that of an 8 year old who just scrapped his knees falling off his dirt bike:
Where are you going?
It's obvious from this statement that he thinks that I'm long hauling him, or taking a route that's longer than necessary as a means of running the meter up. But of course, anybody who actually knows what the fuck they're talking about, or anybody with any common sense whatsoever, would tell you that the best way to get from the east 100 block of Tropicana, to the east 3400 block of Tropicana would be to travel farther east. You shouldn't need a two thousand dollar navigation system to figure that one out. So not really appreciating the accusation, I calmly turned down my sun visor to reveal what I had written down on my trip sheet, and read it out loud:
3400 east Tropicana.
He immediately replied:
I know that smartass! Why are you taking me this way?
I'm sorry sir, I don't understand?
I told you to take me to 3400 east Tropicana!
That's correct. I wrote it down.
I said as I pointed towards my trip sheet.
Driver, you're taking me the wrong way, we're supposed to be going that way!
He said as he points his thumb towards the opposite way we were headed, in a generally westward direction. I already knew the answer to my next question. Well actually, I knew the answers to all of these questions but I was having too much fun to stop now.
Says who?
I just asked the doorman where this address was and he said it was that way!
He said as points his thumb west again.
Well sir, I don't know what to tell you except to say that I think the best way to get to the 3400 block of east Tropicana from here would be to head east on Tropicana. You think differently?
I know how you cabbies are driver, are you calling the doorman a liar?
By this point he'd abandoned the Eight year old scrapped knee thing and jumped directly to the I have a pink shirt on and know more about this town than any low-life cabbie thing.
No sir, I don't believe I've called anyone anything....We can go that way if you'd like, however I wouldn't recommended it.
Listen just get me there alright, but you'd better not be trying to fuck me.
I'm straight sir.
I guess at this point it's worth noting that I knew this guy was a pillow biter before he even got in the cab. If you're wondering what gave it away, it was less his attire and more just the way he carried himself. Furthermore, I also knew the place he was going, it's a place called the "Eagle" or something like that. I'd gotten a ride there a long time ago and it's a known gay bar. Nonetheless after I'd just finished saying perhaps the funniest words to ever come out of my mouth, our gay accuser wasn't so amused.
THAT'S NOT FUNNY! Listen, fuck you, and just get me there alright?
With that, I didn't say another word. Well, not until a mile or so went by and we drove past the airport and crossed over Paradise Road anyway. At that point our flamer friend couldn't help himself and he eventually repeats the question that we both knew the answer to:
Where are you going?
Again I turned down the sun visor and pretended to read it aloud:
3400 east Tropicana
I know that you fuck! The doorman said that it was only a couple of blocks!
This is the same person who told you we should travel west to get to the east side of town?
Listen man, if you're giving me the runaround here we're going to have problems.
WE ALREADY HAVE PROBLEMS! YOU'RE ACCUSING ME OF SOME BULLSHIT AND YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!
I abandoned the passive aggressive bit and skipped straight to the pissed off and don't fuck with me bit. I was having fun, but I'd had enough. So I continued:
Listen man, I don't appreciate the accusations ok? It's obvious you don't know what the fuck you're talking about so why don't you just drop it? Las Vegas BLVD is the zero divider on Tropicana. Therefore, in order to get to the 3400 block of east Tropicana we must travel approximately 3.4 miles EAST! It's not rocket science dude. Get a fucking compass if you don't believe me. But in the meantime please shut the fuck up and let me do my job. Like some doorman knows what the fuck he's talking about anyway...
That felt good actually. It's not very often I yell at a passenger but they deserve it every time and it feels good every time.
Neither of us said a word for the remainder of the ride. Which mind you, only lasted about 3 more minutes or so. When we got to the intersection at Pecos I made a left turn and then an immediate right into the massive strip mall containing the "Eagle" among dozens of other businesses. I positioned the cab so the passenger side was directly in front of the front door to the bar and turned the meter off.
How did you know I was going here?
I turned around in my seat and looked at the guy, but said nothing.
You're a good fucking cab driver, you know that?
I'm straight remember?
He laughed as he exited the cab and handed me forty dollars for the twenty dollar fare.
Back to work.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
XXXVII
I loaded a couple at the Wynn. The doorman/Shaquille O'Neal lookalike opened the door and the young attractive brunette escorted by a well dressed middle aged gentleman climbed into the backseat. They made themselves comfortable and told me their destination of the MGM as Shaq thanked them for the dollar and closed the door. Upon hearing the destination, I reacted by noting the time and "MGM" down on my trip sheet and cheerily replied with an:
"Alrighty" was the first of only two words I said throughout the duration of this ride. We'll get to the other word in minute but for now I feel like expressing that I don't know why I said "alrighty". I never say "alrighty". I'm sure there are other cabbies out there that say "alrighty" much better than I do. In the future I think I'll leave the "alrightys" to them.*
It was only seconds after proclaiming their destination and our hero was already on first base. He quickly rounded second as we were waiting out the red light leaving the Wynn property. After the light changed I made the left and as we passed by the Fashion Show Mall I caught a glimpse of the brunettes very nice mammaries in the rear-view, for they were already out of her blouse. The BLVD was wicked busy so I made the left onto Twain and then a right on Koval. As we made the turn the brunette hiked up her dress and mounted on top of our hero cowgirl style. Seconds later it became obvious that these two people were fucking in my backseat.
I honestly wasn't sure what to think at first. I guess I knew it was only a matter of time before this day eventually came and surprisingly it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable of a situation as I thought it would be. One thing that was weird about it though was that they just got it on like I wasn't even there. They didn't even ask for permission or anything and I don't even let people smoke in the backseat without asking. But come to think of it, what would that conversation have looked like anyway? "Hey man, is it cool if I bang this chick in your backseat, I have a condom?" "Um yeah, go get um tiger." But either way I wasn't going to stop them. I think this falls under some player hating bylaw or something. So as we cruised south-bound on Koval, the brunette began to moan rather loudly and I was puzzled as to how I managed to successfully set my tent up while all my camping gear was at home collecting dust in the storage closet.
We had to stop at the red light crossing over Flamingo and I happened to pull up alongside another cab from the same company I drive for. I recognized the driver from chatting with him at the yard from time to time. He did a double take in the direction of my backseat and then gave me this bug eyed stare. You know that look that says, "hey dude, did you realize that you have two people fucking in your backseat?" I recognized his shocked appearance and acknowledged it with a smile and the universal upwards chin movement that says, "what's up?"
The light changed and we continued southbound. After catching the light green at Harmon, I realized that in only a matter of seconds we would be pulling into the MGM driveway. Thinking that it probably wouldn't be the greatest of ideas to pull up to the front door of the worlds 2nd largest hotel with two people fucking in the backseat, I decided it would be best for all parties involved to cruise around the block as many times as necessary. No sooner than I thought that our hero completed the deed.
I glanced up at my trip sheet that's rubber banded to the sun visor above my head and realized that this entire fiasco began a mere 5 minutes ago. Considering the time I couldn't help but think what an amature our hero is. I mean 4 minutes is all you've got man? C'mon bro. But then I thought, wait a minute, maybe he just realized that we were almost there and that he had better go ahead and finish before the ride ended. In which case that's actually kind of impressive if you think about it. So I went from thinking this guy was a schmuck to man this guy must be a pro in a matter of seconds. A fucking pro.
As we entered MGM's property we drove over the speed bumps running alongside the massive parking garage as the brunette sat back on the seat and began to put herself back together. While doing so she posed the question:
I was a little puzzled as to why she was asking me my name at a time like this but nonetheless I responded with undoubtedly, unequivocally, the dumbest fucking thing I have ever said in my entire life: my name.
I knew immediately that it was the dumbest thing I have ever said because at the same exact moment my dumb ass replied, our hero did as well:
I thanked God for our simultaneous responses because due to that I don't think the brunette heard me. I guess I just figured she must've known his name already. How silly of me. Our couple continued their small talk until we arrived at the front door. Tony tipped me very handsomely and after they departed the cab it appeared that they walked off in different directions.
I completed my trip sheet log by noting the drop off time and then drove around the circle to the back of the staging line at MGM in a meager attempt at going back to work like nothing had ever happened. With any luck, my next fare will be normal and my camping equipment can begin collecting dust again.
*RIP Mitch Hedberg
Alrighty
"Alrighty" was the first of only two words I said throughout the duration of this ride. We'll get to the other word in minute but for now I feel like expressing that I don't know why I said "alrighty". I never say "alrighty". I'm sure there are other cabbies out there that say "alrighty" much better than I do. In the future I think I'll leave the "alrightys" to them.*
It was only seconds after proclaiming their destination and our hero was already on first base. He quickly rounded second as we were waiting out the red light leaving the Wynn property. After the light changed I made the left and as we passed by the Fashion Show Mall I caught a glimpse of the brunettes very nice mammaries in the rear-view, for they were already out of her blouse. The BLVD was wicked busy so I made the left onto Twain and then a right on Koval. As we made the turn the brunette hiked up her dress and mounted on top of our hero cowgirl style. Seconds later it became obvious that these two people were fucking in my backseat.
I honestly wasn't sure what to think at first. I guess I knew it was only a matter of time before this day eventually came and surprisingly it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable of a situation as I thought it would be. One thing that was weird about it though was that they just got it on like I wasn't even there. They didn't even ask for permission or anything and I don't even let people smoke in the backseat without asking. But come to think of it, what would that conversation have looked like anyway? "Hey man, is it cool if I bang this chick in your backseat, I have a condom?" "Um yeah, go get um tiger." But either way I wasn't going to stop them. I think this falls under some player hating bylaw or something. So as we cruised south-bound on Koval, the brunette began to moan rather loudly and I was puzzled as to how I managed to successfully set my tent up while all my camping gear was at home collecting dust in the storage closet.
We had to stop at the red light crossing over Flamingo and I happened to pull up alongside another cab from the same company I drive for. I recognized the driver from chatting with him at the yard from time to time. He did a double take in the direction of my backseat and then gave me this bug eyed stare. You know that look that says, "hey dude, did you realize that you have two people fucking in your backseat?" I recognized his shocked appearance and acknowledged it with a smile and the universal upwards chin movement that says, "what's up?"
The light changed and we continued southbound. After catching the light green at Harmon, I realized that in only a matter of seconds we would be pulling into the MGM driveway. Thinking that it probably wouldn't be the greatest of ideas to pull up to the front door of the worlds 2nd largest hotel with two people fucking in the backseat, I decided it would be best for all parties involved to cruise around the block as many times as necessary. No sooner than I thought that our hero completed the deed.
I glanced up at my trip sheet that's rubber banded to the sun visor above my head and realized that this entire fiasco began a mere 5 minutes ago. Considering the time I couldn't help but think what an amature our hero is. I mean 4 minutes is all you've got man? C'mon bro. But then I thought, wait a minute, maybe he just realized that we were almost there and that he had better go ahead and finish before the ride ended. In which case that's actually kind of impressive if you think about it. So I went from thinking this guy was a schmuck to man this guy must be a pro in a matter of seconds. A fucking pro.
As we entered MGM's property we drove over the speed bumps running alongside the massive parking garage as the brunette sat back on the seat and began to put herself back together. While doing so she posed the question:
What's your name?
I was a little puzzled as to why she was asking me my name at a time like this but nonetheless I responded with undoubtedly, unequivocally, the dumbest fucking thing I have ever said in my entire life: my name.
Andrew
I knew immediately that it was the dumbest thing I have ever said because at the same exact moment my dumb ass replied, our hero did as well:
Tony
I thanked God for our simultaneous responses because due to that I don't think the brunette heard me. I guess I just figured she must've known his name already. How silly of me. Our couple continued their small talk until we arrived at the front door. Tony tipped me very handsomely and after they departed the cab it appeared that they walked off in different directions.
I completed my trip sheet log by noting the drop off time and then drove around the circle to the back of the staging line at MGM in a meager attempt at going back to work like nothing had ever happened. With any luck, my next fare will be normal and my camping equipment can begin collecting dust again.
*RIP Mitch Hedberg
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
XXXVI
Below you will discover seven shorts. Mini-adventures if you will. Some of these I have been holding onto for some time now and for whatever reason I haven't been able to extract a real story out of them. I have more of these that I'm working on so look for another collection of shorts at a later time as well. For now I guess in my opinion, there wasn't enough content within these stories for them to simply stand alone. But together, hopefully they deem me taking the time to write them, and you taking the time to read them.
--------------------
It was after 2am. The PURE nightclub at Caesars was beginning to slow down and as usual, the cab line was huge. I loaded a single gentlemen and he gave a destination of the Mirage.
Short rides don't bother me too much for the most part, especially when it's busy. But this ride is ridiculous because the Mirage is literally right next door. With a decent sling-shot and a rock I think you could hit the Mirage hotel tower from the cab stand at Caesars if you had to. Thankfully, traffic on the BLVD was lite so I knew I would be dropping off and picking up again in no time. Nonetheless, I think the guy sensed that I was a little perturbed considering I didn't say one word to him upon hearing his destination.
After making a left to head northbound on the BLVD we quickly approached the only stoplight in between the two places. It's actually less of a stoplight and more just a signal for the crosswalk there. We got to about 50 ft short of the intersection and I noticed an ambulance with its lights on and sirens screaming heading the opposite direction. Dismissing my green light, I immediately pulled over to the right lane and came to a complete stop just prior to reaching the intersection line. Besides the fact that such a practice is the law, you need to do this on the off chance that the ambulance needs to do a U-turn or needs the intersection for some other reason. In keeping with the norm in Las Vegas, most cars ignored the sights and sounds and continued on through the welcoming green light, those of them now stuck behind me honking and wondering why the fuck I stopped. Sure enough the ambulance continued on SB and thus, I ultimately stopped for no reason. We preceded on and at the next light we made the left onto Mirage's property. After coming to a stop at the front door, the meter showed $5.20. My passenger hands me a $100 bill and said as he opened the door and let himself out:
...and he slammed the door shut and started walking away. I rolled my window down to say:
Thinking he had to be and he's tired of stupid fuckers not yielding to him when they should. He turned around and began walking back towards my open window. He pointed his finger at me in his very best "I want you for the U.S. Army" way, and said in a drunken slur:
Fair enough, I'll stop asking questions now.
--------------------
I was on the nut at the Bellagio, it was slow so I had it parked right in front of the loading area, giving me a view of everyone walking in and out of the casino. This is useful for two reasons. One, because people watching in Vegas is a good way to pass the time and two, it gives you chance to survey your potential passenger(s) before you load them. I wasn't there for long when I spotted a guy exiting the hotel via the revolving door. It only took a second of looking at him to realize that he was incredibly mad about something. His body language said all you needed to know. I would like to say I locked my doors at this point, but against my better judgment I didn't. I would like to tell you that because I probably should have, but I can't. In all honesty, the thought never even occurred to me.
He made a bee-line straight towards me and from that it was obvious that he was in need of a cab. Before I could contemplate any further he had the shotgun door open and he sat down right next to me. Although it's not entirely uncommon that a person flying solo sit up front with you, it's definitely not the norm. As soon as he sat down I immediately sensed the negative energy. Before he could even tell me where he's going he yelled "FUCK!" as he punches the dashboard above the glove box as hard as he can. The whole car shakes and I say:
He said as he was rubbing his hand.
I know that area well. I live right by there. I liked the idea of clearing up there that way I could swing by the crib afterwards. But, this anger and frustration should tell you something. If it doesn't you probably wouldn't make a good cab driver. Obviously, dude is mad about something and it's one of two things in all probability. Girl problems, or in all likelihood, it's a money thing. Dude just lost his ass in the casino and decided the remedy for such a problem was to start working his overhand right on my dashboard like it was a heavy-bag. So before I even turn the meter on or put the cab in gear, I ask the only question I gave a shit to know the answer to:
I knew right away from his answer that I was on the right track. No way this guy had any money. Certainly not enough to take him all the way to the west end of town. Finally, after he realized I wasn't kidding, he shrugged and dove his right hand into his right pant pocket.
Then, he seemingly played pocket pool for the next minute. It was weird, and I found myself laughing. It looked like he was trying to remove his hand from the pocket with his hand stretched out, fingers as far apart as they could go. Obviously, it's difficult way to remove your hand from a pocket if you've ever tried. It reminded me of when OJ couldn't get that glove on. He tries yanking his hand out with a sudden jerk on a few occasions to no avail. His hand is stuck in his pocket. Certain the guy is fucking with me, I proclaim:
He replied as I noticed that he's finally achieved successful removal of his hand from the pocket and in its grasp is the largest stack of one hundred dollar bills I'd seen in a while. Easily thousands of dollars, maybe tens of thousands. It was more than one should be able to successfully fit into a single pant pocket really. I wondered how somebody with that type of dough in their pocket could be so mad. I've had half of that kind of money in my pocket before and I had a fuckin boner at the time. I thought about inquiring to that effect but all that stumbled out of my mouth was:
--------------------
I was in the downtown neighborhood and I heard a distressed female voice over the two way. In the background you could here a strange banging noise:
For some reason, dispatch did not respond right away. There was a brief pause and you heard her voice again:
Still nothing from dispatch, but then there was a male voice come over the air, sounding as calm as if he were in the middle of Sunday School:
I nearly sprayed the remains of my half gulped Dr. Pepper onto the windshield. Then in a hurry dispatch finally makes their first appearance.
At that very moment two squad cars go screaming by me lights and sirens blaring and it occurred to me that I was only two blocks from her location. Apparently Metro was already well on their way to handling the situation, but I just had to go have a look see. So I followed the cop cars and as I turned the corner onto Main I could see it clear as day.
Some drunk asshole with a 40 ouncer wrapped in a brown paper bag clutched in one hand, dancing a jig on top of this chicks cab. The driver had every reason to be as nervous as she was I suppose, but it was one of the funnier things I'd witnessed in a while.
--------------------
It was Mama Mia! show break at Mandalay Bay and I loaded two seventies something ladies. They gave me a destination of The Orleans. This verbatim conversation began with me posing the question:
The lady sitting on the right replied:
There was a short pause in the conversation as we sat at a red light near the Orleans. I guess I was racking my brain for the next progression in the conversation. Then it occurred to me, like a beam of light from above:
--------------------
I took a radio call at the "Gun Store" on East Tropicana. I had just dropped off across the street at the Wally World and caught a lucky break when the call came up right after I cleared. Considering my proximity, I was all over it. The Gun Store is actually pretty cool because you can rent and fire fully automatic assault rifles there. Ever shoot an AK? It's pretty fun. Anyway, I loaded a middle aged white guy, dressed in a trucker hat that was mangled to the point that I couldn't make out what it was advertising, a short red flannel over a sleeved long john shirt and he completed the ensemble with blue jeans and a pair of work boots. He wasn't going very far so he wasted no time in informing me of his new toy:
I thought to myself, awesome, but said nothing. A normal person might buy a car, but he wanted a new six shooter. There was a brief pause, and then he dropped the figurative bomb:
He said as he opens the box and holds the fucking gun up so I can see it in the rear-view.
I don't know the first thing about guns but I didn't think it would be to wise to insult the guys new gun. I mean it could have been the crappiest gun ever forged from molten steel and I would have complimented him on it. Obviously this guy is dumber than a box of rocks, not realizing the consequences of pulling a gun on a cab driver. But, I had a good feeling about the guy. I think ignorance was prevailing over mischievous here. I think he was just happy that he had a down home English speaking cabbie from Iowa that he thought would, and could appreciate his new piece. It reminded me of a kid on Christmas that just had to show off his new dirt bike to anybody and everybody. But it made me wonder if perhaps he had bumped into a police officer first before me, would he would have shown it to him as well?
--------------------
A driver came over the air of the two-way in an obvious Arab slang. He had a run-out and was seeking assistance. Dispatch is always there to help you, however they generally have a fairly short fuse towards drivers who not only are difficult to understand, but fail to follow radio simple communication procedures as well. Our Arab friend was one of those.
Smartly, dispatch temporarily gave up trying to obtain the cab number. The driver replied:
There was a 5 second pause, and the driver replied:
Admittedly I started laughing. It was funny considering the guys accent combined with his poor English, nevertheless dispatch was quick to respond:
--------------------
We had just exited the southbound I-15 headed east towards the BLVD on Flamingo. I was loaded with three younger white guys, about my age I suppose. One of them sat shotgun, the other two in the back. They were drinking fairly heavily and were already well on their way to being wasted. We were forced to stop at a red light on the freeway overpass and we came to rest in the middle lane, the first car on the stripe. A pimped out Honda Civic pulled up adjacent to us on our right hand side. It looked like the guy had dropped a lot of money into his car. Either that or he bought it off of the makers of the Fast and Furious. The Honda was packed full with 4 guys in it, they had their windows down and the driver was saying some nonsensical shit to us that I couldn't even hear. He stared at us while redlining his motor and it looked like tough guy wanted to compensate for something by beating my completely stock commercial vehicle, in a street drag.
My guys were having none of this and were egging me on to give it a go. In fact one of them even said:
I said sarcastically.
As dumb as it was, I thought it was kind of funny that this guy was acting tough and my passengers were giving me shit about it. So setting my better judgment aside, I decided to play along.
I replaced my right foot with my left on the brake pedal and proceeded to lightly work the gas with my right one, torquing the car down. The cab wants to move forward but of course it can't. But more importantly, I know this to be the international signal that you want to race. Studying the light signal patterns as I do, I was certain I was going to beat him off the line because I knew exactly when the light was going to change. If nothing else I knew I could beat him off the line, whatever was to happen after that, who knew?
I continued eying the green light for the traffic exiting the freeway from the northbound direction. Pulling my stare away for just a split second, I noticed in the rear view mirror the Metro Patrol Car two cars behind me. I could just see the top of the light bar resting above the cars behind me. Good timing. I turned my head back in time to noticed the opposite light change to yellow and I knew the green was ours in four seconds. I revved it up and the cab is inching forward, at the same time I began repeatedly elbowing the guy sitting shotgun while saying:
As soon as the light was ours I flipped my left foot off the brake and floored it....
For about 5 feet. The Honda fucking roasted his tires and got half sideways as he blew our doors off. Immediately after that the squad car lights um up and cruises past us to go catch the Honda.
As we slowly caught up and passed the pulled over Honda my passengers are dying and hanging half out of the windows giving those guys the finger and yelling:
..among other things. Good thing I seen that cop though.
--------------------
--------------------
It was after 2am. The PURE nightclub at Caesars was beginning to slow down and as usual, the cab line was huge. I loaded a single gentlemen and he gave a destination of the Mirage.
Short rides don't bother me too much for the most part, especially when it's busy. But this ride is ridiculous because the Mirage is literally right next door. With a decent sling-shot and a rock I think you could hit the Mirage hotel tower from the cab stand at Caesars if you had to. Thankfully, traffic on the BLVD was lite so I knew I would be dropping off and picking up again in no time. Nonetheless, I think the guy sensed that I was a little perturbed considering I didn't say one word to him upon hearing his destination.
After making a left to head northbound on the BLVD we quickly approached the only stoplight in between the two places. It's actually less of a stoplight and more just a signal for the crosswalk there. We got to about 50 ft short of the intersection and I noticed an ambulance with its lights on and sirens screaming heading the opposite direction. Dismissing my green light, I immediately pulled over to the right lane and came to a complete stop just prior to reaching the intersection line. Besides the fact that such a practice is the law, you need to do this on the off chance that the ambulance needs to do a U-turn or needs the intersection for some other reason. In keeping with the norm in Las Vegas, most cars ignored the sights and sounds and continued on through the welcoming green light, those of them now stuck behind me honking and wondering why the fuck I stopped. Sure enough the ambulance continued on SB and thus, I ultimately stopped for no reason. We preceded on and at the next light we made the left onto Mirage's property. After coming to a stop at the front door, the meter showed $5.20. My passenger hands me a $100 bill and said as he opened the door and let himself out:
That was a good move back there, you keep it.
...and he slammed the door shut and started walking away. I rolled my window down to say:
What are you a firemen?.....paramedic or something?
Thinking he had to be and he's tired of stupid fuckers not yielding to him when they should. He turned around and began walking back towards my open window. He pointed his finger at me in his very best "I want you for the U.S. Army" way, and said in a drunken slur:
Good move.
Fair enough, I'll stop asking questions now.
--------------------
I was on the nut at the Bellagio, it was slow so I had it parked right in front of the loading area, giving me a view of everyone walking in and out of the casino. This is useful for two reasons. One, because people watching in Vegas is a good way to pass the time and two, it gives you chance to survey your potential passenger(s) before you load them. I wasn't there for long when I spotted a guy exiting the hotel via the revolving door. It only took a second of looking at him to realize that he was incredibly mad about something. His body language said all you needed to know. I would like to say I locked my doors at this point, but against my better judgment I didn't. I would like to tell you that because I probably should have, but I can't. In all honesty, the thought never even occurred to me.
He made a bee-line straight towards me and from that it was obvious that he was in need of a cab. Before I could contemplate any further he had the shotgun door open and he sat down right next to me. Although it's not entirely uncommon that a person flying solo sit up front with you, it's definitely not the norm. As soon as he sat down I immediately sensed the negative energy. Before he could even tell me where he's going he yelled "FUCK!" as he punches the dashboard above the glove box as hard as he can. The whole car shakes and I say:
You can stop that shit right the fuck now dude, otherwise we're done here.
Sorry, sorry.....can you take me to Desert Inn and Durango?
He said as he was rubbing his hand.
I know that area well. I live right by there. I liked the idea of clearing up there that way I could swing by the crib afterwards. But, this anger and frustration should tell you something. If it doesn't you probably wouldn't make a good cab driver. Obviously, dude is mad about something and it's one of two things in all probability. Girl problems, or in all likelihood, it's a money thing. Dude just lost his ass in the casino and decided the remedy for such a problem was to start working his overhand right on my dashboard like it was a heavy-bag. So before I even turn the meter on or put the cab in gear, I ask the only question I gave a shit to know the answer to:
Do you have any money? .....Because you're going to have to show me some before I take you that far, or anywhere for that matter.
Are you serious?
Do I look like I'm joking?
I knew right away from his answer that I was on the right track. No way this guy had any money. Certainly not enough to take him all the way to the west end of town. Finally, after he realized I wasn't kidding, he shrugged and dove his right hand into his right pant pocket.
Then, he seemingly played pocket pool for the next minute. It was weird, and I found myself laughing. It looked like he was trying to remove his hand from the pocket with his hand stretched out, fingers as far apart as they could go. Obviously, it's difficult way to remove your hand from a pocket if you've ever tried. It reminded me of when OJ couldn't get that glove on. He tries yanking his hand out with a sudden jerk on a few occasions to no avail. His hand is stuck in his pocket. Certain the guy is fucking with me, I proclaim:
Look, maybe you should get another cab if you don't have any money
What, this... won't cover it?
He replied as I noticed that he's finally achieved successful removal of his hand from the pocket and in its grasp is the largest stack of one hundred dollar bills I'd seen in a while. Easily thousands of dollars, maybe tens of thousands. It was more than one should be able to successfully fit into a single pant pocket really. I wondered how somebody with that type of dough in their pocket could be so mad. I've had half of that kind of money in my pocket before and I had a fuckin boner at the time. I thought about inquiring to that effect but all that stumbled out of my mouth was:
Yep, that should cover it.
--------------------
I was in the downtown neighborhood and I heard a distressed female voice over the two way. In the background you could here a strange banging noise:
THIS IS CAB 5959 I NEED METRO RIGHT AWAY AT MAIN STREET SOUTH OF CHARLESTON! ...DISPATCH THERE IS A MAN JUMPING ON MY HOOD AND WINDSHIELD!
For some reason, dispatch did not respond right away. There was a brief pause and you heard her voice again:
I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO...THIS GUY IS JUMPING ON MY HOOD, HE'S CRAZY OR SOMETHING, HELP ME!.
Still nothing from dispatch, but then there was a male voice come over the air, sounding as calm as if he were in the middle of Sunday School:
Uhhh, drive away.?
I nearly sprayed the remains of my half gulped Dr. Pepper onto the windshield. Then in a hurry dispatch finally makes their first appearance.
No no no driver, don't do that. Put the cab in park, lock your doors and roll the windows up. Metro is in route.
At that very moment two squad cars go screaming by me lights and sirens blaring and it occurred to me that I was only two blocks from her location. Apparently Metro was already well on their way to handling the situation, but I just had to go have a look see. So I followed the cop cars and as I turned the corner onto Main I could see it clear as day.
Some drunk asshole with a 40 ouncer wrapped in a brown paper bag clutched in one hand, dancing a jig on top of this chicks cab. The driver had every reason to be as nervous as she was I suppose, but it was one of the funnier things I'd witnessed in a while.
--------------------
It was Mama Mia! show break at Mandalay Bay and I loaded two seventies something ladies. They gave me a destination of The Orleans. This verbatim conversation began with me posing the question:
So how was the show?
The lady sitting on the right replied:
Oh it was wonderful, we really enjoy musicals and that one was very good.
As you should, considering the ticket prices these days. I'm glad you had a good time though....so where are you from?
We're from Louisville.
Ah, Kentucky ey? Derby's coming up pretty soon isn't it?
That's right, next week.
Now the Derby is the three year old event right?
That's right.
See...I know a little about the ponies. You guys ever go?
We haven't missed it in 30 years or so.
Really!? That's cool, you looking forward to this year?
Oh yeah, we always have a great time, even in the infield, which is where we usually watch it from.
There was a short pause in the conversation as we sat at a red light near the Orleans. I guess I was racking my brain for the next progression in the conversation. Then it occurred to me, like a beam of light from above:
So, is Seabiscuit like, your all time favorite movie?
We don't like movies really, never watch them.
So you've never seen Seabiscuit?
Nope.
Well I guess you'll just have to come back here and catch Seabiscuit the musical then.
Oh my goodness there is a Seabiscuit musical playing here?
No.
--------------------
I took a radio call at the "Gun Store" on East Tropicana. I had just dropped off across the street at the Wally World and caught a lucky break when the call came up right after I cleared. Considering my proximity, I was all over it. The Gun Store is actually pretty cool because you can rent and fire fully automatic assault rifles there. Ever shoot an AK? It's pretty fun. Anyway, I loaded a middle aged white guy, dressed in a trucker hat that was mangled to the point that I couldn't make out what it was advertising, a short red flannel over a sleeved long john shirt and he completed the ensemble with blue jeans and a pair of work boots. He wasn't going very far so he wasted no time in informing me of his new toy:
Just bought a real nice piece in there...
I thought to myself, awesome, but said nothing. A normal person might buy a car, but he wanted a new six shooter. There was a brief pause, and then he dropped the figurative bomb:
Do you wanna see it?
No thanks. I'm trying to quit.
Oh a funny guy huh? ...No for real, lemme show you this thing, it's pretty bad ass.
He said as he opens the box and holds the fucking gun up so I can see it in the rear-view.
Yeah, that's a nice one.
I don't know the first thing about guns but I didn't think it would be to wise to insult the guys new gun. I mean it could have been the crappiest gun ever forged from molten steel and I would have complimented him on it. Obviously this guy is dumber than a box of rocks, not realizing the consequences of pulling a gun on a cab driver. But, I had a good feeling about the guy. I think ignorance was prevailing over mischievous here. I think he was just happy that he had a down home English speaking cabbie from Iowa that he thought would, and could appreciate his new piece. It reminded me of a kid on Christmas that just had to show off his new dirt bike to anybody and everybody. But it made me wonder if perhaps he had bumped into a police officer first before me, would he would have shown it to him as well?
Hey excuse me Officer,....Wanna see my new gun? It's pretty bad-ass!
--------------------
A driver came over the air of the two-way in an obvious Arab slang. He had a run-out and was seeking assistance. Dispatch is always there to help you, however they generally have a fairly short fuse towards drivers who not only are difficult to understand, but fail to follow radio simple communication procedures as well. Our Arab friend was one of those.
__78 HAD RUN OUT! NEED TA HELP!
Driver, calm down. What is your cab number?
__78! SEND TA RIGHT NOW! THIS BASTARD TOOK OFF!
Driver watch your language these are public airwaves you can't talk like that. Now, calm down and I need you to tell me your cab number before I can help you.
___8!
Driver, you're cutting yourself off. Hold the mic button down, wait for a second, then begin talking. You have to press the button before you begin talking, otherwise we can't hear you.
Dispatch are you no going to help me?
Driver I'm trying to help you! What is your location?
Smartly, dispatch temporarily gave up trying to obtain the cab number. The driver replied:
___SELL and 215.
Ok, is that Russell & 215?
_es.
Ok, that's a copy, but I need the exact address driver. I can't just send the police to Russell and 215. I need an exact address. Where exactly are you?
__sell & 215. I told you. Are you not going to help me or not?
DRIVER! I'm trying to help you!
_________ going to help me I'm just going to park the cab right here and quit. I'll take bus home.
Driver don't do that. I'm trying to help you but you're cutting yourself off, and I can't send you any help until you give me your cab number and a exact address. Can you give me your cab number and a exact address for me to send metro to?
There was a 5 second pause, and the driver replied:
____atch isn't helping me, I'm going to go find this guy and fucking kill him. I'm going to kill this fucking guy!
Admittedly I started laughing. It was funny considering the guys accent combined with his poor English, nevertheless dispatch was quick to respond:
Now driver, we don't kill people here at Las Vegas Cab. At least not on purpose we don't.
--------------------
We had just exited the southbound I-15 headed east towards the BLVD on Flamingo. I was loaded with three younger white guys, about my age I suppose. One of them sat shotgun, the other two in the back. They were drinking fairly heavily and were already well on their way to being wasted. We were forced to stop at a red light on the freeway overpass and we came to rest in the middle lane, the first car on the stripe. A pimped out Honda Civic pulled up adjacent to us on our right hand side. It looked like the guy had dropped a lot of money into his car. Either that or he bought it off of the makers of the Fast and Furious. The Honda was packed full with 4 guys in it, they had their windows down and the driver was saying some nonsensical shit to us that I couldn't even hear. He stared at us while redlining his motor and it looked like tough guy wanted to compensate for something by beating my completely stock commercial vehicle, in a street drag.
My guys were having none of this and were egging me on to give it a go. In fact one of them even said:
C'mon, this things got a V8 in it doesn't it?
Yes, I'm sure that's what we'll be able to attribute our certain victory to.
I said sarcastically.
As dumb as it was, I thought it was kind of funny that this guy was acting tough and my passengers were giving me shit about it. So setting my better judgment aside, I decided to play along.
I replaced my right foot with my left on the brake pedal and proceeded to lightly work the gas with my right one, torquing the car down. The cab wants to move forward but of course it can't. But more importantly, I know this to be the international signal that you want to race. Studying the light signal patterns as I do, I was certain I was going to beat him off the line because I knew exactly when the light was going to change. If nothing else I knew I could beat him off the line, whatever was to happen after that, who knew?
I continued eying the green light for the traffic exiting the freeway from the northbound direction. Pulling my stare away for just a split second, I noticed in the rear view mirror the Metro Patrol Car two cars behind me. I could just see the top of the light bar resting above the cars behind me. Good timing. I turned my head back in time to noticed the opposite light change to yellow and I knew the green was ours in four seconds. I revved it up and the cab is inching forward, at the same time I began repeatedly elbowing the guy sitting shotgun while saying:
Watch this! Watch this! Watch watch watch!!!
As soon as the light was ours I flipped my left foot off the brake and floored it....
For about 5 feet. The Honda fucking roasted his tires and got half sideways as he blew our doors off. Immediately after that the squad car lights um up and cruises past us to go catch the Honda.
As we slowly caught up and passed the pulled over Honda my passengers are dying and hanging half out of the windows giving those guys the finger and yelling:
Ahhh stupid fuckers!
..among other things. Good thing I seen that cop though.
--------------------
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)