Driving Cab: Chapter Five

Driving Cab: Chapter Five

De hell wid it, I tell myself as I leave the safety of my cab. Neck and shoulder muscles tighten as I walk by the boys out front. The inside is crowded with Naval Air blacks and their women. There’s a small loud group in front of the bandstand and a lot of people dancing. I wave my hat from the doorway and look for some response. No one even looks in my direction. Looking for a friendly face, I see that everyone is into the music, dancing, laughing, rapping (back in the seventies, before Rap, when hip dudes were engaged in quiet conversation, we called it rapping). No one even notices me. The faces are all happy, and they’re all black. Guess I gotta walk up to the bar, I’m thinking as I excuse myself through the three deep traffic and edge up to the bar. The bartender is busy. I look for some hostility from the half dozen men on both sides of me. They act like I’m not even here. Catching the bartender’s eye, I hold up my cap. “Anybody call for a cab,” I yell over the bar talk.

“Not over our phone. Check the booth outside,” he tells me and continues mixing drinks.

“Yea, thanks,” I say and make my way back outside. I didn’t see any booth, I tell myself gulping my way past the boys outside. Back inside my cab, I breathe a sigh of relief, and reach for my mike to call in the no go. Before I can click the button, a tall thin black with mustache and goatee opens the passenger door.

“You the cab?” he asks.

My heartbeat quicken as I nod my head yes. What a perfect set up, I tell myself as he slides into the seat. Nobody saw him get in. No way to trace the call. He gives me an address in North Oakland. My hands are sweaty as I write it on the waybill. I wait for a break in the radio and call in, “One-Five-Eight.”

“One-Five-Eight,” the dispatcher answers.

I give the North Oakland address in a louder voice than necessary. The dispatcher spots me going as I click the meter and glance at the man beside me. His eyes are searching the guys out front of the liquor store. I figure if he’s going to try a hold up, he’ll wait ‘til we enter North Oakland. I picture the broken streetlights, the darkness, the Bart construction, the broken bottles. If he jus’ wants the money, hand it over and stay cool, I’m thinking. I shoot another glance at him as I turn on to Webster. He’s younger than me, in his late twenties. I rub my mustache a couple times trying to find something to say.

“You stationed at Naval Air?” I ask.

“No, I ain’t in the service, man,” he answers.

We enter the tube. A minute or so goes by in dead silence. “Always that much action at Henry’s?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I don’t go over there that much. Looking for dis dude who owe me some bread. I heard he hanging there.”

He goes on to tell me how he ran into this old buddy who joined the navy, how they started partying together, how the dude borrowed some bread and then made himself scarce. As I listen to his tale, my fear eases a little. By the time we reach downtown, he’s telling me about his job at Sears. How the money’s not too good, but you get the discount, and a chance for a promotion every couple years. We stop in front of a dark wooden house. He peels a five off a small roll. “Keep the change, man,” he tells me and disappears into the dark.

I get rolling and wonder if I should try my luck at the blood bank. Gotta take a leak, I tell myself and figure I can stop at the Hound. Just as I turn on the Grove-Shafter Freeway, the eleven o’clock phones start going off. I call in on One-Two-Seven and get the last one. God damn it, how am I gonna take a piss now? I ask myself. I remember a bar just up from the phone building and figure I’ll stop in there. When I pull to the curb, I see a half dozen or so cabs already parked up the street by the church. A lone picket in front of the phone building reminds me that we’re parking at the next block to honor the union picket line. All the stools at the bar are filled. The jukebox is playing a quiet love song. A half dozen heads turn toward me as I sneak up the stairs to the restrooms. I should’ a brought my hat, I tell myself. On my way out I see a new driver downing a quick vodka and orange.

Parking behind the line of cabs in front of the church, I get out and count five cabs. There’s a circle of drivers at the last one. I join the circle and listen to an older driver. “The cock sucker reaches up front and grabs Haines’ glasses. Tells him not to move. Haines don’t know if he got a gun, or knife, or what. Hands him about twenty bucks out his shirt pocket. De punk turns the rear view mirror up, throws de glasses on the ledge in back, and gets out’a the cab…”

“Where’d it happen?” I ask as a cab pulls up behind mine.

“Richmond. Haines was doing a midnight last night…”

The girls are coming down the street. We break from the circle and start for our cabs. The last guy is out of his cab and counting. “Some mother is stealing my order. Only six orders went off,” he says as he walks down the line checking numbers.

The last four girls stop at my cab. I open the back door for three and the other one climbs in front. The last out driver walks back to his cab shaking his head and pounding a fist in his hand.

I drop the four girls off within a few blocks of each other and figure I’ll try to catch the 11:30 Berkeley phone before I call it a night. The dispatcher gives it off just before I spot on Five-0-Four. Might as well wait for the twelve o’clock. Maybe I’ll catch the girl who lives over in Fruitvale, I’m thinking as I try to remember what night it was when I picked her up a couple weeks ago. Traffic lights change back and forth in the empty streets. As I reach for the book on my dashboard, I listen to the footsteps of a hurrying couple. The door of the ice cream parlor across the street opens. Four people emerge and hurry to a waiting car. Get me a cone after I pull down the order, I tell myself, and roll down my window. I lean back my head and look up at the sky. Fog hides the stars from view. A pair of footsteps passes and turns the corner. A lone man approaches my cab.