Driving Cab: Chapter Thirty-Five

Driving Cab: Chapter Thirty-Five 

I think of the plans that I’ve made on dark lonely stands, plans on what to do if someone tried to hold me up. I wonder if I’ll be able to give my thirty bucks or so with the generosity that I have planned. Will I be able to say, ‘Here, take it? It’s only money. I wish it was more.’ Will I be able to hand it over without shaking? Will I be able to keep the fear out of my voice? Will he be satisfied with just taking the money? Will he have a knife? I ask myself.

After several more blocks, my fare directs me into a street and has me stop in front of a dark two-story apartment building. I glance at the cold gray concrete. It’s built in an L shape with the back windows facing the street. There’s no visible numbers on the building. There’s not a lighted window on the entire street. I shut off the meter, turn on the dome light, and turn to face the hold up man. I catch his eye for a second and then look down at my sweaty hands. He clears his throat a couple times and asks, “How much dat gonna be?”

“It’s … It’s six-forty,” I say nodding my head at the meter.

“Dat’s a lot a bread jus’ to get a man home,” my fare tells me and gulps a deep breath. “I got my money inside. My old lady’s holding it for me. I run inside and bring it right back. Six-forty,” he tells me and climbs out into the darkness.

The second he’s out of my cab, my heart jumps for joy. It’s not a hold up. It’s not a hold up, I keep telling myself as I lock his door and double check the others. I race my engine and wonder what to do next. He ain’t coming back wid no money. I should a known it was a run out when I saw the girl shaking her head, I tell myself as I watch the corner of the building. Maybe he’s waiting for me to come in after him, I tell myself with one hand on the gearshift lever.

I wonder if I should call in the run out or just deadhead to the garage. You’ll have to explain the six –forty, I tell myself and drive to the corner to get the street address. The dispatcher will jus’ ask what happened and tell you to always get some security when you let someone out of the cab without collecting the fare, I’m thinking as I push my mike button. I’m a little embarrassed as I explain what happened, but more than anything else I just want to get out of here. My mouth falls open in disbelief when the dispatcher tells me to wait right where I’m at.

“Traffic Seven is just leaving the ‘Port. He’ll be there in a minute or so,” the dispatcher tells me.

Jesus Christ, I should’a waited until I was ‘cross Foothill, I tell myself as a noise behind me spins my head around. I peer into the darkness, hold my breath and listen. Seconds tick slowly. You stupid idiot, I tell myself as I wonder how I’m going to explain the run out to Traffic Seven. I don’t even know his apartment number. How are we gonna find it? I ask myself.

A shadow melts in and out of the fog that rolls up from the sidewalk to my right. It’s moving. Dere’s something moving out dere. He’s coming back, I tell myself as I turn my wheel left and start to floor it. Just at that second, I see four feet strike the ground. It’s a cat. A cat, I tell myself and hit the brakes.

My ears catch the sound of Traffic Seven’s engine when he’s still a couple blocks away. I gulp a couple times and wonder again how we’ll be able to find the kid’s apartment. I wonder if I’ll be able to identify him when I see him. I wonder what we’ll do if his old lady doesn’t have the money. Traffic Seven turns the corner and broadsides to a screeching stop up over the curb behind me.

I unlock the passenger door. He yanks it open and slides inside. There’s a cigar butt in the middle of his black stubbled face. His heavy winter coat is pulled up around his ears. A soft brown dress hat rests just above his eyes. I’m still awed by how much he looks like a 1940’s movie gangster. “Mother f---ing animals,” he says and asks me to explain what happened. I don’t tell him that I was suspicious from the moment that I picked the guy up. I just explain that he told me that his mother was holding his money, that he had to go inside for it. “Yea, he probably doesn’t know who his father is. Never trust a nigger. Dey’re f---ing animals. They’ll cut your f---ing throat for a dime. You never let a nigger out’a your cab wid out security. Take dere shoes if dey ain’t got nothing else. You let any fare out’a your cab wid out security and your asking for it. Especially a nigger, Daley. I thought you been driving long enough to know dat,” he tells me with the cigar still in his mouth.

“He went in over dere,” I say pointing to the fog-shrouded corner of the building. “I’m not sure how we’re gonna find his apartment…”

“You think I’m nuts or something, Daley. Half the f---ing niggers in Oakland are probably back dere wid him. You never catch one a dem bastards alone. We’d never come out’a dere alive. You know already the sucker don’t have no money. Dey never come home ‘til they spent dere last penny. Take a cab all the way cross-town wid no money to pay for it, de animals…”

Traffic Seven explains that it’s easier to take the loss than to risk our lives trying to collect the six dollar fare as he picks up my clip board. “You got twenty minutes to go,” he says and reaches for my mike. “I’ll try and get you an order dat’ll T.C. downtown,” he tells me and barks into the mike. The dispatcher tells him that there is nothing moving deep East. “Least you wrote in your destination,” he says as he lays the clipboard back on the seat. “Dey got one of our guys a couple weeks ago. Slit his fu throat for forty fu---ng bucks, de animals. He hadn’t written anything on his waybill for de past four trips. We don’t even know where he picked de bastard up…”

He directs me to the stand at Seventy Third and Macarthur and tells me to wait for an order there. “Dat’s a good stand. Mostly white. And de niggers you get off a’dere aint like dese animals out here. Dem bleeding heart liberal judges. A nigger kills a man, slits his f---ng throat, shoots a man down in cold blood and de next day he’s out on the street. De newspapers make a hero out’a him. Look at dat f---ing Huey Newton. Every asshole in de world knows his f---ing name. How many people know de name a de cop he murdered? How many people know how many kids he had. How many people can tell you his name? Yea, officer John Frey. Married to my niece. How many people can tell you what his wife and family feels? Feel when dey see the murder walking the streets scot free…”

“Traffic Seven… Traffic Seven…” the dispatcher calls. “Driver at the ‘Port with a dead battery.” Traffic Seven tells the dispatcher he’s on his way. “How many people know the name of the cop Huey Newton murdered?” Traffic Seven asks as he leaves my cab. I nod my head up and down and wonder if what he is saying is true.

I locked the door behind Traffic Seven and headed for Macarthur. Officer Frey. I told myself and tried to remember the incident that Traffic Seven was describing. There was a shoot out under the freeway bridge. Newtown claims he wasn’t holding a piece. He gets out of his car. The cops rough him up and tell him the law books on his front seat won’t do him any good down here. Next thing he knows one of them pulls out a gun and shoots him in the stomach. How did officer Frey get shot then? I asked myself.

I crossed East Fourteenth Street and counted seven white lines between the incoming fog and me. I felt the easing of my breath as I crossed Macarthur. I even stopped on the stand at Seventy Third and Macarthur, but I didn’t shut the engine off. The fog crawled up the walls and blocked out the doorways. Not a soul on the streets, only the light of my fog dimmed headlamps. I decided to move a little closer to downtown. Maybe pick up an order of Seven-O-Five. But, once I got rolling, I never even slowed down. I lead footed it straight to the garage without even telling the dispatcher good night. What if Traffic Seven is listening for you to check in? I asked myself as I sped to the garage. Just tell him there were no orders going off, myself answered.

No, it doesn’t seem at all scary now as I sit at my dinning room table on this September morning and remember, but it was terrifying a couple years ago. It was terrifying up to the moment that it happened. The terror, the fear, always seemed to be in anticipation of what was going to happen. What ever happened at the moment that it happened never seemed so bad. The writing seems to bring this into focus. With the writing comes the seeing, though the seeing happens before the writing. Time flows back and forth always into the present.