Driving Cab: Chapter Thirty-Seven

Driving Cab: Chapter Thirty-Seven

When I turn onto San Pablo, I see four yellows on the Greyhound stands. Should I sit here behind them or head down to One-O-One? I ask myself as I pull to the curb. I turn up the volume on my radio, but hear nothing but static. There are a dozen or so people in front of the Greyhound doors. Others are hurrying by in both directions. A well-dressed girl in her early twenties burst from the Greyhound wall toward my cab. Humm… not bad, I tell myself as she opens the front door of a late model car parked along side me. I watch her lean over to kiss hello the man behind the wheel.

Turning back toward the Greyhound, I see seven or eight people coming through the doors. The fourth out driver hurries to his cab and starts it. By the time my engine is running, the first three cabs have fares. I pull in second out. An old woman with a brown shopping bag walks up to the first out cab. He pulls off and I take his place. A kid in army uniform walks toward the curb and looks both ways.

Son of a bitch, I tell myself as the watch salesman and one of his buddies fast step toward me. “Take me down to Twelfth and Broadway,” he tells me as he and his partner slide into the back seat.

“Twelfth, and Broadway,” I say as I flip on the meter. The hustler and his partner are deep into a conversation that started outside my cab. I strain to hear as I pull into traffic. Something about some dude, Charles, who done him dirty. I make the light on Nineteenth and steal a glimpse at the watch salesman. His head is turned toward his friend. I see taut neck muscles, a dirty frayed shirt collar, and bumpy stubble on his black chin, eyes that are wrinkled and drawn. He doesn’t look near as bad as he did the other night, I tell myself as I listen to the monotone of frustration in his voice.

He doesn’t even remember me. I recall how mad I was at myself when he walked away, how angry I was that I didn’t stand up to him. And he doesn’t even remember.

When I stop at Twelfth and Broadway, the meter reads seventy cents. My fare hands me a dirty dollar bill and waits for the change. He leaves my cab without a glance toward me. He and his partner lock step away still into their cutting of Charles.

As I head toward Jack London Square, I dig on the street scene, low class bars, The Buffalo, Ties. At the place on Ninth where they cash paychecks, there’s a line of inner city people waiting. A dozen or more bad looking dudes are hanging out in front of the liqueur store. Once I pass Sixth Street, there’s a dramatic change. Clancy’s, The Overland House, The Elegant Farmer, The Sea Wolf, The First and Last Chance flash by. Well dressed making it people out for an evening of entertainment walk the street down here. Shapely legs and firm young breasts, laughing college kids, young executives, with maybe a writer or two sprinkled among them.

Just as One-O-One comes into sight, the dispatcher gives off an order. “Jack London Inn, lobby,” he says in a clear crisp voice. Lucky, dog, I tell myself as I pull in behind the first out driver. He nods his head good-bye, pulls out, and hangs a U. I spot, lean back, and roll down my window. How many guys wouldn’t give their right arm to be sitting here? I ask myself. The street is empty and quiet. I think of the Bay water a hundred yards away and wonder if I shouldn’t get out for a little walk. Naw, better stick by the radio. The laughter of a couple white-coated parking lot attendants draws my attention. Four businessmen spill out of the Elegant Farmer and bring their loud talk toward my cab. They pass me up and head for the parking lot across the street. I reach for my copy of Plexus and open it.

In a couple of sentences, I’m deep into Miller’s description of his dream of a childhood street. He speaks of the forces beyond our control, of the rhythm which guides man’s destiny. He talks of the slow motion eyes of childhood, the surrender and bliss that is so much a part of that early life, the angelic eye that allows man to reenter that mysterious world from which he sprang. He writes of communication through dreams, the restoration of that timeless state when past, present, and future are one. He describes the intimate presence of flowers, of birds, of stones.

His words are so powerful that I close the book to reflect on them. The world really is one. There are powers beyond our own that play a part in our lives. How to enter that world? How to enter it is the question. To bring all time, past, present, and future into now.

Getting into the flow and rhythm … letting go… accepting without question that which is given you… Living in the joy and extravagance of every single moment. That’s it. That’s it.

The dispatcher breaks into my reverie and gives me a fare at the Bell and Bow. It’s an old couple who are going to their apartment house across from Lake Merritt. I go from there to Two-O-Two and find three cabs on the one cab stand. Figuring there’s nothing moving anyway, I park fourth out and walk over to buy myself an ice cream cone. When I come back to my cab, the stand is empty. I spot, and finish my cone. In a few minutes, the Preacher, a born again Christian, pulls in behind me. I think how little he practices what he preaches. He’s a high booking driver who takes at least twenty-five radio orders a night, turns down short trips, and steals a fare whenever it’s safe to do so. He carries his Bible on his dashboard every night.

“Doing any good?” the Preacher asks as he opens my door and slides in beside me.

“Not really,” I answer as I move my clipboard to make room for him. “Been out an hour and I haven’t booked four dollars yet.”

“I got around twenty bucks,” the Preacher tells my with a proud smile on his lips.” San Leandro from the blood bank, and an Army Base from the Port.”

He’s wearing low cut shinny black dress shoes, blue dress pants, a white shirt, and wide tie. His clean-shaven face shines without a wrinkle. He has the look of a guy who never steps over the line unless it is perfectly safe to do so. “Not even a grocery order over here in the last half hour,” I tell him and wonder how he ever got oriented to the Church.

“Everything filled downtown. You know, sometimes you can pull an airport off here around six o’clock,” he tells me and goes into a description of the last three airport trips that he pulled off Two-O-Two. I nod my head that I’m listening and wonder what his study of the Bible has done for him.