Driving Cab: Chapter Twenty

Driving Cab: Chapter Twenty

“Here it is mid-November,” Rader told me. “I have a position to offer you, a position that you desperately need. You have a family to support. Yet you don’t sell yourself at all. There is a huge surplus of teachers today. If you can’t compete in the job market, if you can’t work up enough enthusiasm to earn yourself a teaching position, how are you going to get up an enthusiastic classroom approach?’

“I think you can relate to kids without a lot of outward show,” I said while my feelings made me doubt the truth of my words.

“Your students have to hear you before they can learn anything. The learning process requires that you get their attention. Today’s classroom student needs a very stimulating and sophisticated prototype to identify with. The student needs to be charged with enthusiasm to learn. I’d think you would know. You’ve been out of work long enough. In today’s market you need good interviewing traits to acquire a teaching position. With a wife and family to provide for I’d think you’d be able to create a little more spark in yourself. There are numerous good books on the subject,” he told me.

“Well, it’s very difficult for me to project something that I don’t feel. I suppose I could work a little harder at it, though,” I told Rader.

“You don’t have to apologize to me. You don’t owe me anything,” Rader returned.

I knew he was right. There I sat apologizing for not being the man he thought I should be. I bowed my way out of the office like a child who had been given just one more chance. What de f----’s wrong wid me? I asked myself. Why didn’t I tell him what I really feel? The dirty bastard. Why didn’t I tell him to shove de job? Why didn’t I tell him dat it’s his phony kind’a thinking, his phony enthusiasm dat has messed up de whole system? F- - - his God damned job. I wouldn’t work for dem if it was the last job on earth, I said in one part of my mind.

But in another part of my mind I was saying, He’s right… He’s right. I couldn’t even look him in de eye…

As I drive through the wash rack, I realize that it’s some eight months later and I’m still thinking about that interview. I’m still afraid to laugh. Still squeezing the life out of my steering wheel. “What’s wrong wid me? What de hell’s wrong wid me? I ask myself.

I stop at the phone to call in going out. The dispatcher sends me to an address in the West Acorn Project. Turning out of the garage and into the weed flowering street I try to get into this summer night. The traffic whizzes by on the Cypress Street Overpass while I wait for the green. Why do I have to play dere games? Why can’t I jus’ be content to drive de cab and do some writing? Why do I have to find a teaching job? I ask myself.

The light changes. I drive in the shadow of the overpass toward my fare’s address. Why do I continue to play de games? I answer their questions. I say de right things. I still don’t fake enthusiasm, but I don’t level wid dem either. I draw up short, hold back. Dat’s the thing, holding back. I hold back wid my foster brother. I hold back wid Alex. I hold back with de principals and assistant superintendents. What does it take to quit holding back? Why can’t I tell de mother’s what I really believe? I tell dem that communication is the key to teaching. You have to know the kid. He has to know you. You have to let ‘em know dey can trust and depend on you, love you. But, I don’t tell dem dat being honest is being honest. Being honest wid yourself. How can anyone love you, trust you, if you tell them half lies? And how can you tell the truth if you don’t know it yourself? How can you communicate with another human being if you haven’t examined the depths of your own soul? Can a student depend on someone who lies to him about life? Can he trust someone who pretends that God and sex doesn’t exist? Can he love someone who pretends that knowledge is more important than understanding? Can he love you if you teach him that getting ahead is more important than seeing where you’re at? Can a stuffed shirt bake an apple pie?

I laugh and tell myself, I’m right. Henry Miller is right. The things they tell me mean so much don’t matter! I feel it in my bones that I’m right where I ought to be. This is the place for me, driving cab, being a writer.

Parking in front of a yellow and green concrete building that looks just like an army barracks, I look for my address. The smell of dinner assaults my nose as I see that half of the silver plastic numbers are off some doors. I can’t find the number I’m looking for. I knock at a torn screen door and peek into a kitchen that looks a lot like the one that I grew up in. That’s funny I thought that this was the front of the house, I tell myself. A small brown skinned five or six-year-old girl peeks through the screen.

“What you want?” she asks. I tell her I’m looking for an address. “What number?” she asks.

I give her the number. Her older sister comes to the door. She opens it and steps outside. She’s wearing a pink fluffy bathrobe. She points to a door across the street and tells me that’s it. “Mrs. Bowen call for de cab a half hour ago,” she tells me and slips back inside.

When I knock at Mrs. Bowen’s door, I’m at the front of her house.

Dat’ s a funny set-up, I tell myself. No one answers my knock, so I knock a little louder. Still no answer. I knock again.

“She already done left. Henry took her,” says a voice from behind the door.

“O.K., thanks, “ I tell the voice. Damn it to hell, I tell myself.

At the Greyhound, the stands are filled. I circle the streets of downtown Oakland looking for an empty stand. The streets are crowded with white-collar workers, and young executives hurrying to the bus stops and parking lots. Traffic is bumper to bumper. I wait at the light in front of Capwell’s and watch a swarm of sales people burst from the wide glass doors. There’s a cab on the stand there. There’s one at Trailways too. I turn right toward the Lake. Christ, it will take forever to get around the block. You’d think wid all dese people someone would want a cab, I tell myself as I step on the gas to cut of a guy coming out of the lot in front of me. As I turn off Twentieth on to Franklin, a flood of secretaries comes from the Kaiser Building. I take a long look at short skirts, long legs and laughing faces, and let two late modal cars slip in front of me.