Robbed of Agency

The next few hours play out with all that they were promised to be. As does the head. As mentioned previously, I have my own potluck to attend, at 3pm, up near Grace Cathedral at my now good friend Michael’s home. I have mentioned Mike before. He’s the big fish San Francisco writer’s agent who I was courting, who hosts a wonderful annual writer’s conference at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, which I attended last winter. It was there that I learned that Mike is a now a big fish RETIRED writer’s agent. (And that I have been sorely remiss in tweeting less than seven times a day.)

Anyway, my contribution to the pot luck is a “local bottle of Pinot noir,” per Michael’s request. This is good, as I do not think the rag tag vagrants Mike has invited into his home for Thanksgiving dinner will appreciate my culinary specialty, burnt toast.

In his retirement, Mike and I have become good friends. Coincidentally, he has also been long time friends with a couple of my peers at Citizen’s Cab. (Including the great Jesus!) And in his younger days, Mike even spent some time as a hack, himself! Our friendship evolved in weekend meets with another, politically active, cabbie named Wade. The meets started out with tossing around ideas on what could be done about San Francisco’s homeless epidemic. Then, they moved into national politics, and ultimately, plans for saving the world. But now, post election, Mike has requested that we never bring up politics again. And I do not blame him.

On a recent phone call, where Mike was setting the new “no politics” rules of our friendship, the question of suicide, and the post-election suicide rate, was brought up more than once. It kind of felt like he was fishing. While I did attend Mike’s Christmas party last year (where I found out he was ALSO a formidable jazz drummer, while sitting in with a trio of friends he’d hired to play jazz standards – before throwing me and my rusty brush work onto the traps to cover), I can’t help but wonder is this Turkey Day invite is on account of Mike being worried about me possibly being suicidal. Hmm. Or, maybe he thinks I’m suicidal on account of all my nervous laughter when discussing the grim future of my chosen vocation as a cab driver. And my lamentations that I am addicted to the life, and see no way out. And that maybe I’ll ride it into homelessness, as many other drivers have done before me, with the caveat that I can transfer my art into writing about homeless life. Hmm.

Or maybe, he just figures that if he were me, a penniless writer, cab driver in the age of Uber, he’d be running to the nearest Walmart to buy a gun and blow his own brains out. Yeah, maybe it’s just projection on Mike’s part. Hmm.

Anyway, as I could not ever do that to my kids, and being the non-practicing Buddhist that I am, I simply do not see suicide as an option. Even with as depressing as the holidays get, driving around in a taxi with it so dead out. (Er, so to speak.)

Still, if Mike being worried about me taking my own life is the price of my ticket to hot turkey, stuffing and gravy, then… WOE IS ME!

 

Noon:
I’m cruising north up Mission, fresh from a blessed hail driving some Mexican dude (just off kitchen duty) out to his girlfriend’s house in the Outer Mission, on the edge of Daly City. This is akin to an airport. (Well, if I hadn’t gotten lost looking for his drop and overcompensated in my offer to reduce the meter, with the thought that he’d look out for me in the tip, which was not forthcoming. Don’t know what happened here. Mexicans ALWAYS tip!) Still, $30. Cash.

But, like I said, I’m cruising north up Mission. And I’m scanning the bus stops on the residential outskirts here, as I head back towards civilization. You never know.

Sure enough, at Mission and Silver, waiting for the bus, a cane rises into the air to hail, backed by the familiar squinting eyes of… Dios Mio! It’s Miguel!

And Citizen’s Cab #26 pulls hard to the curb.  And Miguel canes his way into the back seat.

Miguel, “17th & Capp, driver. How are you today?”

Driver, “Great! Happy Thanksgiving! How is your dad? I drove you to see him a couple weeks ago, to St. Francis. You were bringing him bananas in the hospital.”

Miguel, “Ah, yes.” He squints, looks out of his window and begins speaking out of the corner of his mouth, as if in a trance, again. “My dad died. They treated him like shit in the hospital. They tortured him. None of ’em could speak English, neither. They did not treat him well. They killed him. And they could not communicate with me! And I do not think they cared to. Just like the MUNI drivers, and the people working for the City. Do you ever see Americans working? No. All foreigners. This is why Trump got elected.”

Driver, “Uh, huh. Sorry to hear that. Maybe-”

And as weeks before, Miguel cuts me off mid-sentence, and expounds.

“What did Obama do for the people? For the people? The poor whites that elected him? Nothing. He sold them out to the foreigners; the Asians, Filipinos, the blacks. No, the Democrats fucked up. And now the Republicans get their chance. The people voted for change. To give Trump a shot at change. And we need it.”

And the cab goes silent, as Miguel scrunches his brow, dripping with concern, and looks off into the distance.

We ultimately arrive at Miguel’s city government subsidized apartment building on Capp. And my Hispanic friend hands me up a Paratransit card to pay his $9.55 government subsidized taxi ride, adding, “You make sure you put the tip on there, driver.” The government subsidized fixed 10% tip. “And you have a happy Thanksgiving. Good luck, eh?”

And good luck to you, as well, Miguel. Eh?

 

1:15pm:
I’m in the Mission, again, $15 into the green. And I have maybe time for one more ride before calling it, before home to shower and heading out to my potluck.

I’m rolling south on Valencia, just about to pass the Mission police station. I take note of, and make eye contact with, a twenty-something Mexican guy in a baseball cap, shorts and a sports jersey who is standing out in front of the police station, looking like he just got out. I get a questionable vibe. Sure enough, dude hails me.

And I watch myself, almost as if from outside of my body, as I pull over to the curb. I NEVER get bad vibes. So, I should probably be listening now. It comes to me how Rose always said, back in cab school, to “LISTEN to your instincts!” It was one of her Cab School Commandments. (Sorry, Rose.) But like I said, I’m about to call it, only fifteen bucks into the green.

Pablo gets in back. And in a soft-spoken, polite voice, “17th & Folsom, please.”

Hmm. “Please”? Maybe I was wrong. Good. But, what gives? Pablo could walk to 17th & Folsom from the police station in like five minutes. Whatever.

Anyway, despite the “please,” I get nervous with the classical playing over the radio, Camille Saint-Saens: The Swan. I feel like a mark, with classical wafting through the cab. A pussy. And I do NOT want to be grabbed. So, I switch it to 91.1FM – KCSM. Jazz. Though, I’m not so sure that Stan Getz earns me any more street cred.

Only blocks away from Pablo’s pickup, and only one more from his drop, we come to a red at 17th & South Van Ness. The meter reads $4.60.

All at once, the peace and calm in the cab is broken by the sudden jerk of the back door handle, and Pablo throwing open his door and DARTING from 26, as he BOLTS OFF into the parking lot of the Whiz Burgers drive-in joint, here at the corner.

Stunned, the light turns green, as I gawk back at the rear passenger door he left open. And Pablo slows to a walk, as he crosses the lot of Whiz Burgers and looks back at me smiling.

A wave of anger overcomes me, not so much at Pablo’s ditching the fare, but more so at him leaving the door open behind in the process. So, I GUN my taxi around the corner, shutting the door with the force of the acceleration. And with renewed verve, Pablo again TAKES OFF running, now DEEPER into the lot, BEHIND Whiz.

And Driver GIVES CHASE!!! Hitting the “POWER” button on his trusty Prius (yes, there’s a “POWER” button on a Prius), before CAREENING into the lot in HOT PURSUIT of this taxi disrespecting SCOFFLAW!!

Once having rounded the drive-in on TWO TIRES, Driver CATCHES Pablo in mid SCUFFLE, SCRATCHING to scale the 8-foot high wooden fence behind Whiz, to make his ESCAPE!

But Pablo knows NOT with WHOM HE IS DEALING!!

Driver SLAMS into Pablo’s LEGS!!! Pinning the CROOK against the fence! And PABLO SCREAMS IN PAIN!! As Driver retrieves his .45 from the glove box , JUMPS from his seat, and DARTS in front of his taxi for, um, WORDS with his trapped “passenger.”

Driver COCKS his pistol and PRESSES it HARD into the temple of his SWEATING fare, now PLEADING in broken English for his LIFE!!

Pablo, “PLLLLEASSSEE!! PLLLEASSSEEEE!!! SIR!! I GAHT NOOO MONEEE!!!”

Driver, GUN BUTTING his passenger in the BACK of the SKULL, protests, “MY METER SAYS FOUR DOLLARS! AND SIXTY CENTS!!! Will that be CASH!? Or, CREDIT!!!

Pablo, “BUT!!”

BLAM!!! BLAM!!!

Driver puts TWO caps into the BACK of Pablo’s knees!!! And then JUMPS back into Citizen’s Cab #26 and THROWS it into reverse, HARD! Before SCREECHING to a HALT!! And Driver JUMPS out ONCE MORE and RUNS BACK to his passenger, who is now WRITHING on the PAVEMENT, SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER!!

And Driver repeats, “CASH!? Or, CREDIT!!!”

But Pablo is too out of it to answer. So, Driver riffles through Pablo’s pants in search of his wallet.

SCORE!!

But, alas, Pablo was right! No cash! Ah! But, what is THIS!!

A prepaid Visa debit card!

Driver SQUATS down and SHAKES the debit card in Pablo’s face, as Driver lifts his head up to see by YANKING Pablo’s dark, shoulder length locks. And Driver pulls his Square credit card reader-enabled iPhone from his pocket and readies to swipe Pablo’s card, before ONCE MORE COCKING the HAMMER of his .45 and PRESSING it HARD… but now into Pablo’s GROIN!!!

Driver, “AND WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO ADD A TIP TO THAT, SIR!!!”

 

Oh!

Uh… sorry!

Um, that’s not QUITE how it played out… Really, after Pablo ditched, and Driver GUNNED 26 around the corner, Driver then SLOWED to just ADDRESS Pablo, only YELLING out of his open shotgun window,

“YOU COULD HAVE AT LEAST SHUT THE DOOR, YOU FUCKING LOSER!!!”

Well…

I guess it’s time to call it a day. You think? Yeah, It’s time to go grab some turkey.

Gobble, gobble, folks!

_____

Photo by Alex SacK

www.AlexSacK.com

Check out Alex’s Book 1 – San Francisco TAXI: A 1st Week in the ZEN Life…
& Book 2 San Francisco TAXI: Life in the Merge Lane…

And Follow on Facebook and Twitter for your non-practicing Buddhist one-offs.

Alex Sack

Alex Sack, born 1970, is a taxi driver who grew up in the Washington D.C. suburbs of Maryland. He attended several different colleges and universities around the D.C./Baltimore region as a music major for 4 & 1/2 years before quitting - pre-diploma - to the horror of his father. He tried his hand as a professional musician/songwriter seeing him through travels domiciled in New York City’s East Village, Los Angeles (where he scored a few songs on The Disney Channel's 'Even Stevens') and San Francisco - where he's ultimately put down roots. Alex is a single dad to two boys, currently ages 14 and (a hormonal) 16. His post-natal fallback occupation as Operations Assistant at a start-up clean-tech engineering consultancy came to a sudden end with the one-two punch of the owner’s fatal skiing accident in Tahoe and the subsequent downturn in the economy.This - and an acquired nervous twitch to cubicle work - has led to his latest job...

Latest posts by Alex Sack (see all)