She was having none of it and grew angrier by the minute. On the short hop up South Winooski, the man in the front kept trying to engage one of the girls in the back. He had told me the exact address - three times, in fact - but I simply couldn't make it out with his pronounced accent. The backseat customers were going to South Winooski my seatmate was bound for Shelburne Road. All five of them were drunk and unhappy, which I had already identified as the theme of the evening. My last fare of the night was a tall African man in the front, whom I matched up with four folks - three girls and a guy - who squeezed into the back. The way they had been out cold, I thought I was going to need the Jaws of Life. I hate getting stiffed, but I was thrilled to see them out of the cab. We're home."Īfter some coaxing, prodding and poking, Bart ultimately dragged Walter out of his seat, and the two of them staggered up the street. Opening the door, he said, "Walter, g'your ass up. Suddenly conscious, Bart popped out of the cab and stumbled around to the other side. Given their extreme level of intoxication, I knew it would be fruitless, and I might as well just skip the song and dance. My hope of getting paid for this fare was fading fast. That was a little white lie, but at this point I just wanted these guys successfully extracted from my cab so I could head back downtown and make some actual money. "Yeah, right," he said, and promptly returned to his golden slumbers. Reaching over the seat, I shook Bart's leg. Glancing up at the rearview mirror, I saw the two of them were out like lights. When I turned toward Patchen Road at Al's French Frys, I called out, "So lemme know when we get to your place." On the ride up the hill to Williston Road, the guys in the back were quiet as a couple of dormice, which is how I like my customers, especially drunk ones. "Yeah, I got money, I got money," he replied in a slurry, bored tone. "Bart, you got money on you?" she asked one guy, the incrementally more sober of the pair. "Do they got money?" I asked - always the 64-thousand-dollar question. As the boys plopped into the back seat, she asked me, at my window, to drive her friends to Patchen Road. The guys were clearly drunk - no ambiguity there - but the girl appeared alert. My very next fare was a girl and two guys in front of Nectar's. I couldn't tell how she took my slight admonition, but I couldn't let that pass without setting her straight. The main thing, I mean, the overriding principle, is not in the cab. I didn't like the sound of that, and said, "Well, speaking on behalf of cabdrivers everywhere, do not wait if this happens again. "It took a lot to hold that in until we got off the highway. Well, on second thought, she is vomiting al fresco, so maybe not so much."ĭeed done, the regurgitator returned to her seat, and I passed her a complimentary napkin. I said, "Man, I couldn't even tell she was drunk. I mean, we definitely hit a few bars, but still." While she was out there, her friend said, "I had no idea she was feeling queasy. I shot over to the shoulder, where she leapt out and did her thing by the side of the road. The instant we turned off at the Williston exit, the blond said, "Pull over. If the plows had been deployed to salt it, I couldn't tell. "Roger who?" the blond asked, stumped by my archaic lingo. I beg to differ, I thought, but said, "Roger, wilco." "Zephyr Road, please," the blond requested. Two girls, a tall blond and short brunette, hailed me and jumped into the back seat. (Like many ER nurses and cops I've met, I am a firm believer that the city itself has a communal personality, complete with mood swings.) And even the relatively jolly fares were acting weird. It was one of those nights when everyone seemed ornery and dour. Not just negotiating the treacherous roads, but contending with the customers.
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