Monday
Too damn early…
I’m in the Citizen’s Cab lot and run into Crooks, of last week’s fame – cab driver turned “rideshare” after losing his taxi permit for Paratransit fraud who last Saturday night totaled his sub-prime loan Uber Camry in a very public T-bone collision with a pink mustachioed Lyft “rideshare”.
(Gulp!) I really hope he did not read last week’s blog!
Sack, “Crooks! Waz up, mane! Hey! I heard about that Lyft, um, running the red and you T-boning it. Dude was taken to General in an ambulance, eh? And you went on your own? You ok?”
Crooks, “Ye-ah, I ok. My wife lettin’ me use ‘er Hyundai ’til it all git figur’d owt. Jus’ ‘ere washin’ ‘er cahr.”
I see behind Crooks stands a silver Hyundai SUV all beaded with water, with a suction-cupped phone and “U” signage visible in the windshield, over by the Citizen’s Cab hose and vacuum station… and right next to the new-ish sign acknowledging California’s drought (and increased commercial water bill) that states:
“NO WASHING PERSONAL VEHICLES. $50 FINE!!”
Sack, “How’s business working for Uber these days?”
Crooks, “Oh, mahn. Iz HARD. Too manee ah us ahn tha road! Buht Iss gittin’ by. Jus’ gottah werk 18-howr shif’s iz ahll… compar’d ta whin Iz drivin’ ah cab.”
Sack, “Wow! When do you sleep?”
Crooks, “HA! I don’!! Hey! Howz ur boyz?”
Sack, “Aww, they’re ok. Well, the 13-year-old, anyway. He still loves me. The 15-year-old’s been giving me trouble, though. Thanks for asking… Hey. Glad to see you’re ok. Good luck out there!”
Whew! I’m guessing he did NOT read last week’s blog.
5:32am:
I’m caffeinated, and cruising the Castro looking to break the ice in the heavy (nowadays unusual) San Francisco fog.
As I await the green at Castro and Market, I note the surreal sight of a young, dirty homeless guy in ripped-up clothing at Officer Jane Warner Plaza at the intersection here feeding an ardent chorus of pigeons. It strikes me how kindred they are.
The light turns, and I roll north up the Castro hill…
A few blocks up, at Duboce, a 20-something white dude jumps out into the street from the bus stop to make himself visible in the dark morning mist, to flag me. Dude looks dressed, with a white sport jacket and stylish red scarf, like he’s coming from a night of partying. I pull over and Party leans into my shotgun window with,
“Thanks for stopping, buddy! You take debit cards?”
Buddy, “Sure. Hop in.”
Party, “Great! You’re a life saver! We’re headed up near Twin Peaks. I’ll direct you.”
Well, back in cab school, there was a Rose (cab school teacher) Commandment that you NEVER drive without first ascertaining an exact drop location. Otherwise, a driver might be left to meander around aimlessly for hours with some loser in back who never intends to remit. Or, one might end up in a dead-end alley facing the wrong way with a gun aimed at the back of your head. (However, Rose also instructed that whenever alleys are involved, a driver should back in… and keep one foot on the gas.) Anyway, I seem to have a proclivity to tempt fate. But this dark and foggy scene on these early deserted streets kind of has me thinking.
Ah, what the hell, Party seems nice enough.
A few blocks on, as a moody classical etude wafts over the radio setting the scene, the plot suddenly thickens…
Party, “Hey! I got a van up there that needs a jump. Can you help? My friend’s there. He’s got cables.”
Hmm. Well, maybe Party will look out for me. Wait… “Friend”? Whatever. It’s early and quiet. Why not help? Doh! I just remembered, the last time I tried to help jump someone I couldn’t get 137’s hood open! (Although, later dispatch did radio me with the alert that I’d been spotted on the road driving around with an unlatched hood.) It should also be considered that these hybrid cars don’t make it easy to find the positive and negative terminals you need to hook up to the jumpers. There’s no standard car battery in your face. Well, it has been a while, but there were a few mornings back at the Citizen’s Cab lot where I was witness to the old 137 getting jumped. I think I got this, if I can get “new” 137’s hood unlatched, that is.
We climb high up 17th Street amidst the thick grey soup, as it gets thicker and greyer with every block that Party and I encroach further up into this quiet Eucalyptus encompassed, suburban-ish hood. Party ultimately directs me into an illegal U-turn on Clarendon, to then come around to face the wrong way on this two-lane, median-cordoned thoroughfare, to position my cab face-to-face and jump ready to a well kept Dodge Caravan that’s parked along the curb here adjacent a forest of Eucalypti. And as I maneuver, a brawny white dude in a black T-shirt and blue jeans jumps out from the minivan… Friend.
Friend (with no B.S.), “I’ve got cables. Pop your hood.”
And Party hands me up his Visa, saying to charge $15 on the $9.55 meter, as he gets out to greet Friend. I simultaneously swipe Party’s card and reach under the dash to pull a protruding raw metal cable that unlatches the hood – long since detached from its facilitating plastic handle. (Ah, the cabbie life.)
Thankfully, Friend seems to know his shit. I get out as he, too, pops his hood… to reveal an immaculately clean engine with a newish-looking battery. It is only now that I wonder if I should be sketched. It does NOT look like Party and Friend should be needing a jump!
Buddy, “Uhhh. So… Why do you need a jump? Your engine and battery look pretty good.”
Friend, “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. I used to do this for a living. I just fell asleep with the key in the ignition. It drained the battery.”
Ah! I saw that on an episode of Breaking Bad! Sure enough, Friend masterfully works his way around lifting the cover to 137’s fuse box to find a little red plastic clip that flips open to expose a small metal positive terminal, before Friend then goes on to clip the black cable to some negative terminal out of my view on the other side of 137’s engine.
It’s become clear that Friend is a newly-homeless, indigenous San Franciscan now living out of his minivan; likely the product of an Ellis Act eviction in Mayor Ed Lee’s assault on The City.
Anyway, I rev the engine for a bit to charge Party and Friend’s minivan. And Party turns over the engine from behind the wheel.
“CHUG-CHUG-CHUG!”
Nope.
“CHUG-CHUG-CHUG!”
Nope.
“CHUG-CHUG-CHUG-CHUG-VVVVRRROOOMM!!!!”
The third time’s the charm. And the ice is broken.
I roll…
6am:
I’m approaching the mostly black Fillmore (Jazz) district driving north on Fillmore, when a young black dude with cool shoulder length dreadlocks and donning an orange and yellow reflective work vest steps out from the bus stop at Golden Gate to flag me. (What would I do without MUNI?)
I do ‘Accept’. This is a great chance to appease my white guilt and play diplomat on behalf of the taxi-driving community that gets so much flack for dissing black would-be riders. Well, actually, it’s pretty much the Middle Eastern drivers who don’t pick up blacks.
Really, I jest about appeasing my white guilt. Green is the only color I see.
Dreadlocks, “Hey. Thanks. I’m going to 505 Parnassus.”
Cabbie, “UCSF it is! Hey. Are you guys going to be doing work in the road up there? That could be a mess for traffic. Traffic is bad enough there at the hospital as it is! (Heh, heh.)”
Dreadlocks, “Oh, no. We’re laying cement on the roof. And man, it’s tough work. It’s been way hot! How do you like driving a cab? Do you make money? If you don’t mind I ask…”
Cabbie, “Well, it’s been tougher lately. But I’m getting away with it. I just have to stay out longer now, with the streets flooded with all those “rideshares” and all. Why? You thinking about driving a taxi?”
Dreadlocks, “Well, I was thinking about driving for Uber. I heard they help you get a car.”
Cabbie, “Dude, I would seriously NOT do that! You become a slave for them paying off the high-interest loan as they keep taking a higher and higher percentage of your meter. (Doh! Did I just say “slave”? Oops.) And you’re totally dick out in the wind uninsured, despite what you may read about it. It’s a huge scam. I was just listening to a forum on NPR about Uber and Lyft where all these drivers were calling-in sounding really desperate, saying how they’re all indentured servants now and making no money. There’s even a big protest set for later today at Uber’s Headquarters. Mayor Ed Lee has the U.S. Conference of Mayors in town and he’s showing off the Uber HQ to some of the more backwoods of them, trying to say how great it is for The City. Total B.S! You should think about driving a taxi for real. It’s pretty cool. You can still make a living.”
Dreadlocks, “Wow. I didn’t know all that. Thanks for the head’s up.”
We roll up on the UCSF medical complex on the (still) foggy Parnassus hill. And Dreadlocks throws me $11 cash on the $9.55 fare, and wishes me well. Likewise, I wish Dreadlocks well as he exits curbside, with,
“Stay cool on the roof. Steve Jobs says it’s gonna be a hot one!
Later…
The morning has started kicking-in with a few back-to-back, nondescript Financial shuttles (compliments of the Cabulous app) as rush hour advances. Although, something seems to be in the air… Half of these fares were badly beset coughing and sneezing in back! Thankfully, as the sun’s come up and started burning off the fog, the ensuing humidity’s provided me a discreet cover for rolling with all of 137’s windows down!
Yes, it is turning out to be another absolutely gorgeous San Francisco day! (Well, more so than usual.) And yesterday was like, as I went paddle boating with my younger boy in Golden Gate Park at Stow Lake. (Can you say “Turtles“?) It’s kind of breathtaking. The California sun on these sorts of days is so ethereal, clear, bright, and with a yellowish filter that runs awash over the dry, golden landscape. It’s the stuff of other-worldliness, the origin (I would argue) of West Coast flakes and their infamous flakiness, as all seemingly float about the world as if navigating a mythic hallucination. (Okay, done with the poetry.)
8:43am:
I’m headed west up Market fresh from a Financial shuttle, cruising my (now long habitual) break from downtown’s more potentially lucrative exit out up Sutter, through Union Square. This “west up Market” tactic rarely bears fruit, as for several blocks it passes through the crime-ridden Civic Center/Tenderloin corridor. Not much disposable income there… Just scenes like the one I AM WITNESSING NOW!
Wow!! There’s a horde of police and fire and EMT vehicles zooming-in from every angle, with sirens blaring, to the intersection here at 7th & Market! And there’s a large gawking crowd gathered around one EMT giving aggressive chest compressions to an unresponsive young black guy who’s laying shirtless on the sidewalk outside of Carl’s Jr! The scene it looks pretty serious, and sad. Such is city life, I guess.
I drive on…
To find only one block up, at 8th, there’s yet another scene strewn with fire and police, and EMTs donning blue latex gloves doing business with a handcuffed black dude sitting on the sidewalk with his back to the wall of the Orpheus Theatre as he’s screaming bloody murder at his detainers!
I drive on…
Noon:
“Cha-ching! – 122 Central. Tammy. iPhone.”
I hit the ‘Accept’ button on my Cabulous dash-mounted phone. I’m just over in the Haight, on the other side of the Panhandle from this NoPa direct-from-mobile app hail.
I navigate around the park, head up Stanyan, and make it over to 122 Central in no time… to find a stocky Tammy waiting out in front with long pretty brown hair, caked in WAY too much make-up, and spilling two absolutely HUGE tits out of her tight black wife-beater, as she’s all caught up in a very animated cell conversation.
Tammy gets in back, covers her phone, and quietly directs, “Hayes & Octavia, please,” as the cab instantly fills with the overbearing onslaught of that unnamed insect repellant perfume that some chicks seem to bathe themselves in. And her sickly-sweet scent dominates the taxi, despite the fact that 137’s windows are all rolled completely down!
Hey! Tammy’s smell has jogged my memory… I’ve driven Tammy before! Like a year ago! She was living just around the corner back then, literally, on Hayes at Central. Ohhhh! She was telling Wise Cabbie at the time about her roommate problems. (Heh, heh.) It turns out when you take on a room you’ve scored via Craigslist to move in with some random stranger roommate of the opposite sex whose name is the sole name on the lease, it is probably NOT a good idea to get drunk and fuck said roommate on the very first night. (Go figure.)
Anyway, Tammy does not seem to recognize me. Maybe she’s just distracted on her cell?
I am fly on the wall.
“Yeah, Jade. I need to move, AGAIN! Can you believe it?? But not as fast THIS time, thank GOD!! And this time, I’ll be moving in with someone I KNOW! I’ll use my network. Uh, huh… Yea! NO!! I will NOT hook up with my roommate this time!! I SWEAR!!”
Tammy and I ride most of the rest of the few blocks down to Hayes Valley with yours truly continuing to play fly-on-the-wall to Tammy’s vacuous cell conversation, before she ultimately hangs up and turns to address me with the same big welcoming smile that she did this time last year.
“How are you today, driver? It’s a beautiful day!”
Driver, “Yes, yes it is! I am well, thank you. I guess you’re in transition looking for an apartment, eh? How’s that going in this crazy city?”
Tammy (smiling warm), “Yes! Rents are INSANE! I think I can only live way out by the beach. But I’m staying positive. I had a bad roommate situation recently and don’t plan on doing that again! Thankfully, I have some time to look this time.”
Driver, “Well, you seem pretty positive. Everything happens for a reason. I’m sure there’s a place for you.”
Tammy pounces on this wisdom with a huge “YES!” and a BIG smile, as she awkwardly closes her eyes, to not meet mine in the rear view. But she goes on to punctuate her approval of my proclamation by leaning forward and violently shaking my headrest, which causes her two MASSIVE mobambas to jiggle all vigorous and loose inside her low-cut wife-beater. (Like a bad train wreck, it is hard to turn away from this sight.)
Right on cue, we reach drop. And Tammy jumps out of 137 while gleefully repeating my “everything happens for a reason” platitude, as I plug her $6.80 fare into my Cabulous phone… and roll!
1:25pm:
All in all, it’s been a pretty steady day. No mind blowing rides fare-wise, but The Tortoise and the Hare. And I am the Tortoise!
While doing the rounds cruising up Fillmore through the Jazz District, again, I catch an awkward flag at Turk. It’s some olive-skinned young dude who, despite having sealed the contract by way of my affirming thumb’s up from across the red, keeps his arm extended out to flag all the way up until the point where I’ve gotten the green, crossed the intersection and pulled up alongside of him. O-kaayyy… And even then, Silvio stares off kind of blank and autistic-like, before he actually opens the rear door and climbs in.
Silvio proves a man of few words.
“1140 Mason.”
We drive in silence, but for some great jazz-fusion jamming out on KDFC 90.3, S.F.’s jazz station.
Silvio’s heading over to Cathedral Hill at the edge of Chinatown, just a block over from the Fairmont Hotel. I don’t get a bad vibe from him, but something does smell quite off. I’m not getting a lot social behavior oozing from this guy. But, whatever.
Seven minutes later…
We arrive outside of 1140 Mason, a small-ish apartment building. And Silvio finally breaks radio silence, as he jumps out with,
“I need to go up and get money from Nana. I’ll be right back, okay?”
Now, Rose would turn over in her cab school if she knew that I let this guy out of the taxi without paying, or any kind of verifiable collateral for that matter – meaning not a sealed cardboard box with the promise it contains a new iPhone, or some such. But it all just happened so fast! And my mouth is still agape, finding the words to respond to Silvio’s rhetorical question.
Anyway, it’s not that big an apartment building. And I actually do not get the sense that Silvio’s ditching.
Five minutes later…
The door of Silvio’s building opens once again… And slowly, out pops a very skinny old Italian woman donning fuzzy pink bedroom slippers, ratty blue wool leg warmers, thick black-framed glasses and a large and loose flower-patterned mumu. She descends the front steps of her building carefully, shuffling her feet and grabbing the railing with one hand, as Nana tightly clenches a thick white envelope with the other.
And with a full bore scowl, Nana approaches the shotgun window of my taxi while mumbling nervously, seemingly to herself. As she nears, I can suddenly make out through her subdued (if not loud) breath that Nana’s rant appears to be addressing me! Although, Nana never actually makes eye contact with me, or even seems to be expecting a response! (Not that she’s leaving any room for one.)
“He can’t keep doing this to me. Oh, I don’t have the money for this. He doesn’t ask when he takes taxis. Doesn’t he know money’s tight? He takes taxis all the time! What am I to do? Oh, that grandson. Oh. It’s not your fault. No. Not your fault. But I can not afford this! It’s not you. No. It’s not you. It’s him. It’s him. It’s not you.”
And the lament continues, with Nana shaking her head as her hand sorts trembling through the white envelope that I can now see is full of crisp, new one dollar bills.
Then, Nana does actually look up to address me, as she peers over her thick black glasses,
“Ohhh, how much?”
Driver, “Uh, $11.75.”
I feel kind of bad. I consider giving Nana some kind of break…
Nah.
Nana ultimately counts out $13 in ones, while continuing on with her loud under-the-breath rant, before handing in my bounty through the 137’s open shotgun window.
And this time proper, Nana looks up to address me,
“Sorry. It’s not you. It’s him.”
And Nana turns to shuffle off back towards the steps of her apartment building, mumbling on and shaking her head, as I mark my waybill.
Uh, yeah. I know it’s “not me”.
2:05pm:
I’m mid-ride transporting an older Russian paratransit couple from their subsidized home over in the Fillmore to the Social Security office down in SOMA, to the very green federal building where U.S. Rep. Nancy Pelosi has an office. It’s actually named the George H.W. Bush Federal Building, but no one here in San Fransicko calls it that, of course. (Although, a few years ago, a proposition narrowly failed to rename San Francisco’s sewage treatment plant the “George W. Bush Memorial Sewage Plant”.) Anyway, my Russians are Citizen’s Cab regulars. I scored the ride through dispatch. And my passengers speak very little, if no, English. But the wife is always very warm to me and lights up when she sees that I’m their driver. And the feeling is mutual.
We ride in silence on account the language barrier, but for a few smiles exchanged via the rear view. As I turn down Hyde in the Loin, approaching the cross over Market, I wonder what the scene is like over at nearby 10th & Market, Uber’s Headquarters. The taxi protest of the U.S Conference of Mayors tour of Uber’s HQ ought to be ramping up about now.
I had designed some pretty graphic signs on Saturday night that I sent electronically to Kinko’s to get printed for Christian to pick up. He said he was going Sunday morning to the companion Uber breakfast for the Mayor’s at the Union Square Hilton that Uber sponsored; presumably so the mayors could pick up campaign checks and get versed in Uber P.R.-speak, a la “jobs”, “choice”, and of course, “innovation”. (This, despite the fact that Uber stole the app third-hand from Cabulous.)
As the Kremlin and I are waiting for the Green, at McAllister, I suddenly hear a tugging at my taxi’s back door. I turn to look.
Hey! It’s Christian! He’s juggling a Kinko’s box while trying to surreptitiously get in the back of 137!
Christian just starts to open my aghast passengers’ door, when he all at once realizes that I am “with fare”. In my side view, I see Christian quickly turn red at the realization, before I begin yelling out of my window, to seal the deal…
“Hey! You drug addicted vagrant! Get the hell away from my cab! Can’t you tattooed deviants get a job?! Go shoot up somewhere else, loser!!”
Oops. I check the rear view. My Russians are horrified. I laugh nervously and explain, praying that they understand this small bit of English.
“Oh! (Heh, heh.) I know him. He’s my friend. He drives for Citizen’s Cab!”
And… Wife seems to understand…and smile, relieved. Wife parrots back sweetly,
“Ah! Drihve… Cit-izen’s… Cahb… Ha!”
I guess Christian’s on his way to the protest. I think I’ll drive back up Market post-drop, see what’s what.
Five minutes later…
I’ve dropped my Russians at 7th & Mission, and rolled $11 richer via Paratransit. It was a quick jaunt over to the Uber HQ from there. I’m just approaching the scene…
Wow! There’s an army of motorcycle police surrounding Uber on Market, with billy clubs and PlastiCuffs at the ready, as a gaggle of private security in yellow windbreakers flank the doors to the building, and a line of private black luxury buses sit lined-up along adjacent 10th Street – presumably the mayors’ buses. The sidewalk is full of taxi protestors yelling chants of “No Justice, No Peace!!” while waving signs of all colors and sizes (and some of mine) with all being egged on by one taxi driver with a bullhorn. And there is media everywhere!
Sweet!!
I briefly join the conga line of taxi drivers causing gridlock on Market, as all circle the block shouting slogans out of our windows and honking horns in the great American, nay, San Franciscan spirit of protest! (Yeah, probably not the best pro-taxi P.R. move. But it sure feels good!) Then, Christian spots me from the sidewalk. And I catch a snap of him holding one of my signs. Well, I think my work is done here.
I head back towards the Citizen’s Cab lot, walking with $159… and a warm heart.
—
Photo by Christian Lewis
www. AlexSacK.com
Check out Alex’s book San Francisco TAXI: A 1st Week in the ZEN Life…
And Follow me on Facebook and Twitter for your non-practicing Buddhist one-offs.
The post AssaUlt! appeared first on disinformation.