End of the shift, pump in hand, gassing up the car: I see her as she crosses the street, heading straight for me. It's 5 A.M. and the new morning sun lights up her hot pink sweater. She's tall, blonde, shapely, and out of place in my neighborhood. Prostitute? Her mouth opens, and I see good teeth before I hear proper English. Hmmm...not a working girl, at least not a cheap one. Scam? Cop? Damsel in distress?

"HEY! Can you help me, please?"

"You know, this isn't the best place to hang out. On this block, in the past year..."

"I need to get home."

"There's another guy waiting for this car."

"Please...let's go!"

Her story's cut short as she catches sight of a group of young men moving towards us, coming from the direction she's just left. I sigh, pay, and unlock the doors. She hops in the front. Insults pop from the gaggle of would-be toughs; instead of protesting the seating arrangement I step on the gas.

Down the first ramp to 90/94 we speed. Inbound, running toward the heart of the city, the concrete vein burns orange to the black steel mirrors. Dark glasses save my vampire eyes; two years without sun, a legacy of Byzantine corruption, I look the part.

After 12 hours on the road, I'm fighting to stay awake. And I don't immediately notice her hand on my thigh...

"You're cute."

"Huh?"

"None of what happened last night, happened. Sometimes you just do things, and have fun, and then it didn't happen"

"Huh?"

"My fiancee is waiting at home, for me. And none of that stuff, with those boys, happened."

Fiancee...lucky man. The hand continues to move on my thigh. Hot pink sweater.

"You're cute."

Story: A driver agrees to provide transportation for a woman in exchange for a service. They pull up to her address, and she directs him to the parking lot on the side of the building. She goes to work. He's enjoying himself, and doesn't notice her partner walking around behind the car. The next day he's found there: pants down around the ankles, brains on the dash, a bullet through the back of his head. People like to tell that story, because they like to ask who was more cruel: the man who pulled the trigger, or the woman who agreed to hold him in her mouth - knowing what would happen.

We get to "their" condo. High rent. She pays, lots. I pull away.

*BAMBAMBAM*

Someone's pounding on the trunk of the taxi, as I drive. Rearview mirror: two guys, panting, running top speed, trying to get me to stop.

"HEY!"

I do stop - with the intention of screaming at them. Out walks the third member of their group: six feet tall, long flaxen hair, and a body like Elle MacPherson. Hmmm.

"It's 6 A.M. and there was a guy waiting for this car at 5 A.M. I can't..."

"Please!!!"

Everyone gets in: (Male 1) a random African-American asshole-of-a-wanna-be-hipster-but-really-a-suit-with-money-and-drugs-that-the-other-two-want; (Male 2) a DJ from the "coolest" club in town; (Female 1) a Lithuanian model. We make several stops for their "supplies." The model changes her clothes in the back seat, while I drive. Destination: the DJ's Wicker Park home. They invite me in.

Veteran Driver: "NEVER GO IN!"
Veteran Cop: "NEVER GO IN!"

It's 7 A.M. Oh well. Cellphone: check. Knife: check. I'm going in.

I follow the DJ up to the top floor. He spins. The model dances with herself. The third guy lays out his stuff; he offers me lines and a pipe. I decline; he consumes everything. They all partake. Paranoia sets in. Am I a cop? I break another rule, and have a Heineken. I've never mixed alcohol and the taxi. But, then again, I've never gone in a building with anyone. "Never get off the boat, unless you're going all the way."

More people, wealthy people, show up. I, the taxi driver, am a curiosity: a bearded lady, or some other stock carnie freak. I mean nothing to these people. I mean nothing to anyone with money. Any one of them would laugh while I died. Pizza. 8 A.M.

Weirdness escalates. I slip out. Get coffee, Paul. Get straight.

Sober, cold, tired, I look at the clock: 9 A.M. I don't care about the other driver waiting for the car; I don't care about making money; I need to sleep. Sleep. The light turns red. I'm drifting...

"HEY!"

He wants to go to his parents home, near Midway Airport. He doesn't like the religiosity of his Mexican neighbors. He's a gay Black man in his late thirties. He's fathered a child for a Lesbian couple that dances at Mitchell's...

No...oh no. Go away. No more stories...no more taxi...

all material copyright paul e. germanos
contact: paulgermanos(at)msn.com
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