I move through space, towards a destination that is not my own. More than a year passes - my ass still screwed into the seat of the machine. Ceaseless in motion, unseen wheels revolve while siren lights flash in the blackness. Time melts like Dali; the clock ticks away meaning. 8 to 24 hours a day, 6 to 7 days a week, the shifts run together - spinning. Up the city, and down the city, I look for strangers at night. Under hood, the V-8 runs hot and thirsty as rats and shadows slip back beneath dumpsters - hiding from the broad, orange face of the sun.

I need 2,000,000 cents to get back to zero. I have the meter. And the meter turns: 20 cents a click, 160 cents a mile.

*CLICK*

"Two years. At the end of this month I can finish repaying my student loan, or pay my taxes. It's a cruel choice, really."
"You like the job?"
"It all depends on who's in back."
"Good line, hooker. But how 'bout right now?"
"I hate 9 out of 10 of these fucking people; I live for that 1 in 10. We had our last real fire in 1871, and I'm telling you: It's time for another! But seriously, on a good day the taxi is the best thing that I've ever had; even on a bad day, things were still worse in the jail."
"You must see some crazy shit. What's the wildest thing you seen?"
"Sex, violence or comedy?"
"Just tell me another story...ok?"

"I was downtown, near LaSalle and Randolph, when a well-groomed White guy in his 40's hailed me. He's wasn't likely - statistically - to be a problem; and his trip was short: only a few seconds long. So, I didn't pay much attention to him.

I pulled up to his stop - still inattentive - and reached over my shoulder for the money. He put a bill in my hand. Only then did I realize that something was wrong - because the bill was soaking wet. The guy saw me pause:

'Don't worry,' he said, 'It's only blood.'

I looked down: it was blood. The passenger had several fresh knife wounds, and the mess was everywhere."

"What happened?"
"Well, I acted like nothing was wrong, and made change. He tipped me."
"But what happened?"
"I don't know. I only see the middle of the movie. He left in a red sport utility vehicle; I cleaned the floor, seat and door; five minutes later someone else was in back."
"This seat?"
"Yep."
"Oh my God!"
"Every fluid that can come out of a man or a woman has come out in the taxi, while I've been driving."
"That is so gross!"

"Better than solids. Listen, last night there was a group called 'Oar' up at the Aragon Ballroom on Lawrence near Broadway. When the show let out, four 18 year old girls got in the taxi and asked for a ride all the way downtown, to a luxury residence on Michigan Avenue. It should have been a good fare, but I knew that something went wrong during the trip.

As the girls walked away, at the end of the ride, I noticed that one of them had a huge wet stain on the back of her pants. I put two and two together, broke out my flashlight, and checked the rear of the vehicle. Sure enough, while her friends sat beside her, she'd urinated on herself - leaving a puddle on the seat and floor. I stood dumb: not only had she done it, but she had failed to acknowledge it in any way.

[A week later, a second woman pissed the taxi. When I started driving, I wouldn't accept dogs in the vehicle; now I do. Yellow Snow Score: Dogs 0, Humans 2. Enough said.]

My immediate - and practical - concern was that I was out of action until I could go someplace and get the car cleaned up. I hit 'Not for Hire' and drove off.

Three blocks away, two obnoxious yuppie drunks flagged me down. As a group, White children of privilege in their 20's are far and away the worst passengers. This pair had liquor in their hands, on the street; they were going to be bad customers for someone. I shouldn't have stopped - but I did. The yuppies sat right down, oblivious, and began soaking up the pee. I dropped one of them, and then made a second stop in Boy's Town for the other. But before I could go 'Not for Hire' again, someone else walked up to the taxi and grabbed a hold of the door. A portly gay man of sinister appearance..."

"'Sinister' appearance?"
"Yeah, he was wearing a leather vest, a black velvet cape, and a monocle..."
"'Monocle'?"

"Yeah, like Colonel Klink from Hogan's Heroes. Anyway, there were a number of other empty taxis in the area, but it was as though the pee was calling to him, and I couldn't wave him off. Well, I dumped him and then turned around to get the car cleaned; but right away this lady in a bus shelter started waving at me. She wanted a ride to the South Side, which was fine. And I didn't feel too guilty, because I was sure that the Colonel's cape had absorbed what the yuppies had missed. We got to the South Side; she didn't have any money. We hit a gas station; I dropped her, and doubled back. As I headed north, up south Michigan Avenue, I saw something moving quickly in the shadows cast by the cars parked on the street. I slowed down to get a better look, and saw a small, happy face smiling back at me. It was a Black midget, chugging and puffing as he hauled ass, on foot. He had already run a mile from the housing projects on 35th, trying to make it downtown in time to hustle people leaving 2am bars.

'Hey Big Man,' he said, 'Free ride?'

So I let him in. He stood on the back seat, bouncing up and down in a very high-spirited manner: boing-boing-boing. And it struck me that he was the only one to avoid the pee. Then as we passed the Marriot, he spied a crowd and squirted out the door before I could bring the vehicle to a complete stop."

"You're making this up!"
"Nope. That's a typical night. Think: I do nothing but pick up random people after sunset, on the streets of Chicago."
"Is it ok if I smoke?"
"Go ahead - light the car on fire."
"Tell me more..."

*CLICK*

Four passengers rode with me: three to the rear, one to the front. Navigating through heavy traffic, I spoke to the man who was sitting beside me. Contrary to law, the car had no shield. And when my head was turned, someone reached forward and stuck something into my right eye.

Snap.

*CLICK*

I get a regular partner. I call her Cindy Lou. She's a 2000 Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor, and we're in a relationship together. Before we go out, I slip bits of folded paper into a crevice at the top of the instrument panel - one for each warning light that happens to be flashing. I pull the release, and then pry open the hood; I've always got a screwdriver handy. I check the vital fluids, on nights when I care. And then I throw down two cushions - one of mysterious origin.

[I suspect that the garage manager found the cushion in an alley; but, after all this time, I don't really want to know.]

I love Cindy Lou like Mike Mulligan loved Mary Anne: she's not the newest, or the best; but we work together, every day. She always gets a bath and perfume. Sometimes, at the end of the shift, I'll climb on top of her while we're pushing into triple digits on the Kennedy. And even then, she'll give her back end a little wiggle, drop down a gear, and break Hell in the road.

*CLICK*

"Do you know what I did? I just shot my wad."
"Pardon me, sir?"
"I just shot my wad; I got a blow job. You can get one upstairs at the Bijou. Do you know what the Bijou is?"
"It's a theater that shows films about men, for men."
"Yeah, well, you can get a blow job upstairs. Usually. I'm not saying it's a sure thing."
"I see."
"Now I need some candy."
"You bet. There's a White Hen a block away."
"Here: Keep the change."
"That's a rather generous tip. Are you sure?"
"It was worth it just to look at you."

*CLICK*

"Still with me?"
"Yeah. Tell more..."

"Outside Roditys, in Greek Town, two women flagged me down. It was typical, enough. I was focused on the road: my left hand draped over the wheel, my right hand resting on the passenger's headrest. And then I felt something soft moving against my right arm: one of the women was stroking me, as she spoke. 7 years ago, I was told, the two of them had arrived in the United States with only their Summer clothing. Today - this very day - was the anniversary of their departure from the Czech Republic. They wanted me to take them to a place on Kinzie - a place that they had been to, 7 years ago. But we found it gone, and so they had me choose their next destination.

I parked opposite 'my club' and stood outside the car, leaning on it, thinking, watching them walk away. They were fun - and they tipped well. I was sorry to see them go. An odd creaking noise brought me back to the present moment: the driver's door was falling shut.

[I had parked on an incline...]

I felt 2 of my fingers being crushed, and heard the rapid movement of a vile stream of profanity pouring out of my mouth. One of the women spun around, and came running.

'I am a bartender,' she said. 'Let me take care of that.'

Sure: (1) ER MD; (2) Paramedic; (3) EMT; (4) Fireman; (5) Bartender. But she did a good job. And then she asked for my number.

An hour later, my cellphone rang; she actually called back...

'Paul?' she said tentatively, 'I want to make a proposal: We are not hookers, or drug people, ok? We just enjoy your company, and we think that it is a sign that we have met you, tonight. You are our Lucky 7. And so we want you to spend the night with us. We will pay you: $100.'

The business about lucky numbers, signs and fate appealed to me; it was a slow night, anyway. We began a short tour of their West Side neighborhood bars. Each club that we went to was more seedy than the last. They called me 'their Frenchy.' And I, for my part, smiled, laughed, and tried very hard to avoid contemplating such things as the origin of our moral valuations.

At the end of the night we arrived at an apartment that belonged to one of the women. We all drank more.

'Do what comes naturally, you two...' said the apartment owner's friend, as she left.
'Paul?' said the other.
'Yes?'
'Please be with me...'
We took off most of our clothing, and lay down in her bed.
'Paul?'
'Yes?'
'You are mafia guy, or drug dealer, or something.'
'No. Well. No...'
'Tell me what happened to you...'
'I'm going to go.'
'Please stay with me...'
'Goodnight...'
'Just go, then - and don't say anything...'

Cindy Lou was waiting. It was six in the morning."

Sometimes, like a helix turning there's an illusion of movement - but it's what you've already seen, returning. When everything is compressed, ant-sized in the rear view mirror, that's the feeling of being free: timeless in the space between here and there.

"In need of surer ground, I picked up my mother, and went to see Greek Tina at the diner. A pork chop, 4 eggs, two pieces of sesamee toast, fried potatoes, and two pots of coffee filled my gut.

'Jesus Christ, I never eat this kind of crap anymore...'
'PAUL!' my mother yelled, 'Stop saying JESUS!'"

*CLICK*

"Are you Italian? Sicilian? How big is your penis - because we're looking for a third person to join us..."

*CLICK*

With equal parts skill, intuition, and luck we subsist. Behind the wheel now, we might have been hunters, cowboys or fishermen; here it's a matter of following different herds and schools. The taxi is a link to a more antique mode of being - especially nocturnal. It's all sorcery: the numbers, the constant turning, the prediction, and the draw.

I find myself alone in a place with people that I do not know, having been thrown together by the greater hand of fate. In some cases, we share ideas about what is good; in other cases, we are enemies. In the taxi we coexist, or we separate. We always separate, in the end.

*CLICK*

"Do I look like I just killed someone?"

[The correct answer is always, "No."]

*CLICK*

"A young woman hailed me as I turned the corner from Chicago, westbound, onto Damen, northbound. I stopped; she climbed in the back. With a great flourish, she put the back of her hand to her forehead, and sighed deeply. It seemed an overly-dramatic gesture, and I imagined an actress from Gone With the Wind. As I turned to look at her, I couldn't help but notice that one of her eyebrows was substantially longer than the other. She asked for a light. I don't smoke, but I always carry matches. I handed her the book. She took out 5-7, and twisted them into a phosphorus-tipped rope.

~WOOSH~

A little ball of flame lit her asymmetrical features. I drove, and listened. She played with the shaven spots in her raven hair, and twirled her skeleton earing as she spoke about witchcraft and depression. I politely refused her invitation to take a break from work, and drink wine in her company. She asked again, several times. It was obvious that she needed something, but didn't know where to go. So I gave her time and space to talk. But it went on too long.

'Where's home?' I asked.

She - a White girl - gave me an address in the ghetto on the West Side, in between Kedzie and Pulaski. Upon our arrival, she exited the vehicle and laid face down on sidewalk. I gave her another 10 minutes or so, but she wouldn't respond to any reasonable suggestion. It was a Friday night, pushing 1am. Small groups of young Black men wandered by, offering to take her down to the corner park and rape her. Older Black women walked by, called her honey, and told her that she needed to get up and go. She asked everyone for more fire; but she didn't budge.

There was a descision to be made: (a) leave her there and drive away; (b) stay and be her special friend; or (c) dial 911?"

*CLICK*

The longer that I am hidden from the sun, the more my appearance changes. Passengers guessed Italian, at first, then Russian or Native American, and now Black Irish. Each is true, in a way. But regardless of the ethnicity they suppose, they attribute the stereotypes of that group to me. The funny thing is that I don't ask them to guess; they say things, unprovoked. More than once someone screamed: "You're a fucking Jew!" And the ride ended quickly. Never having met me, never having spoken to me - or communicated with me in any substantial way, they have ideas about me: who I am, what I believe, and what my life experience has been. Those prejudices govern our interaction. We all tend to reduce things to understandable bits; Modernity doesn't treat mystery so well.

At the moment, most people embrace the character: Irish Paul, the story-telling, street-wise, cabbie. They solicit murder; they ask for butt sex; they try to get me to deliver narcotics; they tell me that they love me. They talk about their marriages and their children; they talk about coming to America; they talk about their victimization.

Once in a while, someone asks where something is in the City.

At night, the interior of the taxi is an intimate place - a potential space, defined by its occupants. It's a battery of rapid sexuality and violence [or banality, in turns] discharging its contents as quickly as some invisible switch is flipped.

*CLICK*

"I'm glad to see there isn't some fucking Arab driving this cab..."

*CLICK*

"I started the car, and turned on my cellphone. I had a message, waiting:
'PAUL! It's a voice from your past...'
I hadn't heard that voice in years; it hadn't changed. It was my ex; she found me on the net.
'If you called me - and you did - then someone died, or you got a divorce.'
She had finished her PhD in Neurobiology at Chicago, and then moved out to the West Coast; but, shortly thereafter, things began to fall apart. We kept talking.
'At the convention in New Orleans, I drew the Emperor card for you, Paul; this was meant to be.'

Days turned into weeks; weeks turned into months."

*TIME OFF*

"One day she met me at the airport. I wore my best cowboy shirt, and the leather coat that she remembered. We passed through a redwood forest, down to a hidden place between San Francisco and Santa Cruz - climbing quickly to the peak, laying off and descending in free-fall around the tight radius turns.
Down, down, down...
Falling back to earth...
We passed over the mountains to the coast. And as though a curtain were pulled swiftly, the Pacific appeared - a boundless day broken open before me. I breathed it in again, at last: Ocean.

I woke in California: her daughter jumping on the bed, her cat at my feet. She was beside me. It was good to remember; it was good to be understood; it was good to have a home and mate again.
'And here I had thought that you'd be a balding, alcoholic cop...you're freakishly well-preserved.'
'Human blood. Joke.'
'You do remind me of Angel.'
'Angel? I am so tired...'
'I know: I couldn't wake you...'
'When I take a day off to sleep, now, I sleep 18-36 hours straight. I have got to leave the taxi. I have got to leave Chicago...I need someplace clean, and green.'
'Paul, one way or another, the taxi is coming to an end. In many ways it's the perfect job for you; but it's served it's purpose. You know, I think that when we split you were suffering because of all the weird shit in your life; and in my opinion you had classic symptoms of PTSD/OCD. If the navigation that you do at work has resulted in an elargement of your hippocampus, that's probably been helpful.'
'Art-making, like OCD, is an attempt to gain control over a portion of one's environment. It's all about spatial relationships. No? I've read a few articles that dealt with structural changes in the brains of taxi drivers...'
'This all determined the course of my research: you, and lions too. You're like you were, but better. I like the man that you've grown into. Paul, do you realize I was only 16 when you took me to the CroMags show, and had me drink beer in the alley? You gave me my first cigarette. I'm still smoking!'
'And I took you to the initial release of Blue Velvet too. You make me sound like a big jerk; but maybe it's because I was bad at being good that you still love me.'
'Don't be stupid. You were THE male figure in my life. You are a virus that infected me: I am still rethinking our conversations; I look more and more like you; my daughter has your personality.'
'Ouch. Hey I was young too - and things were NOT easy. D'you realize we started almost 20 years ago?'
'Now I wonder if the past ten years were wasted; could it always be this good. I'm still crazy about you.'
'That's cool.'
'No, I mean crazy like Fatal Attraction. Virus.'
'OK, that's less cool. And you're a materialist.'
'You're a mystic. You should be a cult leader.'
'I'm opposed to your use of animals.'
'And you're not going to support me with my band either...you never did.'
'On the bright side, I've gained 5-10 pounds in a week with you; you are such an Italian woman. You've got the best hands; let's just keep the knives well-hidden, darling.'
'You need to lie to me more. And never mention anyone else.'
'This has to do with the knives again, doesn't it...'

So: Tacoma? Seattle? A little house for the family? Maybe just wait ten years, again? I left California with a gift: a small wooden box. In the box were two locks of hair: one hers, and one her daughter's.
'She really loves you. And you're at your best when you're with her...'
'It's one of the few times that there aren't any questions about how to be, or why...'
'You broke my heart...'
And so I placed the small box in the large box that holds the other good and painful memories - until I pass, and the person who follows me finds the things, not knowing what their importance was..."

*CLICK*

"As I headed up Ogden, I saw a figure standing in the intersection at Grand Ave. Her face was a mess; it was obvious that she had been crying.
'Hey...I'm a working girl, ok?'
'What's the situation here. Tell me what happened.'
'Yes: a situation. I'll give you a blow job if you get me back to the place that I need to go...'
We talked: Every night she got in a car with strangers, drove someplace, and then hoped to be paid. She was alone; the police weren't responsive to her. I nodded; it sounded familiar.

Just before I found her, she had been ripped off and left in an alley. The upsetting thing, she said, was that her work was so 'intimate.'

'How could someone just take that and not pay?' she wondered.

She looked 19-20, and said that she was from Wisconsin. I had a little bag - a makeup kit - that a wealthy woman had left in the car a few months ago. I try to return everything; but sometimes I try very hard, and other times I don't try very hard at all. I practice something like distributive justice. I knew that a homeless woman or prostitute would be thrilled to have $100 worth of cosmetics. The makeup kit sat in my bag, waiting for the right person to receive it. I had a box of smokes too; someone else had left those behind. And there was a cup of water and ice that a young couple had brought to me. I felt pretty good as I gave her the makeup, and cigarettes, and water. It seemed meant to be: I was there, then, to give these things to this person.

But she complained that they wouldn't buy her drugs. So I gave her $5 too. What could I hope to do? Be kind, treat her with respect, nothing more. Sucker? She would be lucky to survive the year. We're the boys; they're the girls. The girls work so hard. And the more that they work, the more teeth they lose, the more burns they get, and the more difficult their life becomes. Until one day they are so ugly that they can't work anymore, and they have to beg, or die. The two of us talked about the people who were robbed, killed, and went missing - and the fact that no one knew.

She smiled, lit up, and passed out - stone cold - with the fag burning down into the flesh of her fingers. I looked back and saw her in Piccasso blue, as the arc-light warped through the glass of the taxi windows. Most of her was already dead, her face like nothing so much as that of a young person I had seen in a casket. We got to her corner. And there, waiting, was her pimp. She craddled her presents like a babe, turned up her head, and walked past him.

I saw her on the southeastern edge of the park, in the nights that passed - until she disappeared. I would like to think that she found her way back to her home in green Wisconsin; I would like to think that..."

*CLICK*

Roughly 40% of Chicago's residents are Black; the legacy of racially-based slavery continues to shape the character of the City. Fewer than 60 years ago, between WWII and the Vietnam, one quarter of the country's entire African American population moved - from agricultural communities in the South to manufacturing centers in the North. During that same period of time, in response to what was purported to be an inadequate supply of affordable living space, public housing "projects" were built in Chicago - projects like Cabrini Green.

[They were named for a nun who dedicated herself to the poor: St. Frances Xavier Cabrini.]

People from Mississippi and Alabama moved directly north - to Chicago - bringing their culture along. Blues and Rock were born. Chess Records came into being in 1950.

"I've got a black cat bone; I got a mojo too; I got the John the Conqueror root; I'm gonna mess with you…"

And then, gradually, the industrial jobs went away. Gang activity and drug sales increased; the "projects" proved to be very difficult to police. Public housing grew vertically: every new building was taller than the last; and the problems grew proportionally. People were left - segregated - in high-density units, unemployed, and ill-educated; in the Black community here, there is a <50% dropout rate over the 4-year high school term. It must be the case that close to a million of Chicago's residents function on a poor grade school education. Since the year of my birth: 1967, at least 600 people per calendar year, every year, have been murdered in Chicago - despite being within seconds of what is, arguably, the finest emergency medical care in the world. Finally, in 2003, the number of murders in the City plummeted below the 600 count - all the way to 599. In 2001, 666 people were murdered in Chicago - more than in any other American city; Chicago lead the nation again, in 2003. Chicago's murder rate is still higher than any other American city with a population over one million. And over 90% of the murder victims in any given year are, "non-white."

City of Chicago:
U.S. Census, 2002 estimated population: 2,886,251
Reported murders: 646

Canada:
2002 estimated population: 31,496,800
Reported murders: 582

City of New York:
U.S. Census, 2002 estimated population: 8,084,316
Reported murders: 580

New Zealand:
2002 estimated population: 3,908,037
Reported murders: 67

*CLICK*

"I saw him waiting at the opposite end of the block. In the dim light, he resembled a young Santa Claus. As I drew closer, he appeared to me to be standing upon the deck of an ocean-going vessel: he rocked and reeled, back and forth, side to side. Sure enough, he raised a thick arm and hailed me. I stopped; he tugged on the rear door, and fell into the seat.

I turned round, and began with my usual greeting and query: 'Good evening, Sir. Where May I take you?'
He looked me square in the eye, and in a very serious tone he said, 'Grooog!'
I paused, and searched my memory for any sort of street or building that might bear a name resembling, 'Grooog.' But, I was stumped. As poorly as many people pronounce, "Goethe," it never sounds quite that bad. And so I waited for his next utterance…

'Grooog…train!'

Well, I had something to work with; I began to recite the names and locations of the various trains in town. But poor Grooog's brow became furrowed, and I could tell that the letters and numbers that I sent flying through space in my speech did nothing but confuse him. And so I waited, again…

'Grooog…train…P-r-u-d-e-n-t-i-a-l-B-u-i-l-d-i-n-g…'

Grooog was terribly sad, and on the verge of tears. He wanted - desperately - to communicate with me. He wasn't trying to be difficult; he had simply filled his Santa belly with more beer than any two normal Santa bellies could hold. Poor Grooog: I left him at the Prudential on Randolph. And he walked off in the wrong direction…"

*CLICK*

A young Puerto Rican couple - a boy and a girl - stopped outside Eddy's gas station. The boy came in, and asked to use the toilet; he did, and then he went back outside to his car. The girl came in and made the same request. While she was thus occupied, the boy returned. He asked Eddy for one of the plastic flowers that sit for sale on the counter. And then he opened the bathroom door and gave his girlfriend the flower - putting her on display while she sat on the gas station toilet. The whole thing was so romantic, and they were both filled with such passion, that they decided to stay in the bathroom together, and engage in a physical expression of their love.

Eddy got bumped off nights, and I lost touch with him. His replacement - also a Pakistani guy from the southern city of Karachi - was a total dick. I started going to a new station, just down the street. The night guy there was Pakistani too - but he was from the northern city of Peshawar. "Those people rape cute boys like me!" said Eddy. Three times in the course of the first week that I went to the Peshawar station, the night guy there was robbed: someone entered the station, held a handgun to his stomach, and cleaned the place out. I decided to try a third station, and then a fourth; but I never found another Eddy.

I miss Eddy.

*CLICK*

"A few nights ago, on the way back from Hyde Park, I helped a family that was heading to 42nd & Cottage Grove. An older guy and two little girls were on the corner, waiting for the bus. The smaller of the two girls had some sort of problem with the whole of her face. She needed glasses, but the only pair that she had to wear were terrible, thick, and made for an old lady. No one loves these people; no one cares. Yet they were all very thankful, and polite; they had manners, and courtesy of a type that the 'better' classes are supposed to possess, but which they rarely display. And the littlest girl waved to me when I left, saying: 'See you again soon.' Things like that make me cry. What did she do to deserve her lot? So many of the children here begin life with physical or mental disabilities because of the drugs that their mothers used while they were pregnant, or the violence that was done to them. It's not that dealing with such things is so hard, alone. But dealing with the next group of people can be - when the next group chatters about their wealth, complains about nothing, and then tips me in pennies. I find myself, more and more often now, simply tired, and isolated. In spite of whatever education and experience I have had, and in spite of how cynical I have become, my ideas about the way that things ought to be, and my hopes for people, are still surprisingly stupid, and childlike..."

*CLICK*

I roll my cage around the City, and some nights I go home defeated. Tired - but sleepless - I put out seed for my birds. They wait for me in the morning: a link to the sanity of the free, green world that must exist someplace else.

I keep turning the wheel. Over time the routine is of necessity stripped bare: I wake, make a pot of coffee, and take the coffee to the dumbells. I hit the dumbells like jail, and then turn the key that sets the shift in motion. Time and money usually allow 2 meals per day, but sometimes only one; these are not the fat years in my life. Entertainment is a 13 inch black and white television that keeps me company infrequently, at the end of the day. And the old tabby cat is always there.

Every week a guy waits for an envelope with $300 in it. If I don't make the $300 for him, I lose the car. And then I'm on the hook for gas, washes, coffee, parking tickets, etc. It's about $500 per week - all told - that I need to make for other people, before I make dime one for myself. The taxi, I discover, is a form of debt peonage.

Even so, things have changed for the better - relative to the first dark months of Winter, post 9/11. No one counts my lease now; and I don't stand in a line anymore. I throw an envelope down on the garage manager's desk; we hug and slap backs. I have a key for the car that he owns. It's a different way of doing business - and I like it. We are hated; but behind the veil there are high acts of love, comedy, and drama in the manner of The Guild of Thieves and Assassins - betrayed only sometimes by the manner of our dress, the stories that we tell to outsiders, and those moments when honor and utility are thoroughly confused. We are brothers in a family - as long as I keep making money.

"He shall be a wild ass of a man, his hand against every man and every man's hand against him; and he shall dwell over against all his kinsmen."

*CLICK*

"It was after 2 in the morning. I drove north on Clark. When I hit Lawrence, I saw three figures standing at the edge of the cemetary: two men and a woman. The woman yelled, and ran into the street. Before she got to the taxi I knew two things: (1) she wasn't right; and, (2) she had an amazing rack. Her hair was bright orange, and her skin was as pale as snow. The black dress that she wore suggested her occupation was prostitution: easy on; easy off; tied at the top; nothing underneath. When she sat down in the back, I was overwhelmed by the cheap perfume that she wore. I was correct about her mental state, and also that she employed her sexuality. But I had forgotten to include the place of our meeting in my initial estimation of her character. There were ongoing problems with Satanic activity in the area, including the recovery of human remains at the roller rink across the street from the cemetary.

The two of us were in the taxi together; but we were not alone. She laughed in a voice that did not belong to her. Her presence was like a gate to the void. It's a difficult thing to explain to anyone without experience in ritual magic or exorcism. She was dangerous.

She met my eyes in the rear view mirror, letting her coat fall from her shoulders. If her face appeared drawn from distress, her figure was much younger. It was obvious that she had implants. She began to manipulate herself in a well-practiced manner - her hands sublty tracing her charm.
'I'm a good girl,' she said, 'I don't fuck or suck.'
And then she laughed that horrible laugh, again.

Her comments and antics continued, as she urged me to drive faster. Suddenly, she called for a stop.
'Master lives here,' she said.

I told her to take the ride for free. She leaned forward to expose herself; her hands resumed their former work; and she repeated her telephone number twice. I drove away quickly.

Five minutes later I picked up a young Black guy; he was going to rob me. The speed limit was 30. By the time I hit 90, he paid me to slow down. I got lucky. Even so, my stomach was burning after the encounter - coming on the heels of cemetary expidition. I pulled over to the side, and took ten minutes out. But then I made the mistake of going back to work; things run in streaks. A young gang-style Latin couple got in the back. They had a violent domestic dispute over a pack of cigarettes. I dropped the car - and I had a drink..."

*CLICK*

I pick up everyone. I go everywhere in the city. I can't control anyone but myself. For now, I am here: turning the wheel. Absent meaning, movement suffices; the trick is to keep moving. Still, I can't help but wonder what this was all about. My name is Paul Edward Germanos, and I drive a taxi at night, in Chicago.