Winter, 2003. I saw a Black man walking southbound in the northbound lane of Halsted, near the strip club at Randolph. He appeared to be somewhere between the ages of 50 and 100. He was sporting a black suit. On top of his suit, he wore a black overcoat. He had a shiny, wide-brimmed, black leather hat on his head. He was dragging a black suitcase with one hand; he was carrying a black clothing bag in his other hand. I caught the light. He hailed me.

The trunk of my car would only open with a key. So, I threw it in park, and hopped out. I helped him put his luggage in the vehicle, and then held the back door open for him. The light turned green, but no one honked: we looked too scary.

He appraised the thick, black frames of my sunglasses, and the thick, black sideburns on my face. "Are you related to the Blues Brothers?" he asked. I chuckled: I knew that I had caught a live one; it was going to be a good day. When we settled in the car, I asked where I should take him. He told me that he wanted to go to the, "Chinese cleaners." I needed a bit more to go on than that; but the best that he could do was to offer, "south," on Halsted. Off we went.

He had a lot to say; he was sauced:
"Boy," said he.
"Yes sir?" said I.
"Philly blunts and Black pussy make a nigger crazy - Hahahahahahaha!"
I nodded, and smiled.
"Boy?" said he.
"Yes sir?" said I.
"He said he was messin' with a player. I said: 'You got a whole jukebox on your head!' - Hahahahahahaha!"
I nodded, and smiled.

A long story about the importance of the jukebox in a certain syndicate figure's rise to power followed. Crime in the city is all too real to me, and I made a deliberate effort to stop listening too closely at that point. It was a nice ride: we talked about Downbeat, the Mob, and everything in between; but it was time for it to be over. When I dropped him off, I couldn't help but notice that the people who ran the shop were Korean.

I turned around, and headed back up Halsted.

Fares are often difficult to come by: post 9/11 the last thing that most people want to do is take an unnecessary trip, by plane, to a major American city, to attend a large public event. Hotels, convention centers, theaters and all such related enterprises in town have been hurting. And when they hurt, the waitresses, bartenders, and taxi drivers hurt. The new color-coded terrorism warning system hasn't helped things, at all. To make matters worse, in January it's cold here - painfully cold. And everyone is crying about his or her debt after the holidays. Having said that, what I saw next shocked me.

There was a guy standing on Halsted, at Madison. He was waiting for a taxi. I didn't think that I stood a chance of picking him up: there were two other taxis closer to him. But, the drivers of those vehicles pulled up near him, waved at him, and then accelerated away from him. I stopped; he tentatively approached my vehicle; his expression was downcast.

"Good afternoon, sir. Where may I take you?" said I.

He thanked me profusely for picking him up. He wanted to take a short trip downtown. As we drove, he asked if I had noticed the behavior of the other taxi drivers; I indicated that I had. We both knew what had happened, and why. After I dropped him off, I headed back out of the Loop to Halsted; it had been good to me, so far. I was pretty far north before I caught the next fare: a Black woman in her 40's. When she got in, I asked her if the radio bothered her; I ask everyone that question.

"Oh no, Baby," she said, "That's Al Green: What could possibly be wrong?"

When we reached her destination, she paid me twice the metered fare - because I was polite. I doubled back: south.

My first White passenger of the day got in the vehicle. He had an envelope in his hands; he gave it to me. On the face of the envelope were written the words, "Cab Driver Only." Inside the envelope lay the address of the destination that I was to take the passenger to. I held the paper to my forehead, and prayed aloud for, "Wisconsin." It turned out to be a place on Clark Street. His wife had prepared a surprise party for him; I was to drive him to the restaurant. I played along with the game, and laughed and joked with the gentleman in the backseat. I got to keep the card.

I was hungry as Hell, and drove up Broadway with the intention of getting Thai food. I caught a light - near Montrose, I think - and noticed that a highly agitated White guy with a beard was motioning at me. He was in a hurry to get something; it didn't look good. He climbed in the back, and explained that he needed to make several stops; it looked worse. When in doubt, I speak to the passenger more - not less. I engaged him. It turned out that he had been a writer for the New York Times, and in that capacity, he had spent quite a bit of time in Sarajevo. His mission on this particular evening was to pick up ten pounds of Bosnian sausage for some event that he was attending; he was anxious about the food, and transporting it.

We hit the restaurant - no problems. But then, as he sat in the backseat with his huge, steaming pan of sausage, he decided that he needed a particular type of plum brandy to compliment it. We spent the next half hour driving around the north side of the city, hunting for the elusive liquor. Finally we found it, and then headed out to LSD, towards our ultimate destination. When we got there, he had $30 on the meter; he gave me $40.

I still hadn't eaten. So I parked the car on Halsted - hoping that it wouldn't be ticketed or towed - and walked into a place in Greek town. After dinner, strolled back to the car. I saw a guy standing on the corner of Halsted and Madison, near my car; he was trying to get a taxi. He looked a lot like the gentleman that I had seen on that same corner, earlier in the day; and he was having the same experience that that other gentleman had: drivers slowed down, looked at him, and left. I asked if he needed a taxi; he said yes. As I unlocked the vehicle, a Black lady in her 60's or 70's walked into sight: she was the one who needed the taxi; he was only helping her.

I opened the door for her, and she settled into the back. It turned out that she had just moved to Chicago, from Washington D.C. We talked.

"Our city," I said, "is still a very racist city."

And so it is. She called me, "Honey." And when she exited the vehicle, not only did she give me a tip, but she gave me a yellow rose, as well. And so I had a flower now, in addition to my card. Valentine's Day was looking better and better. I headed west on North Avenue.

I picked up two White women in their 20's. I could tell by the way that they spoke that they were from the South; it turned out to be New Orleans. People are funny: they expect their driver - and everyone who serves them - to know the exact manner in which they desire to be served. But, what offends one person is pleasing to another. Example: I open the door for everyone who gets in, or out of, the vehicle that I drive - if it is at all possible to do so. Roughly 1/4 of the female passengers find that action to be objectionable - presumably upon the grounds that it threatens their equality, or independence; roughly 1/4 of the male passengers, likewise, receive that action poorly - presumably upon grounds that it threatens their masculinity.

Hey, jerks: I'm not the Amazing Blackstone.

The ladies from New Orleans waited for me to walk around and open the door for them, when they exited the vehicle. As they did that, the doorman at their building waived to me: he wanted me to wait for someone else. I did. It was an old, Black couple, going home after having worked in the building, all day. Their home was in the heart of the west side, near Homan and Kinzie; it was around midnight.

The wife turned out to have a bad back; she was in pain. When I pulled in front of their home, I got out, and opened the door for her. I gave her my hand, and helped her to stand. She held my hand, warmly, and said, "Baby, can you find your way back ok?"

I headed back ok, under the Lake Street El; I stopped to take pictures. I'm always more comfortable there than I should be. It was getting late; and after midnight, almost everyone is drunk.

I started working Lincoln Park. I wasn't surprised when I picked up a White woman in her 20's, and she seemed a bit tipsy. She sat in the back, on the edge of the seat: her eyes were closed; her mouth was hanging open. Her head was near mine. She moaned a bit. I didn't think too much about it - until the next passenger got in.

The next passenger was very much like the first: a tipsy, White, female in her 20's. But, then she threw something at me: "Here," she said, "You left these in the back."

I looked at the projectile: a blue, printed, Victoria's Secret thong. So that's what the other one was doing… It was after 4 in the morning. I turned in the car, after having driven for about 20 hours. The guy at the window called me, "My Man!" and I smiled. I made it back to one of my temporary homes, and sat down in a chair. The card, rose, and thong, hung out of my bag on the floor next to me. I fell sound asleep - within seconds. And I woke, suddenly, two hours later, to an unusual crunching sound: my cat was almost finished eating the head of the rose. Happy Valentine's Day, Baby.