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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Action
- Published: 11/09/2023
CABZ
Born 1947, M, from Colorado Springs, CO, United States.jpeg)
All the lonely people…where do they all come from?
-Paul McCarthy & John Lennon-
“That’s it, I’ve had enough.” I said to no one in particular.
Enough of retirement, of sitting around, scrolling social media, watching TV, feeling bored and worse, irrelevant. A retired Professor of Social Work, who worked in the field while studying for a PhD, I was once teaching, researching, and sending articles to prestigious academic journals. Now I was not doing anything rewarding; zip, zero, zilch, diddly-squat.
Not that I wanted to return to my former life, but I needed to do something, perhaps get a better handle on the rapidly changing U.S. culture. Do some observations, maybe write a paper on my findings. Just for fun, and why not make a few bucks while I was at it?
But what to do? Then, I took a taxi to the airport and it became clear. Cabbies get into all sorts of interesting conversations with people. Why not be a gig-worker driving part-time for ‘Cabz?’
So, I filled out the application, provided Cabz with a driver profile and photo and soon was accepted. I downloaded their GPS app and I was ready to roll.
Well almost, before doing anything, I had to convince my wife. At first, she protested, “You’ve done enough, we don’t need the money.” Eventually understanding my angst, she relented, but laid down the law:
“No nighttime driving. Short shifts only. Do not pick up any shady looking characters and do not carry extra cash or credit cards.” I agreed and assured her that Cabz accepted only prepaid rides through their app, so little money changed hands.
Then I cleaned up the car, hung my Rosary and one of those smelly pine tree-looking things on the mirror. The Rosary was handmade, constructed of thick, white thread woven together and given to me by a friend in the AA recovery program. Not that I wanted to proselytize or anything, but my anxious wife suggested hanging them on the mirror, and I found it comforting having them there with me, a talisman for luck, safety, and protection.
And so, I hit the road, picking up and chatting with folks and taking notes between fares. Things went well for a couple of weeks. Then, one afternoon, this…
Donald 3:00 PM
I pulled up to the curb in one of the older neighborhoods in town. My fare was sitting on a front porch that was in desperate need of a paint job. He was nervously looking at his phone while anxiously scanning the street for his ride.
When he saw me pull up, he jumped off the porch and raced excitingly to the car. Jumping into the backseat, he wasted no time greeting me with a hearty “Hey man, I’m Donald—let’s git outa’ here.” Then with great urgency he launched into a lively, disjointed, and disturbing monologue.
Looking out the back window to see if we were being followed, he said, “Listen, you gotta’ know… and you gotta’ tell your peeps. We’re being tracked.” He insisted.
Trying to keep him calm I responded, “Tell me more.”
“It’s those Communists. Do you know…do you know what I named them Commies?”
“Ahh, what.” I asked.
“Dumb-o-crats.” He said. “But really, they’re Communists working to control us. Are you pickin’ up what I am layin’ down here man?”
“I’m listening,” I said.
“Dumb-o-crats, I tell you. Do you remember the days when they made us wear those ‘Dumb-o-cratic diapers’ over our faces…claiming we’re in some sort of plague. But no. It was a ‘Plan-demic.’ It was planned to control the little people like you and me,” he persisted.
“And there’s more!” he continued. “They are monitoring us. Always knowing what we’re up to.”
“Wow. How so,” I asked while negotiating a right turn.
“Condiments. Like mustard and mayonnaise. They’re laced with microbe tracking devices. Kinda’ like the GPS on your phone. Tracking…. tracking us. They know where we are…wherever we are.”
“I’m serious bro,” he swore. “You gotta’ spread the word…and…and, don’t put nuthin’ on your sandwiches” he pleaded, gripping the back of my seat to emphasize the urgency of his statements.
“Hmm” I offered, “Sounds serious; let me ask you something.”
“Yeah, yeah sure, make it quick we’re almost there.”
“Where exactly are we headed?” I asked.
“The doctors office, he prescribes me drugs —my sister makes me go. I live with her. She paid good money for this cab on the App.”
“I see. Any chance you ran out of your medication? Are you having a bad day?”
“Nah, that junk just turns me into a zombie. This is the real me. But people won’t listen! Here’s what I know, ‘No prophet is accepted in his own hometown.’ Look, I think that shrink is one of those Dumb-o-crats…he talks funny… like a Communist.”
“I understand. How about this, I am going to follow-up on that important information you gave me. I really appreciate the warning. But promise me something.”
“What?” He asked skeptically.
“In return, how about you try hard to listen to your sister, and make sure you tell your Doc how that medicine affects you. I’ll bet they are not Dumb-o-crats or Commies. Hell man, they may be prophets too. I think they really care about you.”
“I dunno, I dunno…these are dangerous times…anyway, no mustard or mayonnaise, right?”
“Got it.” I assured him.
We pulled up to his destination and he jumped out of the car. I watched him cautiously plod up the stairs, shoulders slumped, hands twitching. I thought, ‘there but for the grace of God, go I.’
Cindi 3:45 PM
She was standing outside the store, her canvas “Trader Joes” bag overflowing on the ground by her side. The lady looked to be in her mid-to-late forties, dressed down in blue jeans and a light-gray hoodie. She was deeply engaged with her phone, her long black hair wafting in the breeze, oblivious to everything going on around her.
I suspected this was my ride, so I gave a short burst on my horn. Her surprised face and cute little smile indicated she, indeed, was my fare. Stuffing the phone into her back pocket, she grabbed her groceries and navigated her way into the back seat.
We exchanged some pleasantries, but quickly fell into a deep silence. We only had about a mile to travel and I suspected she returned to scrolling through her phone.
As we pulled up to her destination, I felt something on the back of my neck. When I reached back to scratch it, my hand touched hers. She was stroking my hair! Totally taken aback, I checked the mirror and stammered, “Umm, lady,” “What exactly is going on here?”
“Well, silly,” she cooed, “Why don’t you come on in with me. I’m lonely, you’re kinda’ cute, and I’d like to leave you a very special tip-- if you get my drift.”
“Ahh, yeah,” I said warily. “But, here’s the thing. One: I’m married. Two: I’m old, and three, I’m on the job.”
Coquettishly, she countered with, “Well Pops…. One: ‘Somebody’ does not need to know. Two: Welcome to your long-lost fountain of youth, and three, this might be the one work break you will never forget.”
“Okay,” I blurted out, totally uncomfortable and now on the offensive, “Let’s try this. One: Thanks for the offer. I must say, you are a unique and attractive woman, I suggest you hook-up with a regular boyfriend, perhaps one closer to your own age.”
Two: “My wife reads me like a book, when she finds out about this—and she will--she will scratch my eyes out.”
And, three: “She will do the same or worse to you. So, if you don’t want both of us walking around town sporting red-tipped canes, please do us both a favor, take your groceries and make your way out of my cab.”
Outraged at the rejection, she grabbed her gear, and shrilled, “Well, you don’t know what you’re missing-- you old bat,” scurried out and slammed the door.
I sat there for a moment, amazed and dumfounded. I decided not to take notes on this one….’Somebody’ just might find and read them…and I might end up walking around using one of those red-tipped canes anyway.
The next couple of rides were nondescript. Pick ‘em up, drop ‘em off. I must say I was relieved. I was not in the mood for small talk after the day’s adventures. Checking my watch, I decided I could handle one more fare before logging out for the day.
Jimmy 4:40 PM
My fare was standing on a corner outside a run-down motel in one of the poorer sections of town. He looked a bit shabby, his face drawn, eyes somewhat glazed, clearly down on his luck.
Stumbling into the back seat, he greeted me with a half-hearted, “Hey,” and sat quietly. I figured he had too much to drink and focused on the map guiding me to his stop.
One block before reaching his destination he spoke up, “Make this left, I wanna’ go in through the back.” I acknowledged and turned into the narrow, cluttered alley. The backstreet was bordered by overflowing trash cans and assorted debris, with ‘Beware of dog’ signs on the gates of the six-foot high cedar fencing that cordoned off each property. Halfway down the alleyway he told me to stop, and I pulled closer to a gate.
Then I felt it. Again, on the back of the neck…this time the stone cold, solid feel of a pistol pushed directly toward my brain. I froze. Speechless and terrified. Thinking quickly. Waiting for instructions.
“Gimme’ your money,” he said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the few bucks I got that day in tips and passed it back.
“What are you stupid?” he yelled, pressing the gun painfully into my head. “Give me your damn wallet, credit cards and the rest of your cash,” he demanded.
“Yeah, about that.” I said cautiously. “This is Cabz, people pay for the ride in advance using the App. Except for some random tips, I don’t handle money. I don’t even carry a wallet.
“I should blow your bloody brains out,” he screamed. You mean I stole this phone for nuthin?” He cried. “I thought this was a regular cab company. Cabbies always carry cash. You lyin’ to me, huh? I need money. Now. I need Oxy, I need Oxy now! He sobbed.”
Suddenly the gun was off my neck. Wide-eyed I looked into the mirror. The gun was now pointed at his temple. He was in tears, screaming, “I’m so sick of this crap! I can’t do anything right,” he whimpered. “This damn phone, you’re stupid friggin’ cab company, and you. You no-money, useless old fool. I need my Oxy!”
“Okay, okay” I offered. “Calm down. Let’s talk, Okay?”
“First,” I urged, “How about you put the gun away? Everything is okay, and I am not about to do anything foolish.”
Catching my eye in the mirror, he sniffled, wiped his face, and after a few anxious seconds, lowered the pistol. I had him. For a moment at least.
“So, is this your backyard?” I said.
“Nah, just seemed like a good place to rip you off.” He responded.
“Yeah. I agree. Still, you gotta’ love the local décor …has a sort of a ‘junkscape’ kind of appeal to it. Don’t ya’ think?”
“I think you are a crazy old fool,” he said. A bit of a smile creeping up amid the tears and pain.
“You know,” I continued. “I had a bit of a problem once.”
“Oxy?” He said.
“Nah, the sauce. I was a bit of a juicehead.”
“Juicehead? You really are a funny guy,” he chuckled.
“So, you come to realize there is only one thing—one substance-- in your life that controls you. And you gotta’ make a choice. It’s your family, your job, or the thing that controls you. So, you surrender to win, or you end up alone, or dead, or in a mental hospital. It’s that simple, it’s a choice man.”
“But it hurts bad bro. Comin’ off it ain’t so easy,” he said.
“No, it is not. Rehab can help, so can NA. But you gotta’ want it.” Hey, check this out. Getting off Oxy is kind of like playing a country song backwards. Do you know what you get if you do either?” I joked.
“What?” he said.
“You get your wife back, your truck back and your dog back.”
This time I got a laugh and a “You really are one stupid-crazy cat, man.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Crazy, but sober. That could be you. So, pawn that gun, go cold-turkey for a bit, look up NA, and go to a meeting. They’ll help you out. And here, take this” I said, pulling the Rosary off the mirror.
“Prayer beads? Hell, I ain’t no kinda’ religious,” he said.
“That’s ok, they’ll help you through detox.”
“What? How?”
“Put them around your neck or wrap them around your fingers. Hold on tight; make up your own prayers. Pray for relief from the pain; from the addiction….and maybe check out how to do them right someday.”
“Oh yeah,” I continued. “Keep the cash. Hit Mickey D’s and buy yourself a happy meal.”
He was noncommittal, but amused. “Happy meal, huh?” He laughed, saying, “I’m tellin you. You are one deeply sick dude man.”
I drove back to the main drag, and let him off. As he exited the cab, our eyes met again and I gave him an encouraging thumbs-up.
Flipping a U-ey I headed for home, my heart pounding, my thoughts racing, my stomach in something of a tizzy.
****
I kissed my wife hello, holding on for an extra-long hug. “Tough day?” She asked.
“Ehh,” I shrugged. “I’ve seen worse…. traffic and all…. ya’ know?”
The End.
Note: If you or someone you know is in crisis, help is available at Mental Health America, call or text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org.
“AA” and “NA” are the abbreviation for Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous, 12-step programs designed to help users escape their addictions.
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