The Taxi Driver

I sat in the back of the taxi cab, counting the fuzzy braids that flayed out beneath the cabbie’s knit cap, a huge black spider with crazy legs.  Slumped down in his seat with one lazy arm guiding the wheel, he looked like he was parked rather than barreling down the highway at breakneck speeds.  I tightened my seatbelt as I started singing War’s Low Rider in my head,

“All my friends, know the low rider…”

The Mapquest directions I handed him had landed on the floor of the passenger side of the front seat.  I craned my neck so he would notice that I noticed.  Since I did not know my way around Austin, I was hoping that he would take me to my hotel and not his favorite crack house.

“So, is the Austin Motel nice?” I asked with my polite, yet firm, voice.

“Yeah, s’ real nice.”

“The Austin Motel on South Congress?”

“Yeah, s’ real nice.”

“Because I didn’t want you to confuse it with another Austin Motel, because, you know, since we’re in Austin there might be a few.” I added with my still polite, yet firm, voice. “I think my directions fell on your floor.”

“Don’t you worry, Honey, I got ya.”  You got me? And I am hardly your Honey, Mr Taxi Driver.

“Low Rider knows every street, yeah…”

I studied the ID card that hung from the rearview mirror.  The mirror that he did not seem to need as he wove through traffic.  Okay, Jeremiah.  I’ve got your name and number. I’m writing it all down right here on my hotel reservation sheet.  I’m sure that will make the drug dealers at the crack house nervous.

There’s something unnerving about taking a cab when I am traveling alone; willingly stepping into a stranger’s vehicle and assuming he/she is of sound mind and body.  I hate the fact that I have to take the taxi at the front of the line at the airport.  I think one should be able to size up the drivers beforehand and choose the one with whom you want to risk your life.

“Car 2547 do you read? Car 2547?  What’s your location?” The shortwave radio crackled and spat. He reached for the hand mic and held it to his mouth.

“Hey Baby,” his voice suddenly deeper, Barry White-ish, “yeah, uhmmmm, who-ooo, oh yeah….Airport run then I’m done.” Giggles on the other end.  Very professional.

“Low Rider is the one to meet, yeah.”

He replaced the mic and smirked sideways at me.

“She digs me.”  Digs you?  As in Susan Dey digs Keith Partridge?

“I’m sure she does.”

“Just moved here from Houston. Gots ta keep the ladies happy.  Good for business.”

“Of course.” He leaned over and turned the volume knob to the left, muting the female voice and revealing long, yellowed fingernails.  Nice.

“This is just a side gig.”

“Really?”  I asked since I felt that humoring him would keep those fingernails on the wheel. “On the side of what?”

“Music.” His eyes lit up and his lips curled into a smile.

“Austin’s a great place for that.”

“My band’s in the line-up for the festival.”

“Well, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he turned his head and looked me square in the eye. “I ‘precciate that. I do.  It’s a lot of work, you know?  Followin’ your passion. Puttin’ your heart on the line.”

“I do know.”  I sat back and relaxed as we chatted about taking risks and chance meetings.

He veered onto the off ramp and turned left.  As we wound through the city streets I took in the sights as he threw out a few historical facts. He even filled me in on the Austin Motel, how it has been a family run business for over 60 years weathering good times and bad.

“Take a little trip. Take a little trip with me.”

Before I knew it, my Low Rider taxi friend pulled up to the Austin Motel.  He jumped out of the car and opened my door with a deep theatrical bow and a wave of his arm.

“Thank you for the ride,” I said with sincerity as I pulled out a few bills and handed them to him. “And good luck with the concert.”

He gave me a sideways smirk and slid in to the driver’s seat. I watched for a long moment as he eased his way back into traffic and joined a sea of red tail lights snaking toward downtown.