Photo by Erin N. CalmesThe Charge of the Night Brigade: David Folsom-Jones stays in close contact with his dispatcher, the driver's lifeline to potential customers and assistance if he should need it in the long haul between dusk and dawn.
An all-nighter with boyfriend-as-cabbie runs hot and cold
By Ami Chen Mills
My boyfriend is a taxi driver, holding down the night shift, weekends. I make sure everyone knows he does it to get himself through school, because taxi drivers straight-up get very little respect. Women don't hit on my boyfriend when he's driving.
Apparently, taxi drivers rank on the social scale somewhere between janitors and construction workers. But they make decent money. On a busy night, my boyfriend--we'll call him Brad--can make $140. But it's a rough gig. Hours are long--night shift drivers work 12 hours. And the company leaves a lot to be desired.
I worry. First of all, Brad doesn't wear his seat belt. This is the first thing I notice when I slip into the front seat of Yellow Cab Number 169 at 9:30pm one Friday night.
"How come you're not wearing a seat belt?" I ask.
"Oh, man," he says, "It's gonna be a long night."
It's nearly 10pm. We're parked at the taxi stand outside Metro Center in downtown Santa Cruz. Brad has already checked in as Number Two, Alpha Zone, which means he's second in line for a ride in the downtown area.
It's dark and quiet at the taxi stand. The streets are cloaked in fog. When I got this assignment, I thought it'd be easy. But it occurs to me that there are problems with writing about someone you love. One, it's very hard to objectively describe mannerisms you know like the lines on your own face. Two, you spend a lot of time discussing matters of earthshaking importance between the two of you but which bear little relevance to the task at hand.
Brad asks if I took my mother to the ballet.
"I told you I did," I say.
"No you didn't," he says.
"Yes, I did," I retort.
"No, you didn't," he says.
We often have productive, stimulating conversations like this.
The dispatcher interrupts.
"One-sixty-nine," he crackles over the CB.
"One-sixty-nine," Brad responds.
"Yeah, could you pick up Sally at Brady's?"
"Check." Without fastening his seat belt, Brad cranks up the engine and we're off. "Usually I'd pass on a ride from Brady's," he explains, "because they're short rides--mostly drunk people going from bar to bar."
It's been a good night. Brad has made his lease, and the rest is his, minus gas and tips to dispatchers at the end of the night. Cabbies are independent contractors who lease cars from companies like Yellow Cab for $65 a night. That pays for use of the cab, as well as services of the dispatcher, who juggles incoming calls and coordinates the movement of cabs on the streets.
At Brady's Yacht Club, four middle-aged people pile into the back seat, two women with smeared makeup and two red-faced men. One man keeps saying, "It's okay. It's okay. It's gonna be your birthday soon."
The birthday girl isn't paying much attention. "I have no idea where I am," she mumbles. "I guess we're just traveling down the road."
Drunk people tend to repeat themselves, I learn quickly. They also have very little loyalty.
"It's okay. It's okay," the man says again. "It's going to be your birthday in another hour." He motions for Brad to stop and the man gets out, saying, "It's going to be okay" and "Happy birthday" until he's on the street with the others. The birthday girl is still sitting in the cab and then the door slams and she's alone. Some birthday. Brad asks her where she wants to go. Asti's, she says--another bar.
Things Heat Up
It's 10:30 and we're arguing about the heat. "Baby, are you trying to cook us?" Brad complains, turning the heat down.
"I'm cold," I protest, turning it up.
We pick up two teenage girls who come out of a townhouse clutching cans of beer. When they get in, the cab reeks of Bonnie Bell lip-smacker, watermelon flavor. They're dressed to kill, but first they've gotta pick up a friend in another neighborhood. The girl with big, black, heavily sprayed hair gives directions.
"Just go completely straight," she says. Her friend disagrees. We find the street. "See, I told you," the first girl says as we pull up to the curb. "She better hurry or I'm going to kick her ass completely."
The third friend emerges, holding a can of beer. When she sees Brad, she squeals. "Ohmygod. You used to, like, help me at Cabrillo!"
I raise an eyebrow. Brad shrugs. He used to be a tutor. Anyway, the girl's got a free ride for everyone. Her pals pile out and we're alone.
Teenagers don't tip much. "But that's okay," Brad says, "Somebody's gotta give 'em a ride." A 20 percent tip is about average. Regulars tip best. As for fares, all meters are pre-set to record both time and mileage. Cabbies can't adjust them. Also, cabbies don't take the long way to make an extra buck. They pride themselves on knowing shortcuts.
We pick up a deaf woman at Emi's. She's buzzed and she's got the hiccups.
"I've got the hiccups," she announces from the back seat. "It's fucking killing me!" She's an attractive young woman and Brad decides to be of help.
He turns around and yells, "Boo!" at her. Of course, she can't hear, so this technique is somewhat ineffective. It merely annoys the woman, who thinks we're making fun of her deafness.
"You're not very nice," she mumbles. At her house, she apologizes. "I'm sorry. I'm very sensitive."
"That's okay!" Brad yells, smiling so hard I'm afraid his face might crack.
When she's gone, I punch him in the ribs. "That was really good, yelling at a deaf person."
He laughs.
"You had a crush on her, didn't you?"
"Me? On her?"
"You thought she was attractive."
"What do you mean, attractive? I felt sorry for her."
"The last thing she needs is your pity. She's just fine," I assert, neatly concealing my jealousy in a politically correct defense of the hearing-challenged. Score one for petulant liberalism.
Drunks Pointed in the Right Direction
We're called to Callahan's, where our ride is slow to understand who we are. He's advanced from drunkenness to near psychosis and rambles a slurred monologue. "Americans can monitor the whole world, but that's okay. I just take it a day at a time. Turn right here. All my Jewish friends own China. But that's okay. Left here. I sold a program to the CIA so they wouldn't look like assholes to the Russians. That was when the CIA was cool, though. Okay, just go down this drive. Here we go. This is fine, right here. But the Rajneesh had money. I saw all these women givin' him all their money. Whadda I owe ya?"
I'll say one thing for drunks: They've got their directions down.
A small-framed Latino in sharp clothes hails us at the Catalyst. He's trying to convince a male friend to get in. The friend declines.
Once our ride is in, the cab fills with restless energy. He wants to stop at the corner of Cooper and Front. He tells us to wait and hustles into a building, then back. He wants to go to the Flats. No, he wants to get his friends. We tail two women and the male friend down the street as our guy tries to talk them into getting in the cab.
One woman keeps looking at me and asking, "Who's that?"
They walk on. The ride wants to go to the Flats again and so we drive down. When we stop, a swarm of youths comes out of a building across the street. The ride wants to make a deal. Brad tells him to get out of the cab, "I don't do this, man," he says. But the guy stays put.
"Just wait for me, man," the ride says anxiously.
"Get out of the cab."
"Just wait for me. Wait for me."
"Get out of the cab," Brad says gruffly.
"You guys wanna smoke some rock?"
"No," Brad says.
"C'mon. How 'bout you?" the guy asks, looking at me.
"No, I don't do coke," I explain politely.
The ride ponders this, sitting silently. Then his eyes get wild.
"Hey, are you guys all right, man? Are you all right?" He's noticed my notepad.
"We're all right," I say, "Don't worry about it."
"They call me 'Taco,' " he says, getting out and slamming the door.
It's 2:30am and Brad has pulled down a hundred hard bucks. It's time to go home and go to bed. We gas up and turn the cab in. On the way home in our own quiet car, on wide-open streets with no strangers, drunks or druggies in the back, Brad puts his hand on my leg, smiles and says, "I'm glad you came with me tonight."
From the Jan. 4-10, 1996 issue of Metro Santa Cruz
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