July 16th, 2008
The obese old woman at Fred Meyer has a bad hip and a wheelchair...8 comments
July 9th, 2008
“...I need to take a shower first and wash all of this blood off.”6 comments
July 2nd, 2008
“So I’ve got these two women in the back of my cab who just refuse to get out...”8 comments
June 25th, 2008
“My friend’s getting divorced, and he’s really drunk,” says the bartender...8 comments
June 18th, 2008
There’s nothing like a good Friday night, and I’m referring to the money.3 comments
June 11th, 2008
The old man in the karaoke bar’s parking lot insists that he doesn’t need any help...0 comments
June 4th, 2008
“What’re you up to?” asks my dispatcher.6 comments
May 28th, 2008
The middle-aged guy is working on an oil ship...3 comments
May 21st, 2008
“How you doing tonight, man?”3 comments
May 14th, 2008
As I pull into the back parking lot of Spot 79 on Southeast Foster Road...13 comments
[April 6th, 2005] Most cab drivers have an area where they tend to gravitate, be it downtown Portland or downtown Gresham. I prefer to work in Northeast and North Portland, although I go wherever the orders are waiting.
The only area I genuinely loathe working in is Southeast 82nd and its surrounds, popularly known as Felony Flats. But tonight things are dead; my computer screen tells me there are five cabs sitting in Northeast, six in the Hawthorne area, yet there are orders waiting out in the Flats. I sigh and take an order for-yes, I guessed it-a bar on Foster Road! A bar from which, I might add, I have never taken a passenger for more than a mile, or four dollars (sweaty, smoky, crumpled dollars).
Tonight is no exception. The guy is skinny, with the bad teeth you get from doing too much meth. He hasn't bathed in God knows how long. I roll down the windows, grit my teeth and reflect upon just how much money I've spent on my education. Unfortunately that gets me thinking about how smell actually works, and the knowledge that I now have molecules from this guy's funk sticking to the epithelial cells of my nose and mouth makes me want to puke.
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I pull over at the address he gave me, only to discover he has disappeared. With some trepidation, I look down over the back of my seat. He has passed out. His wallet is open on the back seat; he has taken a ten out of it. I take the ten and head up the steps to get someone to help him.
