"Excuse me, the no-smoking signs in the cab are not restricted to tobacco."

[January 11th, 2006] "Excuse me, the no-smoking signs in the cab are not restricted to tobacco." This is what I want to say. Instead, I can't help myself: "What the fuck do you think you're doing, smoking meth in my cab?!"

Before I took this guy out to Beaverton to visit his daughter, he had me stop and buy him a bottle of Sutter Home. He told me of his travails with his daughter's mother; now that she'd lost 60 pounds, she wanted to play the field. That he was going to see his 8-year-old daughter after midnight didn't seem right, but who am I to argue over parenting skills?

Once we arrived, he asked if he could call me directly to come back for him. I handed him a card. At 3 am, as the bar rush was ending, he called. Perfect. When I pulled up, he brought his daughter out to "meet the nice lady." She was lovely, and I told him so once he saw her back to the house. But no number of compliments could assuage his mood; he was almost crying and got very quiet. Quiet enough that I clearly heard the flick-flick-flick of his lighter.

I now realize that he didn't want the wine to give to the woman—he wanted the foil off of the cork. Normally he'd have been out on his ass immediately, but considering the night he's had, I settle for making him put it away. At least he doesn't try to offer me a hit in lieu of fare.