Except when it's going on in the back of my cab.
I pick this couple up on Northeast Sandy Boulevard, and they want to go to a motel on 82nd. No problem. She could be any age between 18 and 35-it's hard to tell sometimes. The young girl who works seven nights a week to feed a crank habit can look older than her mother back home in whatever town she left.
Him, though-him I don't like. He looks like someone who might hit her a little bit; he's definitely in this for the power thing as much as for the sex. And he's exercising that power right now, murmuring something in her ear. I keep a wary eye on the rearview mirror. She's shaking her head slightly. I can tell he's giving her another bill.
Sure enough, her head disappears from view. I am not happy. I hear the zipper going down. I see him close his eyes in the rear view; he opens them again and gives me a "what are you gonna do about it?" look.
What I'm gonna do about it is hit that pothole I spotted up ahead at about 45 mph. The car lurches; he yelps in pain. I stifle a laugh.
And after she's come back into view herself, I swear she looks like she wants to laugh, too.