Ken Pool

Like Britney Spears, I'm Back

I'm back to Taxi Vignettes. I'll start with my encounter with Santana!!!

A Christmas Play on Life

Last December I picked up a woman who had a most extraordinary European business trip. I'll call her Ella. Her trip started out routinely enough. Everything was going as scripted. What Ella hadn't planned on was two days of the bizarre.

Ella was sitting at the front end of a rail car on a high-speed train that was nearing Zurich, when without warning there was a flash followed by a deafening bang. She feared her hearing might be nearly lost. It took hours for the pain to subside. Had she been riding in the car just ahead, surly she would have been injured or killed. She was happy to be alive. She later found it odd that there was no mention of the incident in the news, local or otherwise.

That next day in Zurich, though still shook up, Ella managed a successful meeting. She was looking forward to retiring to her hotel room to enjoy a nice hot shower, but it wasn't to be. One of the men coerced her into having dinner with his girlfriend. The businessman insisted that he would 'seal the deal' if Ella would have a night out with his girlfriend, for she was desperate for a woman's company; she needed someone to share girl talk with.

Around eight that night an exhausted Ella found herself in a five star restaurant with the girlfriend, a Paris Hilton look-alike. On entering the room the girlfriend caused diners to stop mid-bite and the wait staff to scurry about.

They had barely been seated at the table when the girlfriend with tears in her eyes began to tell Ella her, up to that point, life story. She had been born into great wealth, which she said was for the most part from oil money. She hated it. The damned dirty oil had murdered her mother. Actually her stepfather had murdered her mother over the oil riches. She just knew it! She stopped just long enough, while wiping her nose, to order dinner.

Abruptly, the girlfriend stood up and announced she needed some air, and walked out. Ella said she welcomed the chance to be alone. Since boarding the train the day before her life had felt unreal, as if she were acting out a part on a theater stage.

The girlfriend returned, but she wasn't alone. As she walked in with a man on each arm, two chairs were added to the table. The girlfriend explained to Ella, "These poor men need to eat!" They were strangers she had met while out for a smoke.

Eating four very expensive meals, Ella and the men heard more of the girlfriend's determination to bring to justice the stepfather who had killed her mother. Her sobs were soon all that was heard in the room. When the girlfriend realized that she was causing a scene she stood up, raised her glass and with an apology to the entire restaurant announced, "Dinner is on me!"

In Ella's driveway as I was taking her bags out of the back of the taxi she said, "Look at this." Ella had wrapped herself in a beautiful grey fur scarf. The girlfriend had insisted Ella might be cold on her way home.

To me, Ella said, "Damned dirty oil, indeed."

SWIPE IT - SWIPE IT GOOD

Cab Yard Sign -- instructing the dispatcher and phone people how to clock in.

The Last Time

I don't scare easily, after all I am a taxi driver. I do spend a good deal of time in or around airports though, and there is a new fear or caution that lurks in the back of my mind.

I was at SFO in the baggage claim area for American Airlines when I noticed a man staring at my Yellow Cab badge. He set a black bag down at my feet and said, "I'll be back." (Without the accent) as he turned and sprinted up the stairs.

The man didn't look like a cold-blooded terrorist. He was tall, thin, a dressed in blue jeans and t-shirt 30ish good-looking black man. After what were only a few minutes that felt longer, he returned; removed his backpack and placed it next to the bag. Again he went upstairs.

I did not appreciate being an unwilling accomplice to a possibly explosive situation, but he didn't look like a bad guy. Did he?

I had just about had it with the guy, and was about to walk away when he reappeared.
Digging into the backpack, he pulled out a small black computer. He set it on a chair, grabbed his other stuff and walked around the corner leaving me to go up in flames.

No loud boom and I didn't vaporize. Suddenly standing next to me, he said in a soft nearly inaudible voice, "Thanks" as he left for the last time with his final possession.

Why hadn't I said something to begin with? Why didn't I tell him, "Sorry, but you can't do that." I need to get over being polite, because the next time might be...might be the last time.

SFO - Need I Say More?

Only an Earthquake

Last night at 8:04pm I was just about to do a bad, bad thing - eat. Parked well into the drive-thru lane at an In-N-Out Burger, getting the $2.15 ready, the cab began to shake. Something was very wrong. Stuck in a drive-thru up near SFO...the trouble I would be in!!! I would miss the flight that was due in soon. Even worse, I would have totally messed up the burger orders. Boy, was I glad when I realized it was ONLY an earthquake.*


*The Calaveras Fault produced this magnitude-5.6 quake. It did no serious damage if you don't count the damage done to our shaky sense of safety.