Sunday, November 30, 2003

Before today, gentle reader, I had only a single dismal memory of Wolley Cabs. Two years ago, one of their finest didn’t know how to stay on Sheridan Road, and this little hiccup resulted in a seventy dollar cab ride. As luck would have it, I scored another Wolley Cab while waiting for transportation at the airport. I stepped into the cab only to find the most colorful character ever to wield a Ford. This fellow was short, wiry, and sported a nasty hacking cough that suggested chain smoking and then some.

My first impressions of the Wolley Mammoth were not sterling, as he tried to schlep meter-and-a-half on my normally straight meter route. After I read aloud part of Mayor Daley’s Bill of Cab Rights, we sat in silence for a good ten minutes. Clean, wholesome language, however, was clearly not a requirement in the good Bill, and thank goodness for that.

“F*ckers!” he shouted in his indeterminate South American accent, pointing at a car that zoomed by us. “These people, they think it’s a game. They goin’ 75, 80, and they’re going to get f*cking nailed. Me, I know how to drive.”

“Yeah, these people are nuts,” I muttered, not entirely sure how to respond.

“Four kids, they got killed in a crash,” he said. “What, did all of them fall asleep? Someone got f*cked, that’s for sure. F*ck.” He started hacking like a madman.

As we rounded a curve, he whispered, “Look, there they are.”

I wasn’t entirely sure who “they” included, but I played along and looked toward the horizon. I didn’t see anyone and neither did he. He was beginning to look disappointed when we flashed by two coppers who had nabbed their prey.

The Wolley Mammoth flashed me a triumphant look, and truth be told I was impressed. I decided to press him for more driving tips.

He shared another morsel as we glided over a small hill.

“You’ve got to ease the gas to 65 when you go over these hills,” he said. “Otherwise the motherf*ckers will be on you before you know it.”

I continued to press him for more rules of the road, war stories, and other tips, and he delivered them in fine fashion, spouting enough “f*cks” to line the road from here to Babylon and back. I briefly considered sharing with him the various noun forms of the F-bomb–“f*ckery,” or according to the inimitable Diotrans, “f*ckage”–when he gave me the three rules of the road.

“Look,” he leveled with me, “you just have to remember three things. First, you’ve got to swear like a motherf*cker.”

He paused here and started laughing until he was cut short by phlegm-filled hacking.

“Also remember to not get angry,” he said. “And never get out of your car. It’s not safe. You never know what the f*ck someone might–“

“Be packing?” I finished.

He nodded.

There were a few wrong turns and an uncomfortable lesson on road rage (“You people–Japanese, Chinese, all of you–are disciplined. I’ve got to give you credit. I can honk at you, curse at you, and you just don’t hear it. You got all the time in the world. Whites like me are pretty bad. And blacks are even worse.”). He lit up in the car (“Eh, you’re almost home anyway.”). On the whole, though, we got along amicably, and Rules Two and Three seem to be true.

Grand total? Forty-two dollars with tip. I dare you to tell me that’s not a fine deal. Now f*ck off, dear reader. Just kidding. Now f*ck off.