A Whale's Tale

One of the County van drivers recently quit on short notice, and my route was expanded to include some of his route's passengers. These new passengers all live in another town or two about 15 miles from where my route centers. On my Official List are 5 women, 4 at one pickup point, the other at the local community college.

On Day One, the 4 women at the job training center were all "no shows." I then drove the half mile to the college and picked up Tammy, who is a year away from her Associates Degree in Accounting. After some small introductory talk, I got around to asking about my new passengers; who was a regular no-show, who was usually punctual etc. Tammy related that two were permanent no-shows- that she's never seen them and are on the paperwork for no apparent reason i.e. Basic Gummint Red Tape. Of the other two, Bianca is a once, maybe twice a week pickup, and then there's Kristy.

"What's wrong with Kristy?" I ask. I could tell in Tammy's voice that there's a problem with Kristy.

Tammy replies, "She smells."

Me: "B.O.?"

Tammy: "No. B.B.O.- Beyond Body Odor. But it ain't body odor. It's uh..." She hesitates.

I look in the rear view mirror, my eyebrows arched inquisitively.

Tammy purses her lips and says, "She got "lady problems.' "

Me: "Oh no. God no."

She: "BIG TIME."

Me: "Like, how bad?"

Tammy: "Last week we were driving in the rain, and I asked Vick to open his

window and I had my head out in the rain for 15 miles on the highway rather than breathe in that stank!" She continued, "Nick called her CW (Case Worker) to complain, and when she got in the van that afternoon..." Me: Wait! Wait! Wait! This was in the morning?"

Tammy: "Oh yeah, and it gets worse during the day..."

Me: "Oh geez. And summer's coming. "

Tammy continued, "So when Kristy gets back in the van in the afternoon, she yells and me and Vick and Bianca, telling us if we got something to say to her, say it to her face. We're all thinking that we're trying to save her from the humiliation, but dayamn bitch! So we all said, 'Yeah girl you stink!' And she just sat there all pissed off, stinking as bad as ever."

I worried over this for a bit, but since I'd broken my nose three times earlier in life, my sense of smell, is luckily, greatly diminished. I figured it couldn't be that bad.

Day Two, I drive to the job training center and see there's one woman waiting for me. She has to weigh 350 pounds and can barely get off the curb to trundle to the van. I pray that this is Bianca.

Alas, no.

Kristy heaves her mass into the front seat of the van, 4 feet way from me. She smiles and introduces herself. She seems perfectly nice. And then....

WOOOOOOF!

Ak!

I am quickly enveloped by a scent. No, a cloud. No. More like a thick fog. But a fog on a very hot day. Down at the docks. After the fleet has unloaded today's catch. 3 hours after, and they're out of ice.

Ooooof!

I put on the AC full blast on my face to keep the stench away from my olfactory nerves. I feel as if I'll need to burn my clothes once I get home.

I drive the van to pick up Tammy and she gets in. I turn and give her a "damn you weren't kidding" look and she shrugs and gives me a smirk.

We drive the next 15 miles making small talk, taking very short breaths.

As we arrive at an intersection where Kristy is 2 miles to the right, and Tammy a mile to the left, I say, "Kristy it's your lucky day. I picked you up first, so you go home first!" She's glad to hear this and we drop her off.

As soon as Kristy is inside her house, I turn to Tammy and say, "Gurl you weren't kidding! Oh-My God!"

Tammy replies, "Oh no! Today was a GOOD day!"

Oh god. I gotta make a complaint to my supervisor. I can't handle this. And now I realize that the funk is still in the van. Kristy is still with us! So I drop Tammy at her house, and I call my supervisor to tell him all about it. He mentions Vick's previous complaint, so there's a record of this and it might be possible to lay down the law to Kristy or lose her van privileges. As for me, I'm bringing a bottle of Febreeze and car pine trees tomorrow.

Day 3 comes, and Kristy gets in. I give a careful sniff as she hauls herself up. Hmmm. Nothing. Well, not nothing, but quite a bit of perfume. Maybe her CW said something to her and she did as best she could now that she'd left her house. Tammy wasn't on the van so we drove along making small talk. Hopefully problem fixed.

Day 4. A slight whiff of Kristy, but nothing too overpowering. Hmmm. It's Friday. We'll see how things are on Monday.

Monday comes around and I pick Kristy up at a local nursing home, where she's taking different job training. She's got her size 63 scrubs on and before she hoists her right cankle into the van I am overwhelmed by Low Tide at Seaweed Beach. This is waaaay worse than last week!

This time I roll down both windows and crank the air directly on my face. I aim the other vents to hopefully force the funk between us and towards the back of the van. But it's futile. I am breathing so shallowly I feel as if I may pass out while driving. I consider stopping at a drug store to buy some Vicks Vapo-Rub to put under my nose like they do on the cop shows when they have to dig up some decomposing body. But I just drive as fast as I can and dump the stinky beast as soon as I can. I then use half a bottle of Febreeze and I rub the pine trees on every soft surface in the van. By the time I get to my next stop, it seems the funk is gone. At least I hope so, and it's not that it's just that I'm now "used to it" and can't smell it anymore. And my next passengers think it's me! But nobody says anything and the rest of the run goes on without incident.

It's now been two full weeks. Kristy is running at about a 50/50 rate of full stenchitude. And now I'm at the point where next week I will flat refuse to take her in the van. I take guys who work at the county dump, who smell pretty bad when they get in, but they can't help it. It's part of where they work. And they are often apologetic and try to sit in the far back seats. I take a guy who is a short order cook in a hot kitchen. He's been sweating profusely all day, and he gets in and doesn't smell because he's had the common decency to wash up in the bathroom at the end of his shift.

But Kristy is either too lazy or too fat to reach everywhere she needs to reach to wash herself properly. That is foulness of the highest order. I f she can't reach, she needs to lose weight, or at least buy a long towel so she can floss herself so the rest of the world isn't subject to her nastiness.

She's been spoken to about it by the people who are trying to train her so she can get a job. But she will never be hired stinking like she does!

For me, my charitable feelings stop at the end of my nose. Next week, if she gets in and she smells, I'm tossing her out.

Who's Yo Daddy?

Overheard a few weeks ago from the back of the van:

Shaneekqua and Tikina are both 23. Tikina is 7 months pregnant.

S: Hey don't I know you?

T: Yeah I seen you 'round.

S: Where you live?

T: Over on Dubois.

S: Oh yeah, I know dat. I live 'round the corner on Washington. When you havin' yo' baby?

T: 'bout 2 months.

S: You got a man?

T: Oh yeah. Good man. He old though.

S: Like how old?

T: He like almost 50. But he around and he pays fo' shit.

S: Tha's cool. My daddy don't pay for shit no way.

T: But he around yo' daddy?

S: Oh yeah, he live with us mos' nights.

T: Where he at the other nights?

S: Don't know, don't care honey. He a asshole anyway.

T: What his name?

S: Rocco

T: You say Rocco?

S: Hayell yeah. Why?

T: Tha's my babydaddy's name! Rocco Williams.

S: Shit gurl Rocco Williams is my daddy!

T: Oh dayum gurl! We be cousins....or somethin......

I assume Rocco had an interesting evening that night.

Earnest Annie and Ricky the Leech

Besides driving the taxi, I drive a full-size van for the county's work-fare program.

Most of my passengers are in one sort of job training or another. The women are generally young mothers with small children, most of whom are taking classes and the local vocational school run by the county, training for careers as nursing or medical assistants. Some are training in the county offices as administrative assistants or data processors. There are classes they take that teach them what I'd consider basic work skills- like knowig how to dress and act in an interview, or how to properly answer a phone in a business situation.

There are also a smaller percentage of guys on the van. Most are doing their workfare at the county landfill, picking up and sorting trash and recyclables. Some are helping at at the county motor pool and some are working in the kitchen at the county's luncheonette at the occupational therapy center.

Mostly it's low-level, menial work, but these are the people who have virtually no job skills who would otherwise be sitting home and collection welfare checks. At least, with this program, the county gets some cheap labor and the people get to build some experience for when they go out into the real world to apply for jobs.

This all being said, yes, there are some folks in this program who are only doing it because they're required to so they can get their welfare checks. But the vast majority ARE doing it to hopefully better their situations. To work their way off of the public dole. Which to me, as one of the taxpaying public, is all I can ask.

So I'll give you two sample stories from the back of the van....

Ricky is a native southern Californian, about 20 years old. He's no genius- far from it in fact. I doubt his IQ is higher than 100. According to him, he got involved in some gang stuff in Long Beach and after being shot in the leg, the police recommended to him that he leave the state. That's the extent of the details, except to say that his parents were separated and he is now living with his grandfather in a very nice house bordering on some stables in the local horse country. Ricky is supposed to be training in the culinary arts by mopping up and bussing tables at the Occupation Therapy Center luncheonette. (We call it the Zombie Café). From what Ricky tells, he works hard and is sure to get a job soon in a restaurant. From the people in the van who know and see him regularly, he does the bare minimum to keep the job so he doesn't get "sanctioned" - having deductions taken from his welfare check. Ricky misses days without calling in. He misses appointments with his case worker. And he hits on every woman who gets in the van, no matter how old, how many kids, her mood or what she looks like. The basic shotgun approach. So far, I have yet to see him hit hit a "target."

So a few weeks ago, Ricky's eligibility for daily van service was running over-budget and his program was changed. It'd been decided that a year of ET (Employment Training) was enough, and that he should be going out for the next few weeks to search for employment. He would be off the van for a few weeks.

He'd had a meeting with his case worker one day and this is the conversation I heard between him and Annie in the back of the van;

Annie: So what'd your See-Dub (Case Worker) say?

Ricky: She gave me paperwork and told me to come back in 3 weeks.

A: What's the paperwork?

R: I dunno.

A: What do you mean you don't know?

R: I think I'm s'posta fill it out when I go look for jobs.

{In fact, Ricky is almost correct. He is "sposta" have the forms filled out and signed by anyone he goes to interview with for a job as proof that he's out there looking}

A: Are you gonna do it?

R: Fuck no. I ain't getting' no job!

A: They're gonna sanction you if you don't!

R: I'll worry about that then and I'll go meet with the See Dub to straighten it out.....

I felt like throwing him off the van right then and there, but I'm am but a lowly driver. I did, however recount the story to my department head, who said he's call Ricky's Case Worker so she could be extra careful if/when he brings in his paperwork in a few weeks.

Story 2:

Annie (yes the previously mentioned Annie) is a 28 year old single mother of 2 kids, 4 and 6 years old. She'd been working as a waitress and is living in a local dive at the edge of town. She's decided to go back to school to get her CNA (Certified Nursing Assistant) certification at the local Vo-Tech school. For Annie, she's lucky enough that her mom can take care of her kids while she's in school. Annie, also no genius, is earnest in trying to work her way out of her situation. She never misses a day, keeps her paperwork in order and busts her butt as I see her studying her schoolwork for the 1/2 hour ride home each night. She gets home at about 5, deals with her kids until they're in bed, studies until late, and is back on the van at 6:20 every morning.

Her biggest problem recently was that her physician's office lost the results of the first half of a TB test she had to take so she could go to take her practical classes at a local nursing home. The practical classes are only given few a few weeks at a time, about 6 weeks apart, and since her TB results were lost and the re-done test results wouldn't be done in time, she's now sitting at home until the next go-round of practical classes. All because some med-tech can't find her test results.

So yeah, there ARE some poster children for the "welfare leech" on the van. And yeah, these people aren't swimming in the deep end of the gene pool, but the ones who've made their mistakes- be it having kids too early or one kind of addiction or another, or just plain stupidity that causes bad judgment, most of them are trying to make a better life for themselves. Welfare seems to be their last hope and last line of help. The workfare is at least not a hand-out, but to them, a hand UP.

As I say each night as I lock up the van and walk to my car, "It's better to be driving the van that riding in it."

No Hot Chicks

So one of the first questions my friends asked when I told them I was driving a cab was, "You drive around any hot chicks?" My answer is, "No. Rule Number 3 of the Hot Chick Code is: Hot chicks don't pay for cabs. Hot chicks get rides."* So no, in the 8 months I've been behind the wheel, I have never, not once, had a woman in my cab that I would even remotely consider attractive.

Yes there are semi-exceptions to this rule. If you are a hot chick and you are traveling on business via air to another city, you are exempt, and are allowed to pay for a cab. This is only a semi-exception, because you are not really paying for the cab anyway. Your company is.

* This rule does not apply in New York City, where cabs are the public transport mode of choice for hot chicks. In NYC, Rule Number 3 is amended to read: Hot chicks don't ride the subway.

Friday Night Jimmy

One of the nicer things about the cab company for which I drive is that they don't stay open too late. Only 10pm on Friday and Saturday nights, so we don't get a lot of serious drunks calling for rides home. The owners decided it just wasn't worth the hassles to stay open a few hours later, and having to deal with the headaches of dealing with these passengers.

What headaches? Drunks who call for a cab from two companies and take the first one who shows up.

Drunks who, when they call to tell you to pick them up, can't exactly tell you where they are, or conversely, when they get in the cab, can't tell you where they need to go.

And of course, there are those who can't hold their liquor, nor their urine, nor their dinner.

Some can just be plain belligerent, or accuse the driver of stealing from them when they can't find or correctly count their money.

So you see, there are a number of scenarios when dealing with the inebriated, and very few of them are good.

Oh, sure, sometimes you have a nice happy drunk who will tell you his Grand Philosophy of Life, and this can be entertaining as you drive and listen to them expound on the Deeper Meaning of Things.

But usually, it's better to stick to sober passengers. Even ones who don't tip.

So on this one Friday evening, the calls were running slow, and I was hanging out inside the dispatcher's booth at about 9pm. A slightly disheveled middle-aged guy walks in to the lobby. He's got a pronounced limp, and it's obvious he's "just not right." My dispatcher recognizes him immediately and greets him with a cheerful, "How ya doin' Jimmy?!" She then turns to me and tells me to take Jimmy home, up in Wurley Heights (not the real name of the place).

I lead Jimmy out the door and to the cab and we get in. Jimmy is hard to understand, and I'm pretty sure he's had some sort of stroke in the past. I'm chalking his strangeness up to some sort of malady. The stroke, maybe MS or Cerebral Palsy. Jimmy slurs the address to me and we head out for the short 4 mile drive.

I ask Jimmy what he does, and he replies that he used to be a cop, but now he's retired on disability. "Ahah," I think, "He was shot in the head, or had some sort of loss of oxygen to the brain, and this is why he's this way."

Wurley Heights is built on a couple of large hills, and Jimmy's street runs up and down one of them. The modest bi-level homes are built on stepped lots, where the 10 feet downhill of one lot's driveway is a sharp berm down to the flat of the next home's flat front lawn.

We pull up to a house, where Jimmy says, "This is it." He hands me a $20 bill for the $7.50 fare and says, "Keep it." "Jimmy, this is too much!" I reply, but he waves his hand and says "Don't worry abouddit," and gets out of the car. I stuff the $20 in my pocket and log the fare on my clipboard.

I'm about to pick up the microphone to radio in that I'm all clear, when I see Jimmy sort of stagger across the driveway I'm in front of, and then he takes a step off the berm and rolls ass over teakettle down the berm onto the lawn below. He lay there momentarily, fully splayed on his back. The little gym bag he'd been carrying being flung about 20 feet from him. I sit there for a second and watch as he struggles to his feet, but he's really having a difficult time. So I jump out of the cab and go over to help him.

He's now on his neighbor's lawn and needs to go back up the hill, but as I grab his arm to lead him, he motions to go to the front door of the house on whose lawn we're on. Apparently he'd told me to stop at the wrong house.

What I also realize, something I hadn't noticed up to this point, is that Jimmy stinks of alcohol. It dawns on me that Jimmy isn't a poor cop/hero who is paying the price for taking a bullet. Jimmy is just hammered!

I retrieve the far-flung gym-bag and hoist Jimmy under his right arm, and lead him to the porch. He stands there, wobbling, searching his pocket for his keys. At this point I'm still not convinced we're actually at the right house, but after a minute of watching Jimmy mutter to himself as he flicks through his key ring, he steadies himself with the classic forehead-on-the-door technique (also a popular technique often used at urinals) and the door pops open.

I head back to the cab, thinking that while I did get a nice tip, at least I earned it with a good deed.

I cue the mike and call in to dispatch. "Car 3, clear." Mindy replies, "Ah so what do you think of Jimmy?" I can hear laughter in her voice. I told her of my initial impression, and then how wrong it was, and how I had to rescue Jimmy to get him home. "Well at least you earned that tip!" Mindy guffawed. Apparently Jimmy does this every Friday night, but the other drivers know to just take the money, and of course, to drop him in front of the right house.

Intro

I'm not a cab driver. I'm not a van driver. But somehow, through a long set of circumstances, my career as a creative director and marketing exec seems to have stalled out after 25 years.

So since I do love to drive just about any kind of vehicle, I've been earning a paycheck for the past 6 months driving a cab for the local on-call taxi company in the exurban county in which I live. I also recently started to drive a full-size passenger van for the county government's work-fare program.

Both of these jobs have given me new insights, and a new perspective on the relatively poor people who've been in the back seats of my vehicles. And I thought this forum would be a good place to start expressing these insights, some of which are poignant, some funny, and some downright aggravating.

Enjoy......