More Violence.

"He tried to kidnap you? Are you OK?"
"I turned it into a story, so I'm fine."

Update on the Ella situation: We've been in touch. She has filed for divorce and pressed charges against her husband. The police has also been in touch with me to get my side of the story. All is well in that part of the world, for now at least.

All right. Tonight, we're going to talk about something a little less pleasant. After this, there will be more fun entries, trust me. Until then, be patient and horrified.

Ever since having that nice trip back in Easter, I've been on the lookout for signs of trauma. Once it happened, I took two weeks off, and then I was back on track. During those two weeks, I was on the lookout for signs of trauma -nightmares, anxiety, mood swings, all that stuff- but aside from one dream of some crazy DJ with way too many knives, it seemed I had emerged from it unscathed. Then I went back to work.

The first hour of that shift felt really weird. I felt like I was being chased, or like I'd forgotten something. I couldn't concentrate on work. I drove my fares, I dropped people off, received payment and my mind was never in the moment. I called a friend of mine (who is both a shrink and a designer of logos for cab blogs) because what else could I have done?

I told her that I  felt like I was being chased, and while I wasn't panicking just yet, I would if this intensified. She outlined a few options, told me to call her if I had to (the subtext being that she expected me to get my shit together), and I thanked her. And suddenly, all the fear, all the stress just melted off me. The very act of talking was apparently enough to put me straight in the zone. I got back on track, and that night I was a god among cab drivers.

Also known as 'shiny and chrome'. 

Since then, I've been fine. No signs of trauma - nothing. Just life, rolling on as it should.

That being said, there have been some signs that I'm not entirelly out of the woods. I have become more sensetive to potentially threatening situations. And I'm not talking about the general tension that might come with having a bunch of badass motherfuckers in my cab, or for that member any member of any group that I am (however unwillingly) prejudiced against. Rather, there's something more real to it.

I used to be able to drive gangsters, junkies, and other creatures of the night without much trouble. Sure, I'd be tense and careful, but then I'd just keep rolling. But there's been a couple of incidents this summer that, for lack of better words, have given that tension and carefulness a cold sharpness. The fear has become specific and pointed, rather than nebulous and vague.

Does that make sense?

I mean, there was a time when I could witness horrible stuff and awful misery  and keep on rolling. I've received threats, I've been slapped, I've witnessed robberies and I've had shit stolen out of my car. And every time, it's scared me, pissed me off, or saddened me. Often I've quit early, but the next night I'm back on track.

However, (and thank you for your patience, because now I'm getting to the point),  a while back there was an incident that really messed me up mentally, leaving me in a really shitty mood well into the next day.

_______________________

Can I get a witness?

2nd Long Street, which one of several drags that surrounds Iron Square, used to be a wretched hive of scum and villainy. I'm talking seedy bars, sticky strip clubs and sex shops, drug dealers, drunken brawls, regular muggings... like a sliver of some nasty pulp noir inserted into the well manicured foot of the city. Of course, I shouldn't single out this particular street: this city has a history of class inequality and corruption - it is only in recent years that gentrification has forced most of the dark (and sadly, economically vulnerable) elements of society out of its heart and into the suburbs. 

Case in point, where 2nd Long Street used to be like something out of a Scorcese movie, it has now become a trendy place for hipsters, bohemians, metalheads and pretty much anyone who is tickled by pretending that they don't truly belong to society. The beer is cheap (except where its not), the bars are chic (and often seedy in a way that is pleasant and cozy, rather than creepy), and where the sex shop once was all stainless steel, and easily wiped plastic, it is now more akin to a pharmacy filled with porn.

Ask your doctor if porn is right for you.

Progress has tamed 2nd Long Street. The only truly seedy elements left are the strip clubs (though I've never been inside them, so for all I know they could be top class establishments) and the dudes that hang out by the 7-11 at point where the street opens up to Iron Square. These guys are a varied bunch; mostly, they are in the business of unliscensed transportation of people to where they want to go (what we around here call "dark taxi drivers", while muttering a curse under our breaths). A fair few of them, however, are in the business of  dealing drugs and or mugging hapless drunken party people. Either way, they hang around there, reminding us all that humanity is forever a source of the best and the worst.

So, a few nights ago, I had stopped at 2nd Long, awaiting my next fare. It is a busy place and used to be a favourite fishing ground of mine. Next to me, right outside the passenger door, there was a gaggle of the aforementioned shady dudes (easily identified by the fact that they're drinking their own booze and constantly scanning the people around them like a bunch of homicidal meerkats).

I didn't spare them a thought, aside from confirming that they existed. I leant back in my seat and started playing with my phone, quietly awaiting the inevitable sqawk of the comm, or the knock at the window-

Pictured: "playing with my phone"

Suddenly, there was a thump on the passenger side. I looked up in time to see the shape of a man stumble past, leaving a streak of foam accross the windows of my car. The bad dudes were on their feet, yelling furiously at him. I rolled down the window a bit, curious about the commotion.

What I saw was this:
A guy in his early middle age, thick around the waist, dressed in khaki cargo shorts, with a half-empty glass of beer in his hand was standing there, wobbling, outraged. The bad dudes were shouting at him. I gathered that the guy had either bumped into them, spilled beer on them, or "sprayed" them with something (presumably beer).

A bunch of them approached him, while the others tried to hold him back. This happened a few times - back and forth. Hold my beer, man! Hold me back! The usual male bravado. By this time, Cargo Shorts was leaning against a doorway, shouting something about him not having done anything. The bad dudes were shouting back at him.

Suddenly they ganged up on him and pushed him into the doorway. I couldn't see what was going on; for all I knew, they were simply surrounding him in order to scare him. Even so, I felt that the situation was getting a little too hairy. In fact, I felt fear. An echo of the ice cold horror I felt when my insane passenger revealed to me just where we were heading. I decided that this shit had to end, before it went too far.

I called the cops, and explained the situation. By now, they probably have an entire profile on me, filed under the "morally uptight people who take up way too much phone-time" section. I suggested they send someone just to break up the situation. As I spoke, two of the thugs returned to their spot outside my window. So I rolled up the window and picked up a book.

"All right..." said the woman on the other end. "Can you describe them?"

I gave them as thorough a description as I could, which meant nothing. They were all dressed very blandly, all had buzzcuts. One guy had a well kempt beard.


Can you see the victim? Is he still there?"

"Not sure," I said. "The perps are right outside my window right now, so I don't really want to look up. I could circle the block and take a look."

"Do so."

So I started the engine, and rolled off. Up a along Linnaeus street. In on Third Long Street (which is a one way street, because I am a goddamn rebel!) and down Northhome Street back to Second Long. I saw a small black kid, all sinew and bone running at top speed past my car, and after him came lumbering a thickset fellow in early middle age, wearing cargo shorts.

"Hold on," I said. "I think I'm seeing the guy now."

I rolled down the window. Cargo Shorts stopped outside my car, gasping for breath.

"FOLLOW THAT GUY!" he wheezed. "He took my wallet!"

Now how's that for a shitty night? First get beaten up by one gang of thugs, and then have your wallet stolen by some random thief. And it was random. The kid had not been one of the bad dudes out side of my car. Race tends to matter in those circles.

"Are you the guy they jumped a moment ago?" I asked.

"Yes, they kicked the shit out of me! Follow him!"

By now, the thief had dashed down Third Long, and making his way into Pasture, an area neighbouring Linnaeus. It was way too late.

"Sorry man, but..."

"CALL THE COPS!"

"I got the cops on the phone right now," I said and turned my attention back to the lady in my ear. "All right, I got the guy."

"Good. There's two cars in your area right now."

I opened the door and let the guy inside. "You OK, man?"

"No, I'm not OK! They kicked my head in!"

Indeed. His face and neck were bruised, and his eye was swelling. The patrol car pulled up next too my car.

"I'm glad you're here," I said. "A bunch of guys beat this guy up, and then someone stole his wallet."

"All right, where is the thief?" said the head officer, all jawbone and ice cold eyes.

I stared at him.
"Are you fucking kidding me? The kid ran into Pasture, but that's beside the point. The people who beat this guy up are literally around the corner, and you want to follow some random pickpocket?"

"Can you describe them?"

"I just described them to  your dispatch. Haven't they been in touch with you? Is this a joke?"

All the while, the lady in dispatch kept asking me questions. I was trying to comfort the dude in the car, answer questions professionally, as well as being morally indignant with the cops. I was in no fucking mood.

The lady on the phone said: "All right, calm down now. Can you see the number on the patrol car?"

This was a mess. The people at the cab dispatch can keep track of every single cab through GPS, but I had to inform this lady which of her cops were with me? At this point, it wouldn't have surprised me if a hundred capering clowns came tumbling out of the patrol car.

"Yes," I said, clenching my teeth. "Sorry. Its Patrol car KK-47."

"Good. I'll take it from here," she hung up. The cops spoke briefly on the phone. Then Officer Jawline looked at me. "Head back to 2nd Long Street and talk to our colleagues. See if you can point out the perpetrators."

Nevermind the fact that the thugs would've dispersed the moment the cops arrived. Again, that fear. That sinking, cold dread.

We're going to have a nice trip together.

If I went back there and pointed them out, they'd know my face. I wouldn't just be some random cabby that happened to be there when shit went down - I'd be a snitch. Someone to keep an eye out for. And while I don't look particularly remarkable for a cabby (most of us develop a softness of face and belly, and a deadness of eye in due course of our work), I did not need to be on the radar of anyone capable of jumping some random sap in front of witnesses.

"You want me to go back there?"

"Of course," said Officer Jawline.

"And what's going to stop them from fucking me up down the line?"

He looked at me like I was an idiot. "They won't. We'll be there."

Sure, officer. I hope you have the manpower to escort me evey night for the rest of the summer.

I was fucking terrified.

But fuck it, I thought. Fuck it. I opened this can of worms. I suppose I will have to eat it too. But I would maximize my chances.

First I put on my shades. Then I took the stupid cap that is an optional part of our uniform. Then I wrapped a bandana around my lower jaw. It is well established that snitches get stitches, but maybe looking like a complete tool might buck the trend.

Pictured: my future uniform.

So I returned to the mouth of 2nd Lond Street. The thugs were nowhere to be seen. There were cops there, so I pulled up next to them, kept my head low and muttered all the information they needed.

"Sir," they said. "if you could speak up and actually look at us, it would help."

I had been staring at the 7-11, looking fervently for the thugs. Again, that fear. That sense of insanity standing at the door. God fucking damn it.

It took an effort. But I raised my head, gave them the info they needed which (again) wasn't very useful.

When they were done with me, a drunken lout (and he's gonna get a story of his own) asked me if I was free.

"Yes," I said. "Get in. I need to get the hell out here."



So in conclusion, I wasn't very traumatised by my insane passenger. But the experience left me with an unpleasant rawness. I'm not quite as jaded as I used to be.

But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe all this means is that my survival instincts have gotten sharper.

Yeah! Let's go with that.

_______________________

Here's My Stop has a facebook page! Join here for updates! Also, if you like what I do, please share it around! I'm always happy for new readers.

______________________

Ella

"Thank you for your help last week. You really saved me. I have done as you suggested and called the hot line and the hospital, where they found out I had a broken rib and a hemorrhage in my shoulder. I don't know how to thank you, but I'm eternally grateful - Ella."

I read the message over and over again. I made excited little squeaks, I pressed my fingers to my mouth. I did a weird little jig, as relief and joy washed over me in waves.

She  made it, I thought. Thank God.


I was planning on writing about something else today. Something somewhat self-indulgent, an exploration of my feelings after the "nice trip" last Easter, and how it has affected me. Well, I'll give you the short version of that: everything is fine, aside from a few things, and I'll write that entry next time for anyone who is interested. Tonight, let's talk about Ella.

It was dawn, and I had gotten greedy. Somewhere in the middle of the shift, I had decided to just keep going for as long as I could. But finally, I felt I could do one more fare, and then I'd be done. And as luck would have it, this far would take me from an area in the eastern part of town, to some bumhole-nowhere way beyond King's River. Easily 30+ minute drive and an excellent way to end the evening.

The preceding sentence was the last positive thought I had for the next hour.

I arrived at the address, and sitting on the stoop was a woman. She looked exhausted, and all around here were these tote bags. Some guy, all muscles and salt-and-pepper hair, kept moving in and out of the house, bringing out more tote bags, filled with (as far as I could see) soft things like blankets or clothes.

Something felt off, but I did a quick calculation. Most likely, this couple came from Bumfuck-nowhere-beyond-King's-River and had been in town visiting friends, potentially having some kind of picknick or other kind of outing which requires luggage in tote bags. Aside from the sheer amount of bags, the theory seemed to check out.

I stepped out and opened the trunk. The man said nothing to me, didn't even meet my gaze. He simply began filling the trunk with tote bags. The woman rose on unsteady legs (if she were drunk, then that too would fit into my theory) and climbed into the back. I went back to the trunk to close it. While I did, the man leaned his head inside the car.

The driveway in which I was parked was very narrow. Save for actually climbing over the guy, I had no way of getting past him to the driver's seat. So I waited while he stood there, leaning into the car. Then he pulled out, slammed the door and walked back to his house.

Huh...

I got into the driver's seat and I asked: "So.. Just you then?"

"Yes," she said softly, her eyes glazed and her face pale. "Just me."

"So just where in <destination> are we going?"

She burst into tears.

On reflex, I handed her one of the many paper towels cabbies keep on hand for just such an occasion. She wept and she wept, whimpering.

A whole other story began to take form in my head. Lovers' spat - he threw her out. I was driving her from a very ugly breakup. Right?

"I don't mean to pry," I said softly. "And if you want me to shut up for the rest of the trip, I will. But would you tell me what happened?"

She wept and she spoke. He had broken things. Her phone, most of all. He had thrown her into a wall.

"I never thought this could happen to me," she said bitterly. "Who would've imagined that I would be one of those women who said that, huh?"

"If its any consolation," I said, trying for a little gallows humour (because that sometimes has a positive effect). "most of those women were probably just as shocked."

She didn't laugh. She simply said: "I need to borrow your phone. He broke mine. I need to make a call."

I gave it to her, and she called her mother, crying and crying, telling her what had happened between ragged sobs. Once she was done, she handed back the phone and sighed.

"I need cigarettes. Could you stop by the gas station over there?"

After she got her cigarettes, we rode on. There's really little point in trying to recreate the conversation. It was haphazard and disconnected - usually I would ask a question, she'd give a short answer, I'd try to say something comforting, she'd say nothing. So in a long, long car trip, made up of mostly awkward silences, I found out the following:

Her name was Ella. She was a manager at one of the fancier restaurants in town. She and her husband had been out clubbing, and gotten separated. Or he had decided to go home early. It wasn't quite clear. However, this separation had taken its toll on him. When she came home, he had flipped out, angrily accusing her of fucking every guy imaginable in the hours they'd been apart. He also told her that he had called her parents and said the same thing. When she tried to protest, he had exploded, smashed her phone. Then he had broken a hat rack. Then it was a blur. He had thrown her stuff out into the garden, and he had thrown her into a wall, hard enough to make her entire side and shoulder scream with pain.

"I've never been so scared," she said more than once.

I've never felt so fucking useless. Usually in these situations, I'm able to at least comfort the person I'm talking to. Make them feel, if not better, then at least safer. But here... Here, there was nothing I could say or do. So I posed my little questions. Questions about the situation. Questions about her life. In the end, it petered out into a shade paler than smalltalk and I just kept my mouth shut for the rest of the trip.

Because what the fuck do I know? There was a nasty truth in all this, which is that no matter how much I profess my progressive views, no matter how many abused women I'll drive, no matter how many hugs and thankful words I may receive, or praise from friends, the fact is that I am not a person who can actually save anyone. I'm just a dude with a car, and an overdeveloped sense of morality and quite possibly a white-knight-complex. And there she was, sitting in the back seat, completely devastated, her life literally in pieces, and there was absolutely nothing I could say or do to help her except keep driving.

Somewhere during the trip, I turned off the meter. The idea of her having to pay me, on top of all the other mess just felt disgusting.

"What can I do? That's my entire life back there. What the fuck do I do now?"

"Are you asking me...?" I said carefully. She sighed.

"Sure."

"I have no idea, to be honest," I said. "But... right now, I think you shouldn't worry about what happens next. Right now, there's nothing you can do, except sit back and wait until we get to <destination>. Once we're there, I could give you a number you could call, to a women's support hot line. They will know what you can do next. You're not alone in this."

In the midst of my self-loathing, I just felt as if every word was a stupid fucking platitude. A slightly more verbal version of patting someone awkwardly on the head, saying 'there there'. But she sighed with a little relief and nodded.

We'd driven for almost an hour, and we were nearing <destination>. It was gorgeous. Rolling hills, the mountains towering over the fjord, and the sun rising in the east, spilling gold over the whole thing. And we arrived at the address - a little weekend cottage she'd bought.

"What do I owe you?" she asked.

"Nothing at all. This ones on me."

"No, you can't," she pleaded. "Of course I'm supposed to pay you."

I realised I may have made a mistake. By turning off the meter, I had essentially taken away one of the securities the passenger has against the cabby. Also, I had done so without explaining it to her. At the very least, she might think I did this out of pity. For some, it is a matter of pride to be able to pay, rather than to be reduced to a victim who can't make their way in the world.

Well, shit...

"Look," I said. "This is for my own sake. I'm not trying to make you feel any less of an adult, here. The way I figure it, you've had it rough enough and I don't want to add to it. So for my own peace of mind, this trip is on me, all right? I can give you the receipt for what we've racked up so far, but you don't have to pay."

She meekly accepted this, though she declined the receipt. "Do you need any help carrying those bags?"

"No, its... its fine," she said.

Once more, I decided to ignore her potential wishes in this. Although there was a practical reason to this. The driveway was at the bottom of a hill, and the house was at the top. If she would do this herself, I'd be stuck here for a while. Also... I needed to do something. I needed to feel useful, even if all I could do was to drag a couple of tote bags up a hill.

So without a word, I loaded my arms full of bags, and together we made our way up to the house. She got the bags inside and I remained outside. I asked her: "Do you still want that number? To the women's support hot line? You got a phone in your house?"

"Yes I do, and yes please," she said. I wrote it down and gave it to her. She stood there, staring at the little note. And she began to cry again.

"What will I do now?" she whispered.

"You'll call that number," I said. "Whatever happens next will happen later."

She trembled, and I, stupidly, extended my hand to shake hers and say goodbye. Tears were flowing down her face, so I very carefully and very awkwardly, giving her plenty of time to shy away, placed my hand on her arm and squeezed gently.

"He knows where I am," she said. "What if he comes? Shit, I'm scared, I don't know what..."

"Do you have neighbours?" I asked. She nodded. "Then wake them up, and tell them  your situation. Don't be alone, if he comes. Make sure there are other people around you. Beyond that, I don't know. But you're not alone in all of this. There is help. There are people who have been where you are."

She gave me a slightly grateful smile and nodded. We parted ways.

On the long way back, I freaked out. I started recording the events, so I could write this down later, but it devolved into screaming. I was so furious. I hated him. I hated everyone like him. I hated the system that allowed and in its own way encouraged people like him to exist. I wanted to kill. I wanted to fucking cry.

Somewhere in the middle of my hysterical ranting, I became aware of the fact that he was the guy who called the cab. He knew she was out here. Far, far away from civilisation, and I had left her there.

Hero complex again, right?

I decided to do two things. One was, I sent a text to her mother, telling her she was safe. The second was to call the cops, tell the story, give them every scrap of information I had. It was all I could do, and it wasn't nearly enough. Useless and pointless. Because I'd not changed shit, I'd simply just moved it around.

Another abused woman, another blog about me bemoaning the patriarchy, and cursing my inadequacies, while signalling to the world what a virtuous, progressive bleeding heart I was. For the longest time, I didn't want to write this. Actively refused, because what's the point? I've told Ella's story so many times already. The same roles. The same conflict. The same script.

You see why I mostly wanted to forget all this, right?

But then I received the message you see at the top of the page. I responded and we passed a few messages back and forth, before deciding that we're going to talk tomorrow. She wants to know my side of what happened - she can't remember much of that night at all.


So this story had something akin to a happy ending. At the very least, it didn't end in impotent silence. And I do hope she'll get all the help she needs. Because I can't really do shit other than move her from one place to another. It's barely anything, but maybe this time it was enough.

_______________________

Here's My Stop has a facebook page! Join here for updates! Also, if you like what I do, please share it around! I'm always happy for new readers.

______________________

"And bring hither the fatted crab and kill it; and let us eat and be merry..."

"We're probably the worst passengers you've ever had."

"Well, as long as you don't try to kidnap me and force me to drive halfway across the country, I think we're good."

As you can tell, I survived my last adventure. Now it's summer again, and I'm back on the road, night after night. That wasn't my plan, however. 

I thought that when I had to bite the bullet and start cabbing while studying, I'd generate more material for the blog. But I made a mistake, and that mistake was that I started driving the day shift. In fact, I figured that since I've started working regularly, I wouldn't have to go hard and spend every summer night working my ass off. Oh how the mighty have fallen. 

Because here's the thing: I tried driving during the day for the first two weeks of June, but I kept having to deal with the nasty little fact that during the day, being a cabby is no fun at all. You have to get up at an ungodly hour to make any kind of profit, the fares are fare between, traffic is miserable and on top of it all, nothing fun ever happens during the day. Or at least, nothing weird. 

There's only so many variations of "I picked up this dude, we drove for a while, small talk about weather and city infrastructure" that you can write before you realize that your blog has become a log and of no joy to anyone except perhaps statisticians. 

So two weeks in to my attempt in working in such a way as was beneficial to my health, I realized I was on the verge of driving off a cliff in sheer boredom. With that, I called my boss and asked to take the night shift again. 

So, my days are spent in a zombiefied stupor, my body and brain are slowly deteriorating, entropy and chaos are slowly taking over my apartment, and I am enjoying the hell out of working. I hate how much I enjoy this job, and have to remind myself that the reason why I enjoy it is because I'm not stuck in it.  

So I'm back, and I have stories to tell. Most of the stuff I've experienced in the past few weeks have been dark: assault, robbery, toxic relationships, broken people living broken lives. Their stories will come. I've also driven a Viking skipper, a nationalist who was uncomfortably aware of his chosen party's Nazi origins, and  Tonight, I want to tell you something ridiculus. 

_____________________________________

A midnight snack

She was in her early forties. One of those people who were hot while young, beautiful in middle age, and would probably be handsome when elderly. Sharply dressed in a jacket and black skirt, with sensible and imperious shoes. She had a dog with her which she had failed to report in when calling the cab (as we know, its good form to inform dispatch about all and any pets you might be bringing along) . 

"Is it ok if she rides along? She's tiny, only six months old."

The pup was most certainly not tiny, and would probably be the size of a horse within a year.

"Let her ride on the floor, and it's all good." 

"Nice, thanks!"

So my passenger slipped into the seat next to me, and her huge puppy took a seat on the floor behind us. And credit where it's due: the dog stayed there through the entire trip. 

We were going from Linnaeus to Hookfield - a slightly above average fare. So I took the car south, figuring I'd take the road across Gold Heath (which is not a heath, but a gigantic goddamn hill) to avoid the traffic lights. As we were nearing the ramp leading up to Gold Heath my passenger decided she needed provisions.

"Is there anyway we can stop and get something to eat? I'm starving." 

I realized she was a bit drunk, though she hid it well. However, even light intoxication can lead to strange cravings in the middle of the night.

"Sure, there's a 7-11 on Ashmount street."

"You think its open?" 

"Probably."

"Won't it be really expensive?"

"Nope. This is Taxi M."

Satisfied, she agreed and we turned the car around. A few minutes later (spent talking slightly disjointedly about her adorable 'little' puppy), we found that the 7-11 was indeed closed. I suggested that if she was open,there was a street grill that was open all night nearby. As long as she didn't eat in the car, she could go get whatever she wanted.

"Sounds good," she said. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You sure? Not a coke? A burger? You're probably hungry. I can get you something."

"No thank you," I said, wondering idly if her comment about my hunger was a reference to my barely tolerable overweight. 

"Oh come on, you can't say no. I'm offering you here. Don't you want free food?"

"No, thank you, its fine."

"Come on, don't you want something ? French fries? Falafel? Anything you like, I'll buy it. I'm trying to be nice here."

"Look, I appreciate it, I do. But I'm good. Thank you." 

She kept it up. You'd be surprised at the amount of nagging that can be done in the span of three minutes. Each time I declined, each time a little bit more forceful."

We arrived at the grill.

"You'll turn off the meter, right?" she asked. 

"I won't, no."

"What?? But I'm offering you free food here!" she was aghast. A mortal insult to her dignity. 

"And I appreciate that, but my landlord prefers money to burgers."

"Fine, fine," she said. "But I'm leaving the dog with you. Mind you, she can get a little weird when she's alone."

And then she was out, and inside the grill. And there I was, once again, alone with a dog belonging to a potentially crazy person. The life of a cabby is truly a cyclical phenomenon. 

The dog didn't get weird. In fact, it was quite well behaved. It got a little whiny, but it accepted my hand and calming words. For a six month old puppy, it was quite chill. 

Seen here, chilling with a bear.

After a while, my passenger returned. She had a years ration of junk food with her. She got into the car, and placed her food on the floor between her feet. But there was another bag with her. "And this," she said, "is for you!"

She gave me a can of coke, and started digging out a box of fries. I was stunned.

"This really isn't necessary-" I began.

"What? But I bought you this food! Look, I'll just place it here-"

"Yes, I get that, but I said no, remember?"

"Oh nobody has to know," she said. "I'll just put it here, between the seats-"

she said, as if bribing a local politician.

"Look, this is very kind of you, but I don't..."

"Oh come on, just a few fries?" she said, bringing a handful to my mouth. I gently pushed her hand away, unsure if I should laugh or scream.

"Please, ma'am," I said. "You asked if I wanted food and I said no. I wish you'd respect that."

"Oh come on!" she looked around, suddenly conscious of something. "Is there surveillance in your car? Can they hear what's going on in here?"

I considered pressing the alarm button, just to make her fears come true.

"No-"

"Nobody has to know! Trust me, I'm a lawyer. It'll be fine, just between us!"

On and on and on, while the car made its way over Mount John, and down toward Hook Field. She really, really wanted me to accept the greasy treats she had gone through so much trouble to get. In my paranoid mind, I began to wonder if she was fattening me up for one of those cannibalistic orgies that potentially happen regularly in Hook Field. 

"Now you listen to me," she said in a very motherly tone. "My grandmother lived through the rationing during World War 2. She knew the value of food and would NEVER let it go to waste like you are."

We were nearing the destination, and I was caught between making money and throwing her out just so I could have a moment of quiet. Principles took a back seat; I just needed her to shut up, so I could get paid with minimum fuss. So I said:

"Well, for your grandmother's sake, I'll meet you half way."

"Yes?" she said, her eyes glowing with imminent victory.

"I'll take the food, and once I've dropped you off, I'll take a break and enjoy it."

"You promise?"

"I promise," I said, lying through my teeth (if my teeth had parted, she may have stuck a doggie bag between them). "Its time for a break anyway."

She wasn't convinced. She looked at me with narrow eyes. "Do you swear on my grandmother's grave?"

"I do," I said solemnly.

"You better," she said. "This is my grandmother we're talking about."

"I would never dream of disrespecting your grandmother," I solemnly intoned. 

"Pinkie-swear," she said, offering her finger. I hooked it, with a sense of dread. Then I took the bag from her and placed it on the compartment between the seats. We had arrived.

She paid, and said "Make sure you eat all of it."

"I will, thank you."

Satisfied she left. 

I drove a block, opened the window and threw the food to the night, wishing the rats and crows a pleasant meal. Free of my burden, I went back to work, where the rules of reality apply.

Of course, there are moments, just before sleep, when I get the sense of being watched, as if my doorway is darkened by a hunched figure,  wagging a long, bony finger at me in maternal disapproval.

There are children starving in Africa, 

you ungrateful boy...

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