Vampire Cabbie

Vampire Cabbie Page 6

Marked

You may cease that infernal tittering. Yes, this situation was most humiliating, and having to seek help from Kern only exacerbated my shame.

I attempted to ignore the predicament, but that lasted about a week. Sitting in the cab stand at the Concourse Hotel, someone opened one of the back doors of my cab. Unfortunately, it was not a fare. It was Kern, as always, flashing that ridiculous grin.

"How's it going, Count?" His legs stretched across the entire back seat.

"Adequate."

"Just adequate? Thought you'd be making the big bucks my now."

I stared straight ahead. "I have simply chosen to follow your advice and work at my own pace until feeling comfortable. That is what you recommended, is it not?"

"Time to shift gears."

I turned. He sat up, his smile gone. "What do you want, Kern?"

"Just here to help."

Translation: whip one of the cooperative's workhorses to get more money out of it. "I do not require any help."

He shook his head. "Not the way I hear it, Count. Been talking to Maureen. You're not even making minimum wage. I saw your revenue per hour. You're making three bucks an hour. That eats shit."

A hot, red flash washed over me. Three dollars, six dollars. What was the difference? "I thought this variety of thing was confidential," I said, attempting to hide my rancor.

"It is normally." He sighed loudly. "Look, as a trainer, I try to follow up on the people I train. I asked how you were doing. Maureen told me she had to write a warning letter about having your paycheck fortified." Suddenly, his grin returned. "Hey, we can't be having that sort of thing. Makesme look bad."

Ah, ha! Makes him look bad, and then perhaps they take away from him the lucrative privilege of training. "I do not require your assistance," I repeated.

"You're wrong there, Al. Hey, you don't need to take this personally. Hell, you're working under a tremendous handicap here, not knowing the city and all. We'll carry you a little while, but you're gonna be under the microscope, so the sooner you start pulling your own weight, the better your chances of passing probation."

"Why are you so anxious to help me?" A good question, or so it seemed. The centuries had long taught me to be suspicious of anyone offering assistance for no apparent price or reason.

"As I said, you're my trainee, and therefore, you're my responsibility."

"Does that mean you get in trouble if I do not become an adequate driver?"

"Nope. Look, I want you to do well. I want all my trainees to do well. I want all of us to do well. It says in the statement of purpose right in our articles of incorporation that we will 'provide a humane working atmosphere and jobs at a living wage.' That's where I'm coming from."

For the first time, Kern struck me as sincere. "Very well," I said after a long, silent moment. "I will consent to whatever you think best."

"Then, you'll let me ride with you tomorrow night?"

"Yes," I answered, resigned to never be free of his vulgar presence.

"Good. I'll be home tomorrow night. Gimme a call when you get a cab."

"And what do you expect in return for your generosity?"

"You become a good cabbie, it's good for the whole co-op. Just buy me a beer sometime. Or maybe two."

Ah ha! I knew there had to be some form of ulterior motive at work.

"That's your first mistake."

"To what are you referring, Kern?" As planned, I had collected him at his home after getting a cab. We had just run our first call, and he had already seen fit to have an apoplexy.

"You're empty, right?"

"Correct. There are calls in close proximity. We shall accept our next assignment shortly."

"But you could've already been dispatched a call before dropping off your previous passenger. Now, with no call in front of you, you gotta drive around aimlessly, wasting time, and time is a valuable commodity. Like I've said a zillion times, time is money."

"But did you not say that I should work at my own pace, take my time and not 'bid on the run', as you say, until I felt comfortable?"

"Jesus Christ, Al, I didn't figure you taking me so literally. I meant maybe you might do that for the first shift or two. But you've been on your own for a good two weeks. Time to put on the long pants."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just get yourself another call, but this time, I want you to bid while running the call. I want you to make sure you have an assignmentbefore you drop off your next passenger. Shit, no wonder you're not making any money."

"You will help me?"

"No, I won't. You gotta learn to do this for yourself. Look, youcan do this. It's simple, really, but you have to be able to bid on the run if you're ever gonna make money. Just take it easy. Pull over to the side of the road if you have to, to copy the call. Or tell the dispatcher you'll hit your HiQ when you're ready to copy. Okay?"

I shook my head. "Very well, Kern."

"Be ready," Kern said, after we had loaded the next call. "Listen carefully. The dispatcher's about to call the board."

"West near the U Hospital, west on the lakeshore, Breeze and Hoyt, Randall and Spring, Lake and Dayton, Lake and Langdon, top of Wisconsin, Crystal Corners, Friendly Corners."

"Do it," Kern said.

I pressed the bid button, lifted the microphone from its cradle and watched for the nearest intersection.

"Seventy-five," the dispatcher said.

"Charter and John to one-hundred West Gilman." 121 W. Gilman actually, but Kern had said to just say what hundred block if I was unable to recite the exact intersection.

"Seventy-five, get the Edgewater."

"The Edgewater. Ten-four."

"See, wasn't that easy?" Kern laughed loudly.

"Yes. Quite easy."

"And now you can proceed immediately to your next call, getting maximum efficiency out of your time. You see, you're going to Carroll and Gilman, and the call was at Langdon andWisconsin . That's only two blocks away. Of course, if you're downtown and there's calls downtown, you should always bid, even if you're not sure which call you might be up for. And sometimes, it'll be real busy, and you should just bid as soon as you load, even before you hear the dispatcher call off the board because, if you know there's tons of calls and they're everywhere, you know the dispatcher's going to need you to run some call, so just bid, and you'll get a call. That's what's called 'bidding blind.'"

"I was wrong to have ever doubted you, Kern."

"You're right about that, Count. So, do you know where the Edgewater is, even though I just told you?"

"I am not certain."

"No problema. Just look it up after you drop off your current passenger."

"Seventy-five, where now?"

"Randall and John," I replied.

"The call's at five-eleven West John," the dispatcher said. "Eighty, where now?"

"Pick it up," Kern said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you know where five-eleven West Johnson is?"

"Yes. It is right before Bassett, is it not?"

"Then, pedal to the metal, dammit. You're in a race. Christ, you drive like my grandmother."

"Did you not tell me to drive safely?"

"I did, but you gotta pick it up a bit. You can drive alittle faster than the speed limit. Hell, cops won't pull you over if you're within ten. Lotta timesMadison cops give us cabbies the benefit of the doubt. Floor it."

"Seventy-five, where now?"

"Park and Johnson."

"Eighty, where now?"

"Goddammit!" Kern spat. The traffic light at the next intersection was red, but would turn green momentarily, having turned yellow the other way, but then a Co-op cab made a left turn onto Johnson, the number eighty visible on the side of the cab. Kern loudly slapped his hands against his thighs. "Dammit, Count, don't you have any killer instinct at all?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're in a race, dammit. My grandmother would've beaten you, and she's eighty fucking years old."

"Again, as I told you, I am merely trying to drive carefully."

Kern slapped himself in the side of his head. "You can drive fastand carefully. Look, you're in competition out here. When the dispatcher calls a race, you've got to pick up the pace a bit. You've got to say, 'this is my call and ain't no one gonna take it from me.'"

"But is this not a cooperative? We are not out to slit each other's throats, are we? Or are we?"

"Usually, no. We try to keep racing to a minimum. As opposed to Capitol Cab where they race for nearly every call. A few years ago, two Cap Cabs were racing for a call, and they collided onWestWash. The cops who showed up couldn't stop laughing."

"So, that means we are a cooperative most of the time, but not all the time?"

"No, I didn't say that. Like I said, we try to keep racing to a minimum, but sometimes, it's just a dead heat. The dispatcher will keep checking with the drivers until someone has a clear advantage. If no one does, they call a race. Just remember, any time you're being considered for a call and you know other cabs are being considered for the same call, pick up the pace a bit. Don't drive like a total maniac. Don't do anything illegal, like run red lights, or go the wrong way on a one way street, or drive onState Street , but pick it up because you know the other cabs will. Capeesh?"

"Yes, I understand. Killer instinct. I think I know what that is."

"I don't know about that. God, you're so fucking genteel, Count. You need to drive with more joy, more passion. Maybe some music might help. This cab got FM?"

"Yes, but there is nothing palatable to listen to at this hour."

Kern turned on the radio. "We'll see about that. Ah, here we go." He began humming along with the hideous, high-pitched screeching wail blasting from the radio. Why could he not listen when I had said there was nothing palatable on the airwaves? No classical, no jazz, just that wretched rock and roll, that children's music born from twelve-bar blues with three-chord progressions - possibly the lowest form of music ever known to humanity. Or even worse was country, which I found just too pathetic for words and sadly enough seemed to be growing in popularity. Was the collective IQ of this nation dropping lower than it already was?

"The Allman Brothers," Kern gushed. "'Jessica.' Man, the best cruising music ever. These guys are speed, man, just pure, ethereal speed. And that's what killed them, too. Duane - fucking god on the slide - drove his motorcycle into a peach truck after 'Eat A Peach' came out. Barry Oakley drove his motorcycle into oblivion exactly a year later, in almost the exact same place."

"Ah, but their music lives on."

"Damn right."

I was being sarcastic, but Kern was too daft to notice.

"So, what do we do now?" he asked. The board was clear.

"Find the nearest stand? We are merely a few blocks away from the Concourse Hotel. Is that not a good stand at this time of night?"

"It is, but I've got something else in mind. Let's go to the airport."

His manner was quite puzzling. "Just simply drive to the airport?" What was the term? Dead-head? Is it not a waste of fuel to drive clear to the other side of town for the mere possibility of loading a fare? Somehow, it seemed that Kern was not instructing me in the same kind of cooperativemanner as when he had officially trained me.

"Sure, Count. Board's pretty quiet right now. It's about nine, there's a few planes due to land any time now. Sometimes, the airport can really make you a lot of money. Didn't you check out the airport schedule?"

I nodded, but honestly, the airport simply did not seem as high a priority as other aspects of the job that needed to be mastered, such as, as the Americans say, knowing my ass from my elbow.

"It's a hot time. Let's go. And pick up the pace a little bit. You can drive faster than the speed limit. Time is money. Let's go. Don't want all the fares to be gone by the time we get there."

The cab lurched forward as I depressed the accelerator, paying close heed to not exceed 35 miles per hour, which was ten over the legal limit. Kern would have me risk this job just to live up to what he thinks a cab driver should be? No gentleman he.

"The airport's made me a lot of money over the years," he babbled. "Not without paying my dues. Had to learn. You betcha. That comes from sitting for a couple hours before loading someone going to the rent-a-car stand. Then, you go back and wait another couple hours, or just give up the ghost and leave. But then the time comes when you pull up and get a split-load, and it's all worthwhile."

"Split-load?"

"Yeah, didn't I tell you about split-loading, Count? At the airport, the bus stations. Man, it's the Holy Grail. It's better than sex! You load up your cab, charge people individually at a discounted rate, turn in what's on the meter and the rest goes in your pocket. It's fucking legaland doesn't violate any work-rules, as long as you follow proper pricing procedures and as long as everyone consents to sharing."

After crossing theYaharaRiver , which marks the end of the Isthmus, the road veered sharply north before splitting and turning intoPackers Avenue , so named because it is where Oscar Mayer is located. The noxious stench of cooked meat floated into my nostrils as I spotted cabs moving south, all with passengers. Kern also noticed.

"Pick up the pace, Count." Kern's voice had changed from gently cajoling to authoritative. He tapped me on the shoulder and pointed toward the cabs in the southbound lanes. "Look at that. Count 'em. One. Two. Three. Four. There's action at the airport. Let's move."

A certain excitement crept into his voice as we reached the airport access road. "Okay, listen carefully. I got a feeling there may be a big crowd when we get there - "

"How would you know? How can you be sure?"

"Instinct. Intuition. I just know, that's all. Anyway, listen carefully. If there's a crowd of people, do not make eye contact with anybody. If someone tries to hail you before we get to the loading area, do not acknowledge them."

Something sounded improper about that. "But are we not going there for a fare?"

"Yes, but if there's a possible split, we don't wanna blow it by agreeing to take someone before we know where they're going. If they're going downtown, south or west, fine. But if they're going north or east, we're screwed."

I tried to protest, but Kern stopped me.

"You wanna make money, this is a great way to make money, and don't forget, it's all perfectly legal. It would be illegal to refuse service, so that's why we don't consent to take someone until we know where they're going. If we establish that everyone wants a cab, we can pick and choose, but if one person approaches us, we have to take them. Capeesh?"

"Not exactly."

"Don't matter. Just follow my lead."

On the way into the airport, two more cabs passed on the outbound, both full of passengers, their trunks overflowing with luggage, the lids tied down with straps. Kern rubbed his hands together vigorously, a lusty laugh coming deep from within his gut.

The scene at the taxi loading area reminded me of Constantanople when under siege by the Turks. The sudden appearance of an ox cart that might take them to safety had sent people into an excited frenzy, all begging the driver for a ride though he barely had room for himself. Even before the cab came to a stop, people streamed toward us, waving their arms. Following Kern's instructions, I stared straight ahead, fighting hard to ignore the thirty or so people all desiring transportation.

With a loud, throaty laugh, Kern jumped from the cab. "Who needs a cab?" he shouted. The crowd of thirty all raised their hands and shouted in affirmation. He laughed again and turned to me. "Pop the trunk, Count." He grinned broadly, then again faced the crowd. "We can't take you all, but we'll try our best. Okay, who's by themselves and needs a cab?" Several people raised their hands and stepped forward. "Who's going west?" Two people raised their hands. "Where you going?"

"The Radisson Hotel," a man in a gray suit said with a thick drawl.

"The BestWestern Inntowner ," a young woman said.

Kern nodded. "Count, load their luggage into the trunk. Anyone downtown? Campus?" Several hands raised. Kern surveyed them as to their destinations then selected a pair of college students, one man, one woman, both going to separate destinations onLangdon Street .

Momentarily, a not insignificant pile of luggage sat next to the cab. I commenced the task of loading the parcels into the trunk, but had run out of space with half the luggage still sitting on the pavement.

"Having a problem, Count?" Kern asked, after telling the people to be left behind that other cabs would be arriving soon.

"Another thing for you to teach me," I replied, pointing at the overflowing trunk and the pile of luggage still sitting on the pavement.

"Just watch and learn." Kern removed all the luggage, then placed the smaller items along the ledges that surrounded the well inside the trunk. He lifted the three full-sized suitcases and stood them up in the well with the bottom edges sitting against the lip of the trunk, stacked the remaining garment bags atop the suitcases, attached a bungee cord to the lid, pulled it shut and hooked the other end to the bottom of the license plate. Just to make sure the load was secure, Kern yanked at one of the suitcases, then plucked the bungee cord as if it was a violin string.

"Bungee cords," he said with a grin, "they've made me a lot of money over the years."

Kern had finally impressed me, but what kind of situation had he created here? And what on Earth was I supposed to charge these people? And where would we put them all?

"Don't worry," Kern said in reply to my concerns, seeming to read my thoughts. "Tell them that because they're sharing, they get charged individually, but at a discounted rate. Tell them they're being charged limousine rates, which are the lowest rates allowed by law. And it's five apiece for the students, seven to the Inntowner and ten to the Radisson."

As I was about to get back behind the wheel, I glanced at the crowd that stared longingly at my cab. In Constantanople, the mob had killed the ox-cart driver in the process tipping over the wagon. A wheel broke, rendering the wagon useless. The ox bolted and broke a leg when the mob chased it into a ditch.

"Can you send more cabs?" a haggard-looking old woman pleaded, a pile of luggage at her feet.

"Of course," Kern replied. "Okay, we need two in the front, two in the back." He looked at me. "This cab has a bench seat so you can legally take five passengers, but you gotta have two up front." Kern directed the two men to sit in front with me, while he sat in back between the two women.

"Oh, and Count," Kern said as we left the airport, "hit your LoQ and tell the dispatcher there's action at the airport. Always let the dispatcher know if there's action at the airport. Just make sure you wait until after you leave. You don't want to attract too much attention to the situation untilafter you've got your split."

Kern spent most of the ride conversing with the two women. Even without his attention, all the transactions were completed smoothly. The meter ran $15.00, but the cash collected totaled $33.00, $27 in flat-rated limo fares and six dollars in tips. Holy Grail indeed!

Afterward, Kern had me take him home. I tried to share some of my good fortune with him, but he would have none of that.

"Just go out there and make some money," Kern said, "now that you know how. And don't make me have to retrain you again."

Still, one question remained.

"Why was this manner of training so dramatically different from our previous session? Are you trying to tell me that being a good cooperative member and making money are states of conflict and contradiction?"

"Hell, no, Count. Like I said, the co-op wants you to make money. If you don't make money, the co-op doesn't either. It's just that during training, we gotta cover the basics, and we gotta make sure everyone drives safe. Again, I'm not telling you to not drive safe, but you could drive just a smidgen faster. See, again, the co-op wants you to make money, but I can't exactly tell you all the finer points of making money while in my official capacity as a trainer.

"That's why I don't train on Sundays. That's the big day at the airport and the bus stations. Hell, makes it hard to demonstrate how to be a good cooperative member if I ignore the board and dead-head to the airport all the time. Besides, other veterans get pissed if I let out too many secrets to a rookie. After all, we need rookies to run calls that allow us airport rats to do what we like best."

"And what's that?"

"What you just did. Now, get outta my hair, Count. Buy me a few beers sometime. You owe me."

At first, Kern had just seemed ridiculous, then selfish, then finally he revealed himself to be a combination of all the possibilities, almost a microcosm of the cooperative itself and all its seemingly diametric contradictions, simply demonstrating that a cooperative is a rather peculiar organism of a whole comprised by many individuals, attempting to balance the interests of the many with those of the one.

Kern's message, however, eventually became clear; the best thing a driver can do for him or herself and the cooperative is to make money. And, thanks to Kern, that was exactly what I began to do. He had been correct in his assessment of my performance, and with his help those bimonthly paychecks began to increase steadily, albeit with certain peaks and valleys.

In my first three months, thanks to Kern's advanced instruction and bitterly cold weather in January and February, I managed to save about two thousand dollars, which then went into a reliable mutual fund. Long-termMadison residents commented that it was the harshest winter experienced in a long time, with the wind-chill dropping as low as fifty degrees Fahrenheit below zero, and it seemed that once the snow began falling in late December, it did not cease until late February.

However, another factor had asserted itself, contributing to the cab company's overall boom. Following what many had called "the annual January thaw," the naked body of a university coed was found on the west end of campus, near theUniversityHospital , amidst the remains of what had been a massive snow bank. Though the crime generated much sensational publicity, details were sketchy. It was publicly reported that her body was badly mutilated and covered with queer cuts, rips and tears. Rumors circulated like wildfire that the body had been drained of blood. That notion struck me as preposterous, merely the puerile imaginings of these vulgar Americans who seem to feel a need for that sort of grisly event.

I did not take the matter seriously. Instead, I just worked hard, as we all did, to provide service for all those people too scared to walk - for awhile at least, until the matter seemed to have been forgotten.

After three months, my probation finally neared completion. It had been a truly profound education in procedures, geography and defensive driving, especially considering the nasty weather conditions Wisconsin offers during winter, be it wet roads, wet roads covered with damp leaves, sleet, snow or one of the greatest dangers of all, glare ice, also known as black ice, which manifested itself as winter loosened its icy grip, this after it felt as though winter would never end. When the daytime temperatures climbed above freezing, the icy tongue of night would coat the streets with this invisible menace.

My first encounter with that fiend shall prove unforgettable. The invisible demon had transformed the roads into a dangerous creature to be respected and feared, and this creature's influence was felt all over town, making even the simplest maneuvers in a parking lot an adventure too exciting for this cab driver's taste.

In a level parking lot, I was unable to get the cab moving without quickly shifting back and forth from drive to reverse, thus creating a rocking motion that garnered enough forward momentum to get the cab moving. Stop signs and traffic lights were all ordeals; even increasing stopping distance by a factor of ten could not prevent the cab from sliding into crosswalks and intersections.

After a few hours of this farce, I had a party of students going to the Field House next to Camp Randall Stadium. When a traffic light near the stadium had turned yellow, I proceeded through the intersection with no hesitation. The creature had made it very clear that it did not want me to use my brakes in any but the most gentle and gradual manner.

A block later, I glanced at the rear view mirror and saw the flashing lights. I immediately pulled over, hoping the vehicle would pass, hoping it was a City ofMadison officer in a good mood; Kernhad said theMadison police usually give cabbies the benefit of the doubt.

As the Americans say, no such luck. In the rear view mirror, I watched the squad car pull behind my cab. Then I watched the officer approach, noting that his uniform was not navy blue, but sky blue, marking him as University Police.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" he asked, his voice a lisping, whining tenor. His face was round and fleshy, his nose flat, eyes dull. By the way his upper lips met, as if torn apart, then pulled up and stretched too taut in the center and cobbled together, I determined that he had a cleft pallet.

"For running a yellow light?" I replied meekly.

"The light was red," he snapped.

"The light was yellow when I entered the intersection," I countered. "I am sorry, officer, but I was concerned that there might be ice in the intersection."

The officer removed the flashlight from his belt, turned and shined the beam at the intersection. The asphalt shined inconclusively, its blackness glowing flatly under the streetlights.

"I don't see any ice," he said.

I held my breath and counted to ten. I knew it was especially important for me to cooperate with the officer, though I would certainly state my case, respectfully, of course. "There is glare ice all over town," I said finally. "I was simply attempting to exercise caution. It matters not whether there is ice in the intersection, only whether I think there might be."

"Hey, I don't care if thereis ice in the intersection. I'm gonna write you a ticket. You gotta to stop when the light turns red. I was right behind you. I didn't see any brake lights. You didn't even try to stop."

"Christ, what an asshole," I heard one of my passengers say. The officer shined his flashlight into the cab.

"You mean," another passenger said, "you'd expect him to risk losing control of the cab just so he can stop for your precious traffic light?"

Thank you, I thought.

"These passengers?" the officer asked.

"Yes," I replied haughtily. "I am taking them to the Field House, which is just around the corner from here. If you would allow me to do just that, I promise I will be much more careful. I can assure you I have no outstanding warrants."

The officer gave me a scrutinizing look while fondling the various implements of torture hanging from his belt. "Gimme your driver's license," he said.

Reaching for my wallet, my eyes never leaving his, I thought of the cost of a traffic ticket and considered the importance of this petty little constable in the greater scheme of things. If reincarnation truly exists, I had previously encountered this gentleman when fleeingGermany after the incident in theBlack Forest with the highwaymen who had attempted to rob me. He had said my traveling papers did not permit me to ride my horse, just transport it. This constable came too close to arranging a rendezvous between me and a burning at the stake.

"Just a moment," I said smiling. The officer frowned, his expression impatient.

I stared deeply into his eyes, watching them grow larger. My mind opened, projected. Sometimes the minds of others feel like granite, sometimes like steel, sometimes like a well-clenched fist. I almost laughed out loud; it was as if I had plunged my hand into a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal.

The frown dropped off his drooping face. Without a word, the officer turned, walked to his vehicle and drove away.

"Geez," a passenger said. "He's gone? What the hell?"

"I've never seen anything like that before," another passenger said.

I shifted into gear and moved forward slowly. "Sometimes, you get lucky," I said, "and catch them in a good mood."

Apparently, Kern's lessons were well learned. I had adjusted to harsh and hazardous weather conditions. My paychecks no longer needed to be fortified. About a week following the incident with the constable, half a shift had passed when I realized that I had not yet referred to my map or street directory.

And then came the opportunity to prove my mettle in a race. Grateful for dry streets, I had just taken the curve on Gorham where it becomesUniversity Avenue , right before the east edge of the campus. Ahead was another Co-op Cab, which displeased me because that cab would beat me out of most calls in the area.

"Lake andDayton ," the dispatcher said. Obviously, that had to be Witte Hall, a dormitory just a couple blocks away, most assuredly the other cab's call. But not necessarily.

The other cab crossedFrances Street just as the light turned yellow. As the Americans would say, I gunned the engine and squealed through a left turn onto Frances, just before the light turned red - that constable damned to hell! - then floored it toward the next intersection, the light snapping green just as I reached the crosswalk. The dispatcher took my bid, then took the other cab's bid. The race was on!

I felt myself grin as my cab flew through the intersection, the rear of Witte Hall on the right, the main entrance on the opposite side of the building, in the next block. Kern would tell me to stomp on it, and that is exactly what I did.

Stop sign, right turn. Squealed a right turn at the next intersection and pulled up to the main entrance of the dormitory just as the other cab got the green light.

My grin would do Kern justice. Not only had I arrived first, but my cab was on the correct side of the street.

The other cab crossed the intersection, then stopped when even with my vehicle. Even in the darkness, it was easy to see that the driver was glaring angrily at me. Then, his expression changed from anger to close scrutiny, like he was looking right through me.

Then, the expression turned to fear.

And suddenly I recognized the driver. It was the fellow who had given me a ride from the airport when first I had arrived inMadison .

Shift's end, and it was a good shift, but now that it was over, my paramount desire was to wash my hands; as always, at the end of a shift, they were filthy. One thing I dislike about cab driving is how dirty my hands are at shift's end, having been wrapped around that filthy steering wheel for eight, ten or even twelve hours at a time. Not that I have ever minded dirt, of course, if the dirt in question is earth. However, sweet soil besmirches not the steering wheels of those cabs, but the sweat and oil from countless hands which makes the steering wheel sticky and better able to attract all the carbon from exhaust and unmentionable grit and grime from the road that gets agitated into flight from all those turning wheels.

Without even turning on the dome light in the cab, I knew my hands were filthy. I could feel the filth. Confirmation came when I did turn on the light to take my final meter readings. I stared accusingly at the steering wheel, then ran a saliva-moistened finger along the royal blue plastic. A baby blue streak appeared under my finger. Before doing anything else, a trip to the washroom was in order.

I have always found hand-washing relaxing, not to mention pleasurable, feeling the blood-warm water flow over my flesh. However, the experience was always a cause for concern in the washroom at Co-op Cab.

A mirror covered the wall directly above the sink.

As much as I enjoyed hand washing, I tried not to linger, washing vigorously with my head down - mirrors have never frightened me, but it is rather unnerving to see one's clothes standing up by themselves.

Footfalls approached the washroom. I hastily shut off the water, shook my hands vigorously and wiped them on my Levi's. Just as I pulled the door open, someone pushed from the other side.

His stocky presence towered over me. Fresh scars, lurid and red, covered his face and hands. I tried to walk past, but taking me by surprise, he grabbed my arm and spun me around. The door swung shut and we stood staring at each other.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he said, his fingers tightening around my biceps.

Be diplomatic, I thought. And get out of that bathroom as quickly as possible. I was extremely aware of the mirror just a few feet away, though it lay not in this man's line of sight.

"I am sorry," I replied. "I do not know what it is you are talking about."

"Bullshit!" he replied. "Youdo know what it is I'm talking about. That call at Witte! How the fuck could you beat me on that call? You were behind me. I saw you. You were behind me!"

"But I turned ontoFrances while you stayed on University." I tried to keep my voice calm. "I got the light at Frances and Johnson. I merely got lucky."

"How the hell could you have magically appeared at Witte? And on the right side of the street!"

"As I just said, I hit the green light. It was nothing more than good fortune."

"Maybe I should write you up," he said.

"On what grounds?" Though it best served my interests to remain calm, I was beginning to get angry; this lout would not bully me. "There were no one-way streets to use as a short-cut. There were no fire lanes or driveways with signs saying 'no thru traffic.' I did not ram the cab through the back entrance and then come out the other side. It was a race, and I beat you, but simply because I hit the traffic lights at the precise time."

My explanations soothed not this fellow, but his rancor mattered not, for it was time to end this charade. I would simply break through his puny grasp, shove him aside and go finish my paperwork.

Then, for no apparent reason, he turned toward the mirror, and I knew what he saw. Next to his image was a mere vague outline of a human-shaped form and a black, leather jacket, somehow magically suspended in the air.

"What the fuck are you?" he gasped.

"A fellow cab driver," I snapped, then slapped his hand away and stormed out of the bathroom to the driver's room to complete my paperwork and go home, just as always. I took a spot before an adding machine in a far corner, making curt greetings to Kern and a rather hefty fellow named Truck. The two sat opposite each other, chattering energetically.

I ignored the two, pouring over my waybill, working as quickly as possible. The work almost complete, Kern's high-pitched yodel drew my attention.

"Well, look what the cat done drug in," Kern said. "Frank Nelson! How the hell are you?"

Reflex action drew my attention toward the doorway where stood my belligerent fellow driver, now marked as Frank Nelson, his bulk obscuring most of the opening, his countenance every bit as cheerful as a block of granite. "Kern, Truck," he grunted.

"Long time, buddy," Truck said with a warm smile. Frank's expression remained intensely blank, eyes staring straight ahead.

"Hey, Frank," Kern said, jerking his thumb toward me, "you know the Count?"

"Yeah," Frank said, finally smiling. "I know 'im." He finally turned, his gaze boring into me as if to see right through me.