One of those dead nights when everybody goes home early, and the streets
were left pretty much to their own. I mean, so dead, even most of the other
cabbies have gone home, except maybe for some of the Yellows and the
Veterans who gotta work their ten hours whether there's anybody on the
streets
or not, and maybe a couple other independents like me, who really feel just
too
good to deadhead in and head for home.
Not many people to talk to, when the going gets slow, so I was pulled off on
Clay
Street over by Earthquake McGoon's, talking with the doorman from the
Playboy
Club. The Playboy Club was closed down for remodeling, and the doorman had
switched to McGoon's for the duration.
The real reason behind the shut-down, he claimed, was cockroaches, not
remodeling, and the Club was so depressed, he didn't figure on going back
there, once it reopened. He liked McGoon's, he said. It was just as busy,
which
meant it was really just as quiet as the Playboy Club, because the Playboy
Club
hasn't been making money for a long time, what with only the tourists and
conventioneers making any money for the club. Real slow, he said.
We were talking about that. That and the fact that since the car dealers
had left
town after their convention, the town had dried up again, like it had for a
week or
so after Labor Day. I told him the word was the town would be staying quiet
till
after the first of March, a full six weeks away. That I was planning on
half-shifts
and plenty of television to get me through the dry period. He wasn't so
sure,
said he had word that another convention was due in soon, and he hated to
spend February in the rain, what with his arthritis and all.
He had arthritis, all right, probably worse that most thirty-eight year olds
I knew.
He was strange like that. Thirty-eight years old and suffering from
arthritis. He
had other problems, too. He looked like a twenty-eight year old hippie, not
a
doorman, what with his sea captain's hat and his faded raincoat. Big beard
and
small height. A gentle guy, probably burned too much by LSD in the
Eighties.
Normal, though, with a gentle manner. He had some small charms. Only,
don't
get him excited, because the acid burns made his brain a little like Jerry
Lewis's
nutty professor. He would get giddy and flaky and make the tourists a
little
scared of him, with loud laughter and giggling sounds. And talking too
loud.
He had more problems than a rushhour cop. He had a bulbous nose that came
from a deviated septum, he said, and the doctors had operated a couple times
on his beak, breaking it, healing it, then breaking it again, just trying to
let him
breath right. There was something wrong with his spinal column, too, that
prevented him from parking cars and retrieving them, prevented him from
being
a valet.
He was pissed at the Playboy Club, he told me. He had played Santa Claus
for
the bunnys at the Christmas party, and the manager wouldn't pay him the
forty
bucks for his being Santa Claus. He had done it twice before, on other
Christmases, but the new manager claimed he didn't know what the manager
before him had done, so he couldn't stick his neck out and give the doorman
forty dollars.
The Club was losing money so fast, he told me, whispering like it was a big
secret, even though we were the only two people on Clay Street at
twelve-thirty
in the morning. He had heard that, when the Club reopened, you wouldn't
need
a key to get in. And a key club without a key, he told me, means the Club
was
losing money.
We were just jawing, when McGoon's front door opened, and three dizzy
blondes came running out. They were all good-lookers, not a fat or an ugly
one
in the bunch, which is not to say they were great-looking, just a touch
better than
average, which is pretty good at twelve-thirty at night on a Tuesday.
They're
scurrying and giggling and rushing about, until they see me. Oh, it's a
taxicab,
one blondie cried, as if that meant something extraordinary. And they
bustle
into the cab, faster than the doorman can open the doors for them. One
climbs
in on my other side, and the two fill up the back seat.
The doorman stuck his head in to say something to me, but I lost him in all
the
excitement and confusion. All the dizzies are hollering at me to step on
it, get
moving, don't stop, get going, real quick like, because we're leaving this
joint
right now.
I start up and make the accelerator earn its keep, but fishtailing away from
the
curb doesn't cool the chicks and their giggling excitement. Quick, go
around the
corner, I'm told, so I spin south at Montgomery and make the turn from Clay.
I'm
interested now, so I immediately make the turn from Montgomery onto