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2002-03-01 - 8:05 a.m.

The other day I was scanning some headlines and found one about taxi drivers. A former Secretary of Labor was warning of the dangers of being a cabby. Seems in this guy's mind, taxi drivers are among the highest at risk for robbery, assault, homicide and various and sundry other acts of random violence. Hmm. That got me to thinking. And wondering. I was thinking about some of the taxi rides I've experienced in the past, and I was wondering how those drivers were at-risk. From my experience, it seemed to me I was the one at-risk.

Our small city doesn't have taxi companies. No Ace Cab, or Checkered Cab, or Metro Cab. Not even a Yellow Cab. What we have are old recovering alcoholics with 1980-model gas guzzlers and a cell phone. Little Jimmy Dickens (his real name could be Melvin Gunnels for all I know, we just call him Little Jimmy Dickens) is one of a handful of old guys running taxis around town. Little Jimmy is the Brew Crew's cabby of choice. Whenever we find ourselves in need of sober transportation, we give a whistle for Little Jimmy and he carts us all over the county for seven bucks. Our wish ishis command. While celebrating SueSue's daughter's 21st birthday at a local gin mill, we found ourselves in need of a taxi. Eight of us. No problem, we called our boy and told him to round up a station wagon, we had a load (literally) and we needed a way home. Little Jimmy said it'd take a few minutes, but he'd be after us. Have another round. We didn't need to be told that twice.

True to his word, Little Jimmy pulled up outside the bar in our chariot: a rusted, clanking, blue-smoke-blowin station wagon. We were thrilled with our wheels and jammed ourselves in like sardines. A couple of miles later, Little Jimmy slammed on the brakes and we fell all over ourselves to exit the taxi. The daughter, sandwiched in the sardine can, had over celebrated and was sick. Didn't seem to bother Little Jimmy, he waited patiently in the smokin wagon while the eight of us stumbled about in the nearest yard. But Little Jimmy likes us. We always bring him a beer (obviously Little Jimmy isn't fully recovered) from the bar, or a plate of appetizers if we're at a house party.

About ten years ago, the diva and I were at Laclede's Landing in St. Louis. After a full night of partying at Muddy Waters, our hired taxi picked us up. Unfortunately for the hack, I managed to set fire to the backseat of his taxi before he got us back to the Holiday Inn. Try as I might to douse the fire with my beer (open container was legal then), the guy would forever have a three-inch burn hole in his backseat.

That wasn't the only ride from hell diva and I shared in a taxi. We flew to New York City one Christmas to spend the holiday with her husband (diva had to finish out her school contract and couldn't accompany him in November). Our plane was delayed in Cincinnati--by almost three hours. The delay gave Mike more time to drink beer at his apartment, and gave unknown neighbors time to park behind his car. He never did locate the owners of the car, so he arrived in a taxi to get us. He arrived three sheets to the wind and wearing a Santa Claus hat in a taxi to get us. On our return trip to his apartment, the fool with the Santa Claus hat began questioning the taxi driver about marijuana. Isn't it true, he asks, that New York City cabbies deal dope on the side? diva and I damn near broke our necks trying to escape a speeding taxi piloted by a belligerent cabby.

While in San Diego over spring break a few years ago, my Iowa buddy Viv and I taxied to the city's famous zoo. The ride up went off without a hitch. The problems ensued on our way back to our hotel.

But a little background first. Viv is a Bohemie, her ancestors were from Bohemia, a state in what was once Czechoslovakia. Bohemies, like Poles, are the butt of many jokes, jokes mostly poking fun at their stingy nature. Viv is a typical penny-pinching-bargain-table Bohemie, so she's aways watching how her money is being spent.

Back to the cab ride. The guy who picked us up was not of the American persuasion. Nor was he Hispanic, surprising since we were so close to Tijuana. Anyway, I don't think he was Hispanic. The language he was rattling to the guy on the receiving end of his radio (who was also squawking in the same foreign tongue) sure didn't sound like any Spanish I'd ever studied in college. We rode quietly for a few miles, the driver only occasionally talking on his radio. Then all hell broke loose. Viv decided we were literally being taken for a ride, and the guy was rolling up the dollars on his meter. And she decided to discuss this obvious ruse with the driver. Goes without saying the driver wasn't happy. He started yelling gawd knows what in his radio, then he'd turn and yell some damn thing at Viv. She had no clue what he was saying, but that didn't stop her. She was on him like white on rice. The more excited and angry the cabby became the faster he drove, alternately barking in his radio and turning in his seat to shake a fist at us. We were swerving at 70mph all over some major thoroughfare somewhere in San Diego.

Finally, Viv demanded he stop and let us out, which he did. He screamed what I guessed was some obscenity and tromped on the brakes; drivers in cars behind us hit their horns and skidded around us. And we very quickly found ourselves in deep kimshee. We were standing in the middle of a four-lane expressway some damn place in the city. Neither of us knew where we were. By this time I was scouting the area for a saloon. I was thirsty. Very thirsty. But Viv pointed to the left and said that's where we needed to go. Several miles, some wrong turns and two hours later we arrived back at our hotel.

And that, other than an occasional ride with Little Jimmy Dickens, is the last taxi ride I've taken.

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