Normally I wouldn't let someone standing on the corner screaming imprecations at the sky into my cab. However, a social-service agency is paying this gentleman's fare between the emergency room that just discharged him and the shelter where he is staying. We are, shall we say, strongly discouraged from turning away a medical transport order.
So he gets in. With a wary eye on the rear-view, I ask him who the fucking fuckers are. He is suddenly calm and articulate. He's pissed off at the doctors at the hospital. He had walked in saying that he really needed his meds, that he had run out. "And then they kept me there all fucking night! All I needed was the goddamn meds!"
I ask him what meds he was on, and he names a mood regulator, an anti-depressant and an anti-psychotic. A strong anti-psychotic. Ah.
I commiserate, saying I don't know what I'm going to do when my own insurance runs out, which is imminent.
"Fucking things would cost me $400 a month if I hadn't gotten into this program."
I say I may find myself looking into the same program; my own medications would cost as much. "Yeah? What are you on?" I tell him. "Oh yeah, I was on that for a while. Didn't do a goddamn thing." I say, "Well, frankly, my friend, I suspect my problem may be a little different than yours." He finds this incredibly funny. "Goddamn right it is! No one would let me drive a cab!"
We pull up to the shelter, and he gets out. "Peace, sister."
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