Skip to main contentThe Plaid Pantry at Grand and Burnside is the bane of many a cab driver. This tall, stringy guy with long, stringy gray hair gets in, says, "136th and Halsey," and then slouches out of sight. I hesitantly look over the back of my seat, see the motion of his tapping fingers instead of paralyzed unconsciousness, and decide to go.
Well, you can't be right all the time. My Spidey sense has failed. At 136th and Halsey, he is, in fact, unconscious. Nothing will wake this guy up. I actually check his pulse. I debate leaving him on a lawn here, rather than taking him to the cop shop-but I decide on the cop shop.
Another mistake. On the way there, he pisses himself. Copiously. Lovely. I go in and explain the situation. They ask, "Have you been paid?" I say no. They hand me a pair of rubber gloves and tell me to have at it.
Thus I find myself essentially rolling a drunk, which is what it feels like despite the fact that I'm perfectly justified in taking money from his pissy pockets. I don't feel bad about that.
But I do feel bad that I hadn't just dragged him out of the car myself. Because the cops are being....
I try to stop it, saying, "He's not being defiant, he's just unconscious!" But it doesn't matter. They're twisting his arms behind his back; they bang his head, hard, on the frame pulling him out. They're yelling at him. The sticks are out. Even cleaning up the bastard's piss, I feel sorry for him now.
WWeek 2015