Skip to main contentI pick up a middle-aged couple at one of the motels on North Interstate. They both seem rather timorous, hesitant, almost afraid of me. It's odd. Then they lay it on me: They want "something to smoke."
Ah. Apparently they didn't have a source lined up, thought they'd ask the cab driver, and were unprepared to find themselves facing a college studentish sort of girl rather than Wordly Wise Cabbie Guy. I sigh, and ask them to tell me flat out what they want.
Crack. Can't help them; wouldn't go near it with a 10-foot pipe, thanks.
They ask if I can recommend places to look. I venture that there are usually guys hanging around in Old Town, but the evening's torrential downpour has driven them all away. He asks if we might go down there and check. I say that of course we could, but I just came from there, and the streets were empty. It would be a waste of their money.
They ask me to take them to the Plaid Pantry a few blocks away while they think; apparently the woman has a headache. From the Plaid we trawl Northeast Broadway, from 20th to MLK, but see no one out walking with "that certain walk they have." They ask again if there isn't anyone I can call.
I reiterate my position. "That's not my thing. You can do what you want yourself, except there are no transactions or use allowed in my cab. Sorry."
They go home with nothing stronger than Excedrin.
WWeek 2015