“So I’ve got these two women in the back of my cab who just refuse to get out, and one of them’s puked all over the door, and the cops are understandably busy. What do I do?” I ask a fellow cab driver on my cell phone.
“I don’t know, what?”
I laugh. “It’s not a joke, man. This is the current state of affairs.”
“Where are you?”
I tell him, and he says he’ll be right there. I lean against the front fender and think that maybe it’s time to start smoking again.
I picked the two middle-aged women up at the bar of an airport hotel. They were belligerent. I nearly told the bartender to drive them home his own damn self, but I’ve always been a pushover. I’m regretting it now. Hotel bartenders are the worst, I guess because they figure their customers aren’t going anywhere.
I’ve been parked in front of the house for a good 45 minutes, and no amount of pleading, logic or yelling has gotten them to leave the car. I’ve been left to call the cops and spend my time pacing the sidewalk and looking at the moon.
My friend shows up in about 15 minutes, and the women respond to the new stimulus pretty quickly and finally get out. But now they won’t pay. A cop eventually arrives, and a credit card is produced. The meter, of course, has been running, and what could’ve been a $20 trip costs them $90.