Still, I get the impression that no amount of sobbing or backseat blow-jobbing could be more unnerving than someone getting into your cab, closing the door, and saying, “Take me wherever you want.”
There used to be a show on HBO called Taxicab Confessions on which drunk and sad and horny people got into taxicabs and discussed or exhibited all manner of unseemly behaviors for the benefit of a viewing audience—unbeknownst to them, at least initially. This was encouraged, of course; the drivers were also the show’s producers. But it’s not like everyday drivers, ones who aren’t voyeurs or cable documentarians, don’t see their share of shit.
“I’m going to kill you, Dan.”
I do get lunch for well under $10. I get the Greek salad, per Dan’s recommendation ($5.99) and it really is great—kalamatas, cucumbers (peeled), onions, green peppers, tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, cubes of sharp, tangy feta, anchovies (which I skip because I think the feta is salty enough). Everything about the salad is just really fresh, as I assume the produce comes from Stanley’s eponymous market across the street. The tomatoes are extra tasty, especially for winter tomatoes. Probably my favorite part of the experience, though, is a mural on the wall, a rooster standing behind a six-paned window that’s floating above a body of water holding an egg in his raised left foot.
I like imagining “engaged” translates roughly to “pulled their heads off.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
Without airing his grievances in a way that might jeopardize his 20-year career as a Chicago cab driver, I’ll say that José has a bee in his bonnet roughly the size of Chicago’s administrative court system. His are the usual traffic court complaints: the process is unfair, guilt is presumed upon entering into court, the fines are exorbitant. The difference, of course, is that driving is his livelihood. It started to make sense that he wouldn’t want to take advantage of his passengers, even the annoying journalists.
