6 to 6

By Mather Schneider

"I don't want to hang out with the puke-faces I work with. Who would? The meth-mouths, the crackheads, the criminals. Cab drivers are scum. I'm sorry."

Taxi drivers are part of the lifeblood of every city. They're responsible for taking everyone where they need to go, from rich yuppies hopped up on coke to senile old people on government v

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terror House Press, LLC
• Release date: Sep 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781951897239

Mather Schneider

Mather Schneider was born in 1970 in Peoria, Illinois. He has lived in Arkansas, Washington, and Arizona, and now lives in Mexico, which is not as glamorous as it sounds. His works can be found in hundreds of journals and web sites, many of which are defunct. He has had many jobs, none of them teaching, although he was a janitor at a community college for eight months. He is most famous for being a cab driver in Tucson for 15 years.

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Praise for 6 to 6

On par with Denis Johnson, John Fante and even Hemingway, it’s sad this masterful writer isn’t getting the attention he deserves. His characterization of the Southwest is austere, blinding, and directly beneath the sun. — Jon Bennett

"Schneider is the master of the oddball. He takes us along for the ride with the drunks, the infirmed, and the gangsters that have piled into the back of his cab, many of whom don’t even know their own destination. Hernia trusses are the order of the day as you bust a gut laughing at the twisted humor and ingenuity that is Mather Schneider’s storytelling. 6 to 6 is a diabolical memoir that raises the bar on writing today. The road to hell is paved with dark, cynical humor, and I want to be riding shotgun in Schneider’s cab on the way down." — Hugh Blanton

"Mather Schneider is a polarizing figure: some love him, some hate him, but few could hate his writing, which regularly digs deep, past all the bullshit, to the hidden souls of the flawed characters he writes about, showing unexpected beauty behind their endless life dilemmas. He is an authentic writer of the low life that has spent most of his working life as a cab driver developing his writing skills, gathering endless material along the way. 6 to 6 by Mather Schneider is a veteran writer at the height of his powers." — Brenton Booth, author of Bash the Keys Until They Scream

Mr. Mather has composed a gritty collection that hits harder than a tube sock full of ball bearings. Read at your own risk. — Brian Fugett, Zygote in My Coffee

Also by Mather Schneider

Drought Resistant Strain

He Took a Cab

The Small Hearts of Ants

Next Time Take Sunrise

Prickly

A Bag of Hands

Copyright © 2020 Terror House Press, LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means (whether electronic or mechanical), including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of nonfiction. While all of the characters and events depicted in this book are real, names and identifying details have been changed.

ISBN 978-1-951897-23-9

EDITOR

Matt Forney (mattforney.com)

LAYOUT AND COVER DESIGN

Matt Lawrence (mattlawrence.net)

Excerpts of this book were published, in somewhat different form, by Terror House Magazine. The author would like to thank Terror House for their support.

TERROR HOUSE PRESS, LLC

terrorhousepress.com

Table of Contents

Traveling Mercies

Next Time, Take Skyline

Suicide Lane

Morenci in My Rear-View Mirror

A Spiritual Adventure

Sonja’s Ring

A Pair to Draw To

Grocery Day

A Day with Melanie

The Hot Light

Drano

The Cab Knows the Way

Dodi’s Luck

The Thing People Don’t Understand

Don’t Die Before Your Mother

Bob’s Big Day

Nothing But a Human Being

John’s Dream

God Didn’t Get Me No Weed

Ramirez

What’s Going to Happen to Me?

Do I Look Like an Indian to You?

The Maze

Fun with Ruby

Portrait of the Artist as a Certified Loony

Turn Around, Dumbass

Red Bull Blues

The Great Desert Palms Escape

Bitcoin

At Least it Isn’t Raining

Marshmallows on Everything

Mermaid with Doctor’s Mask

My Other Jacket

Late

You Can Have a Seat, Sir

Book People

112 Degrees

No Way

El Pendejo

Batman

Plasma

The Jumping-Off Place

November in July

The Double

The Road to the Casino Del Sol

The Standard

Thinking’s Got Nothing to Do with It

This Shit Kicks Viagra’s Ass

And Deliver Us from the Vikings, Amen

Somebody Say the Magic Word

Arivaca

The Rest of It

Bear Hunting

On Monday, I drove down the road

and smashed my wheels in a hole.

On Tuesday, I drove down the road

and smashed my wheels in the hole.

On Wednesday, I drove down the road

and smashed my wheels in the hole.

On Thursday, I drove down the road

and swerved around the hole.

On Friday, I drove down the road

and swerved around the hole.

On Saturday, I drove down the road

and swerved around the hole.

On Sunday, I drove down a different road.

Traveling Mercies

She got Mother-Theresa-like into my cab in her brown dress and said:

To Saint Augustine Cathedral, on Broadway.

Saint Augustine was on the other side of town; at least a $30 ride. Praise the Lord.

Nice morning, huh? I said.

Oh, yes, she said. Another blessed day.

Couldn’t agree more.

How long you been driving a cab?

Seems like since the world began.

You must like it.

I didn’t say anything to that.

Then she asked me: Do you know what traveling mercies are?

I think I saw them on YouTube once.

Traveling mercies are a gift from God that can be given from one person to another.

Huh.

Well, she said, if you will permit me, I would like to bestow upon you some traveling mercies.

This isn’t gonna hurt, is it? I said.

No. It will calm your soul.

All right, then.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath and said, I bestow upon you many traveling mercies for this day and the days to follow.

That’s it? I said.

That’s pretty much it, she said.

Okay. Thanks.

You’re welcome. Everyone deserves some traveling mercies. It’s a crazy world out there.

Amen, sister.

Next Time, Take Skyline

Dispatch sent me to a house in the Tucson foothills. It was a typical foothills community full of upper class false-adobe houses all painted the same sallow desert tan. No real color was allowed by the neighborhood ordinance. It was 111 degrees and there hadn’t even been a cloud in four days.

When I arrived in my cab, I heard loud music inside the house. I didn’t see anybody. No phone number had been provided. I got out of the cab and knocked on the door several times. A man grunted: RIGHT OUT! I waited on the sunny driveway and looked at my watch: 2:15 PM.

The door opened and a Rottweiler leaped out at me. A man inside caught the dog by the scruff of the neck.

You son of a BITCH! he screamed and kicked the dog viciously back inside.

He was Hispanic, around 50, black hair slicked back into a tiny, perfectly tight ponytail. He wore sunglasses, a brown wool sports jacket, new blue jeans, and walnut-colored dress shoes. And he was BUILT. Not tall, but wide. He had a confidence. He held a glass of beer and walked toward the cab.

In the cab, he said: I’m Carlos.

Matt.

I heard about Big John, Carlos said.

Big John had been a cab driver for many years. He had died a few weeks before of a kidney infection. He had complained about pain for days, but he wouldn’t go to the doctor; he said he didn’t have the money. One day, he drove his cab to the hospital and walked into the emergency room. He was dead seven hours later.

A friend of yours? I said.

Of course, Carlos said. He was my driver for ten years. I’ve been...out of town. I just heard about his death. Big John was a good man.

I had never liked Big John much.

Where we headed? I said.

Carlos looked at me as if he had been offended.

Craycroft and Pima.

The east side. That meant at least $35 on the meter.

You want me to take the freeway? I said.

Whatever you want.

Or maybe Skyline Drive?

Either one.

I sat there a moment. I was nervous. I was just a middle-aged guy with a studio apartment; I didn’t want any trouble. Carlos took a handgun out of his coat pocket and sat it on the seat beside him.

I’ll take the freeway, I said.

Carlos had cans of beer in the pockets of his sports jacket. He finished his glass and took a can out and filled it again. He was perfectly shaved, except for a little hair under the middle of his lower lip.

A piece of rubber tire came upon us on the highway. I swerved to miss it and Carlos nearly spilled his beer.

Take it easy, he said.

Sorry.

Halfway there, Carlos said, Next time, take Skyline.

Carlos told me to pull into the parking lot of a pawnshop. He got out slowly and strutted into the store. He stayed inside for at least 20 minutes. My palms were wet. I should leave, I should leave, I thought. Carlos had taken his gun with him.

After a while, I got out of the cab and looked in the glass doors of the pawn shop. At that moment, Carlos came out, almost hitting me in the nose with the door.

I see how you are, Carlos said.

Just checking my hair, I told him.

I need a beer, Carlos said. Take me to the south side.

The south side was another 20 minutes away, and once we got there, he wanted me to go to a gas station, where he bought a 12-pack of beer. Then he instructed me to park in an alley looking out onto the street, right next to a Mexican guy selling corn out of the back of his truck. The corn nearly steamed in its husks sitting there in boxes in the sun. The meter clicked more slowly as we sat. I watched it like the doomsday clock.

Carlos drank his beer.

I turned around and looked at him.

Can I ask a question? I said. Carlos nodded and lifted his hand.

What exactly are we doing? I said.

Carlos smiled and shook his head.

In life, you must be flexible, he said.

But what is our ultimate destination?

You’ll have to ask God that question, my friend. Just drive.

He wanted me to drive when he told me to drive and to turn where he told me to turn and to listen when he talked. Carlos measured my reactions.

You have a girlfriend? Carlos asked.

No.

Are you a man, or what? he said.

I think so.

I have four girlfriends, Carlos said. One in New York, one in Brazil, and two in Mexico.

That’s a lot.

Not really, he said.

They like the money, I said.

No! Carlos said. It’s more than the money.

All right.

Carlos wanted the music turned up. Then he talked in whispers.

A man needs to have some fun once in a while, he said.

I knew what he meant.

You know what I mean? he said.

Yes.

What?

YES!

The whole thing was some kind of test.

Can you keep a secret? Carlos said.

Sure.

I didn’t want any secrets, I’d had enough of secrets. My heart was racing and I was sweating all over. My fear was mixed with anger.

I mean, he said, you know where I live, you know all this about me.

You haven’t told me anything.

I’m not stupid.

I didn’t say you were stupid.

I don’t want to wake up with an ice pick in the back of my neck, Carlos said. You have to be careful. Just like driving this cab around, you never know who you’re going to pick up.

True.

Can you keep your mouth shut is what I’m asking you, Carlos said.

If I have to.

One day a man might come up to you, Carlos said.

Yes?

This man may look just like me, this man may even claim to be me. What will you tell him?

Nothing, Carlos.

Pull over here.

We sat on 12th Avenue, which was Carlos’s street. He ran it. One of the perks of running a street was that he never had to pay for anything and could supposedly walk up to any woman he saw and take her to a hotel.

It was all about something he called protection. Jim had been his driver for nearly ten years. Apparently, Carlos was never in Tucson long enough to have his own car, so he used Jim. Old Jim was driving his cab around Hell right about then, which was probably not much hotter than Tucson.

Nobody’s gonna take care of you, Carlos said. You’ve got to take care of yourself. A man’s got to take care of himself, you know what I mean?

Yes.

Look around you, he said. That guy selling corn out of the back of his goddamned truck back there? He’s got an old lady at home and four kids, man. Who’s gonna take care of them?

I don’t know.

Me! Carlos said. Nobody else is gonna do it! I take care of them. They are like my children. I would do anything for them. I mean, sometimes you gotta kick ass, but that’s just how it goes.

He held out his right arm and flexed his biceps.

Go ahead, he said, feel it. 18 fucking inches.

Wow.

Carlos looked at me. He liked me, but he didn’t like me.

You don’t understand anything, do you?

I’m not from this world, I said.

Carlos laughed. He shook my hand about 20 times and said he wanted me to be his new driver. My hand was still sweaty, and when Carlos let go, he wiped his hand on his jeans and smiled viciously.

Intimidation vibrated from Carlos. He sat back there, ensconced in malignant ego, completely full of himself, ready to kill at any moment, or ready to die. He was a man you just did not fuck with. And his gun sat there the whole time.

The next part of the afternoon was spent going to various places. He kept barking at me.

Pull over there! Not here, there! Do what I tell you!

At one point, I pulled the cab over outside of a little taco stand. I told Carlos he was wearing me out and that I was tired of his mouth. My fear had been exhausted and I was just plain pissed. Plus, I was hungry. Carlos looked at me with shock. I figured I was done for. But Carlos softened. He grinned and patted me on the shoulder.

You have some balls after all, my friend, he said.

After that, he was quiet and more polite.

We stopped at many pawnshops and bars so Carlos could collect protection money