Where To?

By Jon Seawright

Al..#1-4-1 as he refers to himself, drives a taxi for Desert Cab in Palm Springs, Calif. This job would place him in many odd and humorous positions as he encounters various strange passengers. During the year Al.#1-4-1 would have to break away from this job to sail at sea as a merchant marine for Crest Tanks, out of St. Louis, Mo... his other part-time job. This particular year he opts to drive this old 64 Volkswagen van across the country to meet his ship in Boston, rather than flying there. Sleeping at night inside the van, Al would stop at his favorite towns and bars, ones he use to frequent in his younger life. These stops include Las Vegas, Aspen, St. Louis, Chicago, Montreal and finally, Boston.
Leaving his van in storage there, Al then boards the oil tanker Chablis that would take him to various ports around the Gulf of Mexico and up the eastern seaboard, through the Panama Canal and back, up the Mississippi River, and eventually ending his four-month tour of duty in Baltimore, Maryland.
After retrieving his van, the Grunt, from storage, and not wanting to return the same way in which he crossed the country, Al would venture south and drive to Mexico, via the Carolinas, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas.
In Mexico, Al stays for a month in the resort town of Puerto Villarta, before completing his circle. Taking a ferry across to Cabo San Lucas, he then drives up the Baja Peninsula to California, stopping in Hollywood and Lake Big Bear before falling back into his other life.that of driving a taxi for Desert Cab.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 17, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462825813

Jon Seawright

Born and raised in Hermosa Beach, California, Jon Seawright graduated from the University of Arizona in Tucson where he lives today with his wife Gail and their two Goldendoodles. From his diverse style of living, Jon’s writings revolve mainly around his various types of employment, mixed in with his world-wide travels. Jon’s other books include “In Dire Need,” “Early Bird Special,” and “A Can Of Worms.”

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Copyright © 2008 by Jon Seawright.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Dedication

To all the Rangers

Chapter 1

Glancing up into the rear-view mirror I couldn’t see him any more. I instinctively thought that he must have laid down on the back seat, when suddenly his meek voice squeezed out from between the cushions of the front seat:

Just keep driving straight… . until I tell you to turn.

Oh Christ! I thought… . It was going to be one of THOSE nights. The guy wasn’t lying down at all. He was crouching on the floor and speaking between the split of the front seat divider. Just another average passenger.

Accommodating the posture of the situation, I leaned slightly to my right and directed my voice to the very same spot.

We’re approaching Ramon… . Thousand Palms is to the right. I should turn here… . unless you want to take the long way home.

The top of his head now cleared the back of my seat and he took a quick look around.

Alright… . but tell me if there’re any cars behind us after you’ve turned, he whispered… and then his head vanished again.

Sounded reasonable.

It’s not that all of my fares prefer the floor boards to riding on the seat… . in fact, now that I think about it… . most all of my riders prefer to sit, but there’s always something about the clientele at the Pink Lady, that defied the averages. And this guy was no exception.

I came on at 5:00 p.m. and, like most nights, the early part of the shift was spent mainly at the airport as the last of the flights arrived from the east.

All hack drivers love the airport… . as this is where the long-distant fares are usually distributed. The disembarking tourists usually needed a ride to such locations as Rancho Mirage’s Ritz Carlton, Palm Desert’s Marriott Springs, and at times, as far as La Quinta and PGA West.

The month was early July and the desert heat was definitely an element to be dealt with, as most snow birds dealt with it by staying home. But eventually, their migratory instinct would cause them to flock back to the area in late December, and like-wise, cabbies would flock to the airport to greet them. I wondered briefly if global warming would have any affect upon this trend… but then I wondered why I was wondering about this in this first place.

This night I was able to assist a young couple to the International Hotel on Sunrise Way and Highway 111, and two gays to a home in Cathedral City. But other than that, the airport had offered me very little.

I had just turned onto Highway 111 and was starting to head back towards the airport when my radio crackled, "1-4-1… . Pink Lady."

Normally the announcement would have been gratefully received, but the hair stood up on the back of my neck. My throat went dry.

As I pulled up in front of the topless bar, my first clue that this was going to be another funny fare, was offered by the bouncer, who was standing outside waiting for my arrival.

Listen, he said as I electronically rolled down the passenger-side window, Those two over there are the ones who called you… . but I think you had better take this other guy first. He’s having a bad day.

Giving the two Marines a glance, I started to object, as the fare to the Marine station in Twenty-Nine Palms was a hefty one. But then noticing the urgency in the bouncer’s face, I gave in with, Sure… . I’ll call them another cab. Where’s your guy?

But before the bouncer had a chance to reply, the back door swung open and funny fare was in the car.

Drive now… . Drive! he shouted.

That was my second clue.

Alright… . alright, I said. Where to?"

Thousand Palms, was all he managed.

Pulling the radio mike from out of its holder, I pressured the button and spoke: 1-4-1

Big John, the dispatcher instantly echoed, 1-4-1.

"Thousand Palms… . also need another car to the Pink Lady," I reported.

10-4 Big John curtly responded.

I watched funny fare for a few seconds in the mirror as he glanced side to side, in search of someone who wasn’t there. Then I noticed that he wore a coat and tie.

Only here in the desert, with 110 degree temperatures, and where informal dress is almost mandatory, did this seem odd. After just emerging from the seedy girlie-bar, it now seemed absurd.

That was my third clue.

Recently I had encountered the most bizarre customers, coming out of the Pink Lady . . . . not that they were drunk or engaged in alternate life styles, but more that they had taken a wrong turn somewhere in life. The passenger who was now on the floor behind my seat, I figured, was without a map as well.

Beautiful night, I chirped as I guided the cab east on Ramon Road.

Nothing.

Hey… . did you hear about the deaf woman who had twenty children?

Nothing.

Yea… . Every night when she went to bed, her husband would ask her: ‘Do you want to go to sleep or what?’ . . . And she would always say: What?"

Embarrassed by the silence I quickly added, I can’t see any cars behind us… . if that’s what you’re concerned about.

Still nothing.

We’re almost to Bob Hope. I-10 isn’t much farther, I volunteered.

Finally: Let me know when we pass the post office, he softly said. I’ll give you directions from there.

Alright. I can do that, I thought.

We ventured over the interstate and on past the few buildings and stores that make up downtown Thousand Palms. A half mile further down the road, as we approached the post office, I suddenly was aware of a soft glow in the rear-view mirror. Funny fare had pulled himself up from the floor, and was now casually reclining in the cushiony rear seat and lighting a cigarette. My joke must have made him feel more relaxed.

I hope you don’t mind if I smoke in your cab, he spoke as a small cloud encompassed his head. It’s just that I’ve been through an ordeal tonight… . and I need to relax.

No… . feel free. Some drivers don’t permit it, but I think that if you’re paying for the car, then it’s all yours to smoke in as well, I lied. Actually I let riders smoke if they like, because they usually tipped well for the privilege. After all, I would have been the only one to complain.

"What’s your name? he quizzed with confidence.

Al… . number 1-4-1, I beamed.

Now crossing his legs and leaning back with his cigarette, he asked with pure conviction, Tell me… Al… . Do you think that I’m a little paranoid?

The car almost drove onto the gravely shoulder of the road, but as I regained composure, I managed: No… . no… . I think that you’ve been through an ordeal of some kind tonight… . that’s all.

That’s right… . Those guys from that bar are following me and I don’t even know what it is that I did to them. They’re trying to get me for some reason!

Returning to a subject that was now more meaningful to me, I asked, Where do we turn? . . . . Do you live off of Grant or Elm?

Actually we’ve already passed my street. Turn up here at the light and then circle back around. I’ll know then if they’re still behind us. The cigarette then brightened with his lengthy, relaxed inhale.

What a man! I thought. He knows how to handle ordeals.

By now we were far from the main road and the entire area seemed to become even darker, as street lights and lighted houses were disappearing behind us.

Then suddenly he snapped, That house up there on the right… . slow down… but don’t stop. I don’t want them to know where I live.

It seemed… . that included me as well.

Then he added, Just drive past it and pull over by that vacant lot.

After passing a darkened house, I couldn’t see exactly what vacant lot he was referring to, so I simply stopped the cab and reached over, turning the meter off. It read $15.80.

I turned and started to ask him for that amount, but he wasn’t there. He was back on the floor again. A hand now appeared from behind the seat with a twenty dollar bill in it.

Keep the change, the hand said.

And then the back door gradually opened and I could hear the sound of his clothes rubbing against the floor carpet as he slid himself out and, in a flash, he was gone.

I had to get out and go around the car to close the door. But as I did, I tried to see if I could spot him, making his way through the weeds in the field… . going home. But all I could see was where he had been… . the parted bushes, creating a path that had obviously been used before.

Isn’t life great? I pondered.

Chapter 2

Throughout my life I have entertained myself with various types of careers for various reasons. Some of those reasons were induced by such things as: lay-offs, down-sizing, corporate take-overs, mergers, bankruptcies, managerial over-hauls, and just pure hatred of my job. These different forces, that constantly altered my work habits, forced me to seek and obtain all sorts of means to sustain my life style, or lack of it.

After 45 years of working my way through schools, the film industry,