A Can of Worms: a Collection of Short Stories: A Collection of Short Stories

By Jon Seawright

This book is a collection of various short stories. It contains some that are suspenseful..some that are humorous..and others that are tragic. It contains stories of romance, irony, intrigue, and murder. It is also a collection of Jons memoires while traveling through Europe, Russia, and the Middle Eastas well as northern Africa, and Australia.while living out of his Volkswagen van.
It contains his short stories: In Dire Need, Early Bird Special and Where To?

Like the title suggests..The once you open the book.it is hard to put the contents back into the container.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 9, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462825806

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.”

Book preview

Copyright © 2009 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

WHERE TO?

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

MUFFINS AND CUPCAKES

THE NULLORBOR PLAIN

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

EARLY BIRD SPECIAL

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

THE JOURNEY

DINING OUT

RONNIE

JUDITHA

BONNY LEE

NIKKI

ROBERT

RONNIE

VOLKSWAGEN VAN NEEDS RIDERS

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

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

POLLY

IN DIRE NEED

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

WHY I LOVE TO WRITE

Dedication

In memory of my wonderful father, who told his children

stories at bedtime . . . in the dark. He taught me how to write

stories of my own.

In memory of my loving mother, who had to

proofread . . . all of them.

WHERE TO?

CHAPTER 1

Glancing up into the rearview mirror, I couldn’t see him any more. I instinctively thought that he must have lain 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.

All right . . . 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 floorboards 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-distance 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 effect upon this trend . . . but then I wondered why I was wondering about this in the 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.

All right . . . all right, 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 alternative 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.

Yeah . . . 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.

All right. 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 rearview 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 liked, 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 careers for various reasons. Some of those reasons were induced by such things as: lay-offs, down-sizing, corporate takeovers, 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, the construction industry, the restaurant business, as well as, the real estate business, I still didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. At the moment, my life had come to rest temporarily in a mixture of devoted space between the perils of, life on the sea as a merchant marine, and the dangers of life on the street, as a non-foreign taxi driver.

This odd combination was formulated for me by the rules that govern work at sea; in that, most shipping companies have formatted, time-tested, work schedules that usually read: four months at sea, followed by four months of vacation. This created a dilemma for me, as to what to do in those four months off. I couldn’t afford the luxury, nor was I used to being so idle.

On one of my vacations, I returned to Palm Springs, where I had resided before leaving to join Crest Tankers, a subsidiary of Apex Oil, a conglomerate based out of St. Louis, Mo.

In California, I renewed acquaintances with a best, old-friend, Ken Hinkle, whose brother worked as a dispatcher with Desert Cab. It was fated . . . I was to be #141.

In looking back at the rigors and adversities that were unique to each different job position which I held, my life as a cab driver became one of the most ludicrous.

There is something enigmatic about the back of a cab driver’s head, as seen at night that apparently resembles that of a priest’s profile in a confessional . . . Total strangers would bare their most forsaken secrets to me upon completing the closure of the back door. The words and emotions would pour out by merely stepping on the gas pedal; the harder I pressed, the faster the verbiage spewed.

I believe that this phenomena must be created by the rare ingredients of total ambiguity and confinement in space, stirred well with a touch of trust; that once a passenger places himself inside the car, all else fails to exist; that the rider knows that he is now sequestered for x amount of time, and all that he can associate with, is the back of a head, of a faceless person, in whom he has entrusted his own well-being.

At this point, they are fearless in what can now be said . . . as there are no pressures or inhibitions to limit them. But the moment the destination is reached normal cautions and restrictions will again apply as he opens the car door. And at that point, the rider will then pay his fare and get out of the cab, as if nothing, that was said or took place inside . . . ever happened. The ride was over.

I always thought that I’d seen it all, but each night, each fare, only told me how little I’d really experienced. Every time I stopped for a passenger, I found that I was also stopping for a new adventure. Every person had a story . . . and every story held their souls.

As I drove on back towards town, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was almost midnight. It was too late to hit the airport again, as it was usually closed by 11:00 P.M . . . the last arrival from Chicago. Grabbing the radio, I spoke into it, 1-4-1 . . . clear.

I really wanted to go back and see if funny fare made it home safely, but the silence of the cab was again interrupted by Big John’s gruff response:

"1-4-1 . . . Daddy Warbuck’s."

I dutifully responded, That’s a 10-4.

Making a hard left turn at Date Palm Drive, I traveled south, back the way I had come. The old-timers would know this place as Oil Can Harry’s but now many of the locals referred to Daddy Warbuck’s as Daddy Sore Butts, in that many of its patrons probably had one. But I chose not to infer. The gays that partied there, were some of my nicest clients, and some of my best tippers. Whether they had sore butts or not was inconsequential to me. Although I personally suffer from bleeding hemorrhoids, I couldn’t understand why people thought they did.

Pulling up in front of the night-club, I had to swerve in order to avoid hitting a group that had just exited. Groping and kissing one another, they made their way past me and into the adjacent parking lot. I stopped the cab to one side of the main entrance.

Yooooo . . . Hooooo . . . Mister caaaaab driver! We’ll be right there, came a falsetto voice from somewhere inside the door. I instinctively turned the meter on.

As not to disappoint me, two youthful men emerged from the building at a gait much like prancing. One of them had an arm draped around the other’s neck, while the other, had a hand firmly against the first’s buttocks.

How are you two doing tonight? I whimsically asked as I got out of the cab to open their door. I felt like stretching my legs.

Yooooo . . . Hooooo . . . Oh! What a nice driver you are! Don’t you think so Bruce? one said.

Bruce didn’t respond. Instead he started to unzip his pants, as to urinate on the side of my car, but Yooo-Hooo stopped him and the zipper at about pubic hair level.

Bruce . . . ! You’re such a slut! Be nice now . . . we have this lovely taxi driver to take us home.

Bruce was either overcome by either his sudden rudeness or the fact that he was simply shit-faced. He smiled at me and without speaking, slid in onto the cab’s rear seat.

I’m really sorry for his behavior, Yooo-Hooo" said as he too scooted in, supporting Bruce from falling over with one hand.

He would never do something like that normally . . . I think that he’s had a little too much, he now said in a whisper.

Without verbalizing, I nodded in agreement and then, closing the door behind them, I returned to the driver side of the car in time to hear, 1-4-1 . . . what’s your 20?

Climbing in behind the steering wheel, I pulled the receiver to my mouth: 1-4-1 . . . I’m still at Daddy’s. Turning to Bruce and Yooo-Hooo I asked, Where to?

Oh . . . we live just down the street . . . about Van Ness and C Street. I hope you don’t mind that it’s so close . . . but we obviously couldn’t walk it . . . and I will make it worth your time, Yooo-Hooo" giggled.

Not sure why he giggled, I continued my transmission. John . . . we’re going to Van Ness . . . will call you when I’m clear.

10-4, Big John boomed with authority. I have an emergency at Eisenhower. Let me know the minute you’re clear.

10-4, I boomed back with less authority. I knew the working status structure.

Guiding the cab back out into traffic, I turned left onto Palm Canyon Drive and headed west, as I slightly burned at the thought of such a short fare. But luckily I had started the meter upon arrival . . . and that would be at least 20 cents.

Mister taxi-driver, Yooo-Hooo cooed. Turn left at Van Ness and then right on C Street . . . I’ll show you where to stop.

Great! I thought . . . I then wondered if maybe we had to stop near a vacant lot. Slowing down, I turned right and then left and began to brake as we neared the next corner.

No . . . No! Yooo-Hooo shrieked. Just go straight . . . go straight! And then with great glee, he slapped himself lightly on the side of his face and added, Oh . . . I just hate it when I say that!

I didn’t get it, so I simply said: What?

But being never short for words I interjected: These three gays were once playing in a Jacuzzi together, when suddenly a glob of semen floated to the surface . . . and one of them turned to the others and asked, O.K . . . Who farted?"

Yooo-Hooo burst into a laughter that sounded the way it would have been spelled out: Tee Hee Hee . . . Tee Hee Hee and then composing himself, he murmured, I think that you’re just the cutest driver . . . what do you think Bruce? But Bruce only smiled. What’s your name anyway? I would like to ask for you in the future when we need a taxi, he continued.

Al . . . number 1-4-1, I beamed.

Well, Al . . . You can stop the car now . . . we’re here. What is the fare? It should be $2.75 . . . that’s what it always is.

Glancing over at the meter, I could see that it read $3.00 and quickly deduced that the difference was my 25 cents in waiting at the door.

You’re right . . . $2.75! You must do this often, I rewarded him. I knew when it was best to be accommodating and quickly reset the meter.

Here you go young man, he sang out, as he passed forward a ten. A five in change will be fine . . . you can keep the rest.

Getting out of the car, I went around to Bruce’s side door to help him out, but he had already managed by himself. Yooo-Hooo squirmed out behind him.

Thanks guys, I said, handing him the change. Yooo-Hooo slightly gripped my hand with a light squeeze as he took the bill. I jerked it back in a natural reaction, but felt that he hadn’t noticed.

Lets’ go Brucie . . . Brucie. We’re home. Say ‘Good-night’ to the nice man, Yooo-Hooo whispered as he wrapped an arm around Bruce’s waist to help him up the front steps.

O.K . . . Who farted? he giggled to Bruce, but Bruce only maintained his fixed smirk and stared at me. The light of the street lamp swept across his face as they turned to leave and I could see his thin, frail features much better. He wore the telltale blotches and lesions of a dying man.

Returning to the front seat, I picked up the radio mike and waited for a pause in the transmitted traffic. The moment that there was one, I squeezed it and said, 1-4-1 . . . clear.

1-4-1 . . . Eisenhower . . . ER, the voice said, but it wasn’t Big John’s. This one was feminine.

Good evening . . . Rose, I replied smiling, and then, That’s 10-4.

I liked Rose. She was an elderly woman who had owned the cab company for years. She probably could have retired along time ago, but refused to give it up, saying that she would miss the excitement too much. She loved dispatching . . . especially at night.

Turning the cab around, I drove back on Van Ness and then Highway 111. Eisenhower Hospital is located on Bob Hope Drive in Rancho Mirage, and is easy to remember how to quickly get there. I could either take Gene Autry Drive, and come back around to Dinah Shore Drive; then a left on Gerald Ford Drive to Bob Hope Drive; or I could simply take Highway 111 to Frank Sinatra Drive and then straight to Bob Hope. I think if I went too far, I would end up on Pinky Lee Street . . . but I wasn’t sure. I took Highway 111.

At this hour of the night, the streets were generally void of traffic and the drive was fairly fast. The radio kept telling me that 5-1 was having trouble finding his fare at the address Rose had given him, and was now getting a little testy. As some vulgarities started to be transmitted, I reached over and turned the volume down. Rose knew where I was, and there was no reason to have to listen to that noise. I just had to remember to turn it back up later, as the dispatchers tended to get very testy themselves, when a driver didn’t respond to a call.

Passing the huge, curbside sign, that identified the hospital with five large stars forming a circle, I turned in at the emergency drive and continued around behind the building. I always maintained that the five stars guaranteed the public that it was a general hospital.

Normally there were several ambulances hogging the drive-up spaces to the emergency doors, but tonight it was empty.

I could immediately identify my fare as I pulled inside one of the unloading spaces. He was standing outside the doors with a bandage wrapped around the top of his head. He looked like he was still in pain but seemed to come alive as he spotted my cab.

Here . . . here . . . ! I’m here! he began to yell in my direction, as I placed the gear shift into park. We were the only ones in the area at the time, so I figured that he was talking to me . . . and that his name must be Here.

Stepping out quickly, I circled the car to approach him, as to be of some assistance, but he merely waved me off as he opened the back door himself and climbed in. As he slammed the door shut, I could hear him saying something about shit.

I quickly retorted with What? but he didn’t hear me.

With all of the formal greetings now taken care of, I circled the car again, to be again of some assistance . . . like maybe driving it away. He welcomed me inside with: That god-damn son-of-a-bitch . . . who the hell does he think he’s messing with? I’ll fry his ass-hole!

Not sure if he was speaking of me, I kept my mouth shut and simply turned the meter on. I drove the taxi back out on to Bob Hope and then turned south . . . the popular choice. Here kept on yelling more obscenities and didn’t seem to care, in the least, in which direction we were headed.

To ease the tension, I started to tell him the one about the guy who didn’t have hemorrhoids . . . and was just a pure ass-hole, but elected to speak to Rose instead and turned the radio back on. 5-1 had apparently found the house and was now telling her that he was finally clear. I looked up into the rearview mirror to see that Here had settled back into a more relaxed state. His white dress shirt was slightly ripped, and blood had dripped, where the front buttons should have been.

Bad night? was all I could muster.

Yeah . . . Fuckin’ right about that, Here said.

I always liked it when I was right.

Where to? Your home . . . ? Your car? I obliged.

Hell . . . My car . . . ? They towed the sucker away! That shit-head ran right into me and destroyed it! He was stinkun’ drunk . . . and can you believe it? . . . They let that prick walk away? I’ll sue that bastard for all he’s got!

Obviously, he now wanted more from the prick than just his ass-hole.

For unknown reasons, I suddenly became unconscientiously concerned about the prick’s welfare . . . but then reality returned and I simple reiterated, Where can I take you.

22134 Haystack . . . off of 74, Here calmly replied.

By now we were already to Highway 111, so my instincts about heading south were correct. No wonder Here had said nothing.

1-4-1 . . . 22134 Haystack Drive, I dutifully reported.

10-4 . . . aaahhh . . . 1-4-1 . . . when you clear . . . Eisenhower . . . ER, Rose came back.

Oh great! I said to myself, hoping that Here hadn’t heard it. For if he had he certainly would have wanted a ride back to the hospital with me. The fare, which Rose was speaking of, was . . . without a doubt . . . The Prick.

Not much more was said inside the cab, as I turned right on 74 and continued up the hill towards Haystack. I started to hum, in a vain attempt to liven up the atmosphere . . . but my humming was worse than the silence, so I stopped.

Making a left onto Haystack, I was immediately able to identify his house and turned into the driveway. The heat of the day was finally making its own turn, and the cool night air was very noticeable as I stepped out of the car, to again offer assistance at Here’s side door.

That comes to $8.50, I tried to say without sounding unsympathetic and callous.

He was lying back on the seat, holding his head, as if the bandages hurt. Here . . . take my wallet . . . there’s a ten in it somewhere . . . it’s in my left shirt pocket, he said as he twisted to one side to expose the pocket.

Now he thinks that my name is Here.

Here, I corrected him . . . I’ve got it.

Pulling the wallet out and finding the bill, I heard him to say, Keep the change. I then helped him out of the car and guided him safely towards the house front door, when he suddenly stopped and turned to face me.

I’m going to kill that son-of-a-bitch, and then he walked away.

I assumed he was speaking of the Prick and felt like I should say something like: Maybe it wasn’t his fault . . . or . . . I’d think it over before I did something rash . . . and . . . It’ll be all right tomorrow.

Instead I just said, What?

But Here didn’t hear me.

CHAPTER 3

I often wonder whatever happened to some of those people that my life seemed to constantly intertwine with. One moment, I would be having the most intimate conversations with the passengers, and then the next, they seemed to escape out the back door, never to be seen again. For me, the conversation would linger on, for hours at a time, inside the cab as I mentally relived it, until the next customer flagged me down, and then their presence took over where the last conversation left off. I knew that I would never know.

The call back to the hospital was everything that I had expected; the Prick was the fare, but he also had a young lady along for the ride as well. I elected not to mention anything about his ass-hole being in danger or his immediate need of an attorney. I just listened as he and his female friend rehashed the night’s events to themselves.

The interesting thing was that it spewed out differently than the way Here had let it flow. Without the expletives, the Prick explained to her that the other guy ran a red light and there was no way for him to avoid the collision.

I liked his explanation better.

I knew that this was the perfect time to interject a little uplifting talk, so I asked: Do you know why mermaids wear sea shells? After giving them plenty of time to answer and then not getting it, I continued with: Because B’s are too small.

I knew I’d probably get a good tip with that.

By the time I dispensed with the Prick and his Prickette, the hour was approaching 3:00 AM, so I gripped the radio mike and informed Rose that I intended to gas up and call it a night. She responded with a 10-4, so I knew that everything was under control.

Pulling into the Mag-Gas-all-night-serve-yourself-gas station, I stopped at the economy pump. As I placed the fuel nozzle into the cab’s gaping mouth, I noticed that, inside of the mini-mart’s cashier cage, the young Filipino girl, who normally worked this evening was absent, and that an Iranian looking man had assumed her position.

I carefully cleaned all the windows of the taxi with some kind of yellowish cleaner they provided, and totaled up all my fares that I had for the night onto an official looking company sheet. At the top was printed: Fares.

After completing my nightly chores, I went inside to pay my bill. Usually I would have flirted for a bit with the employee, but decided against it tonight. Noticing the Iranian’s missing front tooth and bumpy complexion, I simply paid the total and left.

Guiding the taxi back out onto Highway 111, I headed in the direction of Cathedral City, where Desert Cab’s base was located. Although the city had no cathedral, nor was it, at the time, an incorporated city, legend has it that decades ago, it was named after the small, local mountains, which resembled a cathedral. Today they resemble small, local mountains.

Rose greeted me with Hey . . . Al . . . How’d ya do this evening? as I passed through the front door of the office, and by the adjacent, dispatcher’s room.

Not bad, Rose . . . considering that you’re giving us all raises this month, I joked.

Your ass! was all I could hear as I entered the back room where the car keys were kept . . . all neatly arranged on cup hooks.

My key chain told me that I had been driving car #555, so I appropriately placed it on the corresponding hook number. Although the piece of tape that read #555 had fallen off of the board years ago, I figured that it must go between #554 and #556 and placed it there . . . after all . . . I had a college degree.

I then placed all of the night’s proceeds into a cash envelope and scrawled my name and number across the top of it and returned to the dispatcher’s room. Rose was in another heated argument with 5-1. This time he couldn’t find a street in the Thomas Guide.

It’s not on S-t-a-r Road . . . but S-t-a-r-r Road, she said with emphatic sarcasm. S-t-a-r-r . . . R-o-a-d.

The radio went dead; which meant that he must have found it.

Finding a pause in the transmission, I interjected, Here you are, Rose . . . $132.50 . . . Not bad for a relatively slow night.

Not bad for who . . . you or me? she whined, but laughing at the same time. Her reddish hair had, long ago, turned gray, but her skin complexion maintained its original luster: a rosy color still spotted with traces of childish freckles. Her eyes seemed to squint with each laugh, as her large, rotund body dripped over the edges of the seat, and hugged the desk chair, like forming one big entity.

Not bad for whom, I corrected her, knowing that she hated to be corrected, especially about something so trite as proper English.

In exiting through the building’s back door, I could hear her yell out from her tiny room, Fuck off!

CHAPTER 4

Although it was already 10:00 A.M., the morning seemed to have come very early as I awoke. I felt exhausted but knew inside that I had to force myself out of bed, enabling me to make something out of the remainder of the day. But on the other hand, I could just go back to sleep and dream about what I might have done. I elected to do the latter, except Pope Paul came home then and was attempting to crawl through the window opening, which served as her front door.

I had always wanted to name a cat Snatchy . . . I liked it. But I never had another cat, so I thought that someday I might have a daughter . . . and she could be Snatchy . . . but until then I had Pope Paul. She was a Calico, who appeared on my front steps, the very day that the real Pope Paul VI died in Rome. I figured that the sudden appearance of this strange animal had to be the reincarnation of Paul, in the form of a female cat. It made perfect sense to me at the time.

I was told, I think in some art history class I once attended, that all Calico cats are females . . . that the breed of the tom was insignificant . . . and only females were reproduced. Then, digging even deeper into my array of useless knowledge, I remembered that they say all pure white cats are deaf. I hadn’t the time to research these theories, nor the resources to find out who they were . . . so I have accepted this without challenge, but wonder if Pope Paul had considered it when he was reincarnated.

My Pope Paul kept to herself, as all cats tend to do, but somehow, she managed to be impregnated, and now had to rely more on me for help. Years ago she could jump up to the opening and slip through the window without the slightest noise. But now, her stomach was so large and heavy that she could only jump high enough to grasp onto the windowsill, and then slowly, clawing at the wood siding, pull herself up and through the opening. This created much noise, and I usually awoke at her arrival, after she had been catting around all night. This morning was no different.

Rolling over into the fetal position that I had assumed before the interruption, I decided that I needed more sleep to think about all of the world’s problems, when suddenly I became fully awake. It was Gail’s birthday and I had a date to meet her at Banducci’s for lunch. I had to buy a birthday cake!

Jumping out of bed, I raced to the bathroom for the normal masculine ritual: Shave . . . Shit . . . and a shower . . . smell like a flower. That would be Old Spice after-shave lotion. I never went anywhere without it. Girls I dated always said that it reminded them of their fathers. Today . . . I’m still not sure if that was a bad thing or not. I only knew that it always reminded me of my dad.

By the time I finally left the house it was probably 11:00 A.M. I still had time to make it to the bakery. I drove an old ’64 Volkswagen van. It was affectionately referred to as the Green Grunt as it was painted army green and grunted in order to move. It also carried a battle scar, in the form of a bullet hole through the left side of its carriage. A neighbor tried to shoot his wife one night, but missed and instead shot the Green Grunt.

I lived in a friendly area of Palm Springs known as The Dream Homes, named after the development company’s idea of a joke. The residents called it the Nightmare Homes, because of all the crime committed there . . . but I still slept at night, but just not in the Grunt.

Turning off of Highway 111 and into the parking area of The Village Bakery, I could immediately sense that the bakery shouldn’t be very busy as the parking lot was void of many cars. The summer heat had a way of causing this it seemed, but I wasn’t sure.

Good morning an elderly woman greeted me from behind the counter as I entered. A small bell tinkled above the door. What can I help you with? she continued. Her round face and chubby cheeks gave her a Keebler-esk look. She fit right in.

I need a birthday cake . . . but I’m not sure what to have written on it, I countered.

Well . . . pick out the size cake you need and I’ll write as much as it will hold, she countered back.

Scanning the section of already made-up cakes from the display case, I found a small round chocolate one. It was single tiered and had little white rosettes across the top.

This one will be fine . . . it’s only for the two of us, I added. I didn’t want to seem cheap.

I won’t be able to put much on that one. How about just saying ‘Happy Day’? as her elfin face lighted up at the suggestion.

I had to think fast as time was running out. I wasn’t quite sure of Gail’s exact age, so if I got it wrong, like too many years, I would need to check the obituaries each morning to see if I was in it. I would need a life insurance policy just to make dinner reservations.

After considering all my options, I finally came up with something short and romantic.

Just write ‘Old’ on it, I gleamed approvingly.

CHAPTER 5

"1-4-1 . . . The Pink Lady, Big John’s" voice crackled from the radio. Oh great . . . ! I thought to myself. The night was starting out poorly already.

As I neared the building, I could immediately distinguish my fare. She sat on the curb in front of the entrance and was slightly crying. I knew her from before as I had taken her home a couple other times. She was one of the strippers and I thought her name was Bambi.

She promptly jumped to her feet as I approached. Quickly opening the rear door, she entered and slumped back into the seat. She held her hands to her face and gently sobbed.

Being not quite sure where I had taken her in the past, I cheerfully asked, Where to? pretending I hadn’t noticed her demeanor. It was very thoughtful.

213 Ridge Road, she managed to answer. It’s just off of Cathedral Canyon near Mission. Her crying suddenly stopped as she pulled back her hair, which had come loose from a long blond ponytail, and now hung to one side of her face. She had a black eye.

Hey . . . did you hear about the dog that went into a bar and ordered a drink? I asked, as if to make all her problems disappear. Not to be discouraged by her non-response, I quickly added: He said . . . ‘Today’s my birthday . . . ! Do I get a free drink bartender?’ And the bartender replied, ‘No problem . . . The toilet is right around the corner’.

No response.

Again being the cheerful guy I am, I noted, It’s a beautiful night . . . isn’t it? but she wasn’t listening. She stared at the back of my papal head and confessed:

I can’t do this any longer. The way they treat me in there . . . I feel like I’m being abused for being a woman . . . and then they fired me . . . just for refusing to sit on this guy’s face! The tears again started to swell.

I started to scream at Terry, our manager, for not standing up for me . . . and do you know what he did?

But I didn’t have time to answer. He slugs me in the face . . . and tells me to get out! The blow hit me so hard it knocked my earring off . . . Can you believe that? I’ll never go back . . . even if they want to rehire me . . . I’ll never go back . . . I’ve had it with all of them!

Struggling for something to comfort her with, I asked, Did you get your earring back?

No . . . ! And I’m never going back! More sobbing followed this. And then, Turn up there by the the light . . . and follow Palm to Ridge Road. I’m pregnant . . . you know . . . and I have no idea how I’m going to live now.

Pregnant? . . . No I didn’t know, but I thought I should get more familiar with her at this point, as a touch of sincerity. Listen Bambi, I have a friend who helps people get into other lines of work . . . kind of like a referral service . . . Hell, he found this great job for me through his brother. I’m sure he could help you in some way.

I’m never going back! she said without acknowledging my offer. And it’s BARBIE!

The evening continued to slowly go downhill. The hour was approaching 10:00 P.M. and I had safely delivered about six fares to their various destinations. I knew that the airport was closed for the night; that most of the popular bars and discos were filled; and everyone was settled in for the evening until closing time . . . and then the rush began all over.

Pulling into a Westward-Ho parking space, I reached for the radio mike and stated: 1-4-1 with a renewed touch of authority.

Big John dutifully replied 1-4-1. His response had a touch more authority.

I’m 10-8 for a few minutes.

What’s your 10-20 . . . 1-4-1?

"Zelda’s," I lied.

10-4 and John was gone.