Hollywood Taxi: True Confessions of a Kiss and Tell Driver

By Capt.Flash

HOLLYWOOD TAXI
True Confessions of a Kiss and Tell Driver


I first started driving cab in Los Angeles, Calif. In the early 60s. Its a job I returned to over and over again thru the years. Why? Im not sure but I think one of the things is it makes me feel more engaged with life.

Its the last of the great adventures. The urban cowboy. The city is a jungle and every trip a gamble. You have time, transportation and money. If something can happen it will. If you break down theyll come get you. Maybe not for a long time but eventually theyll show up.

Ive driven off and on for almost forty years. You can only drive so long then the numbers will crunch you. The average driver puts in fifteen hours a week. A cab driver does sixty. You cant be out there that long and not have something happen. If people dont drive you crazy the tickets will break you.

Im addicted to art. Driving cab is how I support that addiction. One of the most intense periods was during the 70s. The love generation was in full bloom. The sexual revolution was not far behind. It happened to me in Southern Calif. Hollywood to be exact.

Every other person that got in the cab had some kind of exotic stuff. Everyone was screwing everyone else. Life was a party and the cab driver was in the heart of it.

Most people sit home and watch T.V. Id get stoned and roam around. The windshield was my T.V. Screen. I remember one night rolling down the freeway. It was an especially balmy night. I had the windows down. The wind felt good blowing thru my hair. I was tripping on the stars. They were like diamonds on a deep velvet background. I noticed a flaw. There was what appeared to be a little oblong T.V. screen in it with a man in one corner. I was trying to figger out what it was when the man moved. I had someone in the cab who I had completely forgotten about. To make matters worse I didnt know where I was at.

Night after night it was like that. I carried a gun till I discovered it didnt shoot, then I started carrying a camera. A 35 mm Minolta. I pushed Tri-x film to 3200 ASA. I eventually shot 32 rolls of 36 exp.
This became my first book, TAXI TIMES a photo documentary of night time cab driving.

I also wrote down story after story. The characters I met and the situations I became involved in were endless. They weave a fascinating tale of the human condition that Mark Twain would love.

Im fond of saying, everything you ever heard about those people out there, the sex, the drugs, the violence....its all true and the some.

Ive also said there are three kinds of people there; artist actors and illegal aliens. Did I mention whores. Lots and lots of whores.

People often ask if I came across anybody famous. Heres a clue, Good evening Mr. and Mrs. America. Whos that? Walter Winchell outside the Cocanut Grove.

The girl who danced with Michael Jackson in the thriller video, Lola Rae. Had her in the cab a couple of times. The first time she was crying because her Iranian boyfriend wouldnt marry her as fast as she wanted.

I came across Rod Stewart one night and didnt even know it was him. Id taken a call in Beverly Hills. Someone let me in a gate. He went inside. I turned around and parked. Soon a little blond haired guy comes out and asks me how much to go somewhere. He goes back inside and pretty soon some girls come out and get in the cab.

The following week I get another call for the same address. This time its the guy who let me in the first time. He was to going to a see and be seen spot. I asked him who lives there. That was Rod Stewart who came out and asked me how much.

I think but Im not sure I had a very drunk Burt Bacherach in the back once. For every real actor that got in there were many who were wanna bes and they had a captive audience the driver.

Two actors meet in Hollywood. One asks the other wh

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 27, 2009
• ISBN: 9781465328847

Capt.Flash

I was born in “German Town” near Phill. Pa. On March 2, 1944. The only boy in a family of four, the obvious black sheep. I grew up to be “wonder kind”, having four homes and a business in L.A. Before I was thirty five only to realize I had been put on earth to be an artist not a landlord. I got rid it all and went to Europe. That began eight years of homelessness which ended suddenly when I came into a large amount of money, got my life back together, wrote a book, bought a sailboat and left.

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Copyright © 2009 by Capt Flash.

ISBN:          Softcover          978-1-4415-0588-0

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Contents

HOLLYWOOD TAXI

GUNS, DANGER and DEATH WISHES

DRUNKS

KING GUZZLER STRIKES AGAIN

THE CHINA TOWN RACE

CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN and

THE SECOND CUMMIN’

THAT KIND OF GIRL

THE CROAT

POISON FISH

FLASH BACK

FIGHTS

EASY CUM/EASY GO

HI IN THE PARK

DOUBLE OR NOTHING

SABRINA AND THE N WORD

MY WORST NIGHT

THE NIGHT I KISSED LADY LUCK

THE RING

THE STEREO

MOTOWN

ROOM # 2

INJUN WIMMEN/APACHE TEARS

HUMOR, GAMES and

BACK SEAT DRIVERS

ADULTS ONLY SECTION

HUNTING HOOKERS

IN HOLLYWOOD

LUCKY DAVE

TO MOLEST OR NOT?

THE HAT TRICK

ME TOO

THINGS GO BAD

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

THE WHORE WAR

ON THE STROLL PATROL

THE END GAME

The Cab Driver’s

Rules of the street

A.     Talk is cheap

B.     Money first

C.     Keep the doors locked

The Motto

Kick ass

Take names

Don’t play games

The Poem

The hack

He’s got to be clever

He’s got to be quick

And

He’s got to have a

BIG, BIG, DICK

HOLLYWOOD TAXI

Society needs the cult of the cab driver. The cab is the traveling confessional. Jesus drives Taxi in Hollywood at night. Dump on him, that’s why he’s there. Tell him your sins, give him a tip and he’ll take them away into the night for you. Thus relieving you of guilt and leaving you feeling lighter and slightly refreshed for a little while anyway.

Cab driving is the last of the great adventures. The driver is the urban cowboy. When you leave the garage your on your own in the city and it’s a jungle. You have time, transportation and money. If you break down they’ll come get you.

Over the years I developed a theory about there being a correlation between night and the dark side of the mind, the un-conscious and day light the conscious mind. That’s why as the saying goes, they wrestle with devils in the dark. People like to do their dirt in the dark… . at night.

As often as not they involve some nameless character such as the cab driver. People behave differently if they don’t expect to see you again, versus someone they must carry on a continuing political relationship with like a spouse, neighbor, co-worker, etc. The ships in the night syndrome.

Imagine this, a woman standing alone under a street light. A cab comes out of the darkness. She gets in. The cab drives off into the darkness. Same light, minutes later, a cab comes out of the darkness.

A woman gets out and stands alone under the light. The cab drives off into the darkness. What happened in between? Fertile ground for a restless imagination.

The driver has no name and full fills the need of a fantasy figure to project onto.

One of the great perks of night time driving was… . SEX… lot’sa sex. It might not happen to you for three months then bingo… !!! Twice in a week. I’ve had it happen twice in a shift.

Every night of the week it happened to some driver somewhere. You’d see these women in the garage with drivers at 4 A.M. When the drivers were, pardon the pun, getting off.

I first started driving cab around 1963. I had been kicked out of the air force that I had been put into when my parents divorced. Dad said it was the only thing that would save me. What it did do was save him child support.

Back then Yellow Cab had a monopoly in Los Angeles. Drivers wore uniforms and yellow caps. There were rules on how to cruise, how to approach a stand, etc.

That was before cabs had radios and heaters. I froze my buns off more than one night. At that time other than cruising drivers got orders from strategically placed telephones that were scattered thru out the city.

One of the choices cab stands was the one located outside of what was the Zamboang cafe at 8th and Irolo. The reason it was so popular is it was located in a hot area. Back then 8th St. Behind ‘THE’ Cocanut Grove (where Ted Kennedy would meet his end) was happening. There were a half dozen night clubs between Vermont and Western.

The other thing is, it was open all night. The phone box was just out side the window, next to a booth. A driver could sit and drink coffee and flirt with a skirt while waiting for the phone to ring. Especially on a cold, slow night.

The Zamboang was run by an old Phillipino, Pete Cantiro. I was the 16 year old dish washer on his first job since paper boy. Young and impressionable I’d hang out at night talking to drivers and listening to stories.

Other times I’d just sit and watch, absorbing it all. Feeding on the energy. Somewhere in the back of my mind lurked the question, where’s mind? When will I get a piece of the action? When will the pretty girls smile at me?

I drove cab for forty years off and on. Most of it was done in L.A.

Hollywood and Beverly Hills. in the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. I also drove for quite some time in Charleston, S. Carolina, Myrtle Beach and Key West. Florida.

Over the years I wrote down stories as they occurred. These are those stories as collected over the years. I would meet many famous people. One of the first was, here’s a clue… Good evening Mr. And Mrs. America, and all the ships at sea… ! Zats right it’s Walter Winchel.

The doorman at the Cocanut Grove was a guy named Harry Black. Harry was having trouble. People were calling his house and saying bad things about his wife or calling his wife and say he was cheating.

One morning I was talking to him while waiting to catch a fare. Out steps Walter Winchell for a breath of fresh air. Harry starts bowing and scrapping then tells me who it is. I said, Hi Walt. Harry got upset and said I should have called him Mr. Winchell. Walt said it was… O.K. For the kid to call him Walt. If I’m good enough for Walt the rest of ya’ll can kiss mine.

I met a guy who said he was driving so he’d have something to write about. Gathering material for a book maybe. I must have been influenced.

I don’t remember why I quite that 1st time. I think I went off to school or something… . ? By the time I drove again I was married. I’d cracked up a car and we needed money. The first time I drove it was out of the main garage at third and Lucas. This time it was at the garage next to the airport.

That was the first time I remember getting burned, big time. I took someone from L.A. to Santa Monica. Said he had to go up stairs and get the money. I was young and in-experienced and said go ahead.

At five minutes I begin to do a slow burn. Where is he? I gotta’ get going. At twenty mins. He’s a son of a bitch. No point in searching for him. Gradually you realize you’ve been had.

The police, posing as public servants tell you, it’s not a crime. He never agreed to pay. It’s a civil matter. You got to sue him for thirteen dollars if you can find him, which you can’t, so… . tuff shit.

After awhile you learn how not to get burned too much. Also don’t count on the authorities to do the right thing. They either can’t or don’t want to.

That was the beginning of a long slow process of disillusionment with society. I decided to watch out for myself. My ethics began to tarnish. A tarnishing that evolved into a corrosive collapse. The Pheonix can not rise from the ashes until there are ashes to rise from.

One of my earliest illicit acts began innocently enuff with a well dressed business type who wanted to go to Las Vegas, well beyond the companies limit of Barstow.

Sensing an opportunity for a major score I agreed to take him half way on the meter and the rest off of it. At that time easily a hundred dollar trip.

At this time cabs had an odometer that printed onto a disk. The company could tell how fast you went and when you stopped. One of the gas pump guys had given me a key to it so I simply took it out and threw it away.

Like the in-experienced asshole that I was I violated rule number two, about money first and did not get a deposit up front on a long trip. When we got close enough to Vegas for one of their cabs he gave me a travelers check. I had no choice but to take it.

Things went from bad to worse. The police stopped me and wanted to know what an L.A. Cab was doing in Vegas. I managed to talk my way out of that. The bad news was the cab wasn’t running right. It was burning a lot of oil and I was in the middle of the Mojave desert.

The sun was up. I was hoping I could make it as far as Barstow. That way the company wouldn’t find out what I had done. The cab died in Barstow but I got it started again. The bad news is I was out of money and almost out of gas.

I stopped at my sisters house in Pomona and cashed the check at her bank. I was due in at eight and it was pass ten. The cab was running real bad.

Some citizen do gooder called the police and reported me for reckless driving. When I explained the situation to them they let me go. Halfway to L.A. I got the company on the radio. They weren’t happy.

One might say they had an attitude. I had been reported missing and they had the police looking for me. I told them the cab was running bad, could they send a tow truck. They were too busy and told me to drive it in.

The engine was blown. Imagine that. They were not at all pleased with the disappearing disk routine either. I also learned the hard way about travelers checks. I thought they were as good as gold. They are for the person who bought them not the greedy cab driver who took a stolen check. Had to pay my sister back I did.

I had one of my many accidents in the parking lot of a cafeteria at 8th and Vermont. I dropped a fare off there. I turn around to make sure there is nothing behind me so I can back up. It’s clear. I back up and smash into a pole sunk in the ground that was outta’ sight below my vision.

The cab was a mess. The right rear light and bumper were smashed in. After my Vegas routine they weren’t gonna’ like this. I was sick to my stomach. My first impulse was to call the company and tell them what happened. Then I thought on it awhile.

I went in at my regular time. I knew the guy at the pump. He didn’t say anything. I parked it like nothing had happened. For all the company knows it could have happened while it was parked. The pump guy said they asked him but he said he didn’t see anything. I got away with it.

I quit after awhile. It was my second time driving. It was the late 60’s The love generation was in full swing I was married now. I started college in 68. Sabrina Ann our daughter was born in 70. I graduated from Otis Art Inst. We bought and lost a beauty salon but ended up with four pieces of property.

I sold beauty supplies at one time but ended up getting a job as a production painter, painting ten painting of the same thing, conquistadors and lions for sale in furniture stores.

I quit that to go to work in the studios as a scenic artist. Eventually I worked for all the major studios. I got fired. The union got in bed with the employer and I was black balled.

The labor relations board did nothing. I had worked for the FBI for awhile keeping an eye on a bunch of socialist. They’ll deny it but I did a burglary for them. I turned to them for help. I’d done for you, now you do for me. When they wouldn’t help I became even more disillusioned. I wondered if the FBI can’t help me who is running the show?

I had become the staff cartoonist for the L.A. Free Press one of the early underground, anti-war alternative press. When Larry Flynt bought it he hired J. Levine the guy who started L.A. Weekly to run it. I went to Jay and told him about my FBI days. They liked it and asked me to write it down. Larry Flynt got shot, end of story. I was probably the only cartoonist put out of business by Larry Flynt getting shot.

There wasn’t a lot of work for un-employed cartoonist. The choices boiled down to working in a ceramics factory or driving cab at night. I talked it over with the wife and we decided that night driving would leave day time free for the family.

At first I was totally depressed. After ten years of trying to do the right thing, school, getting married, business, etc. I was right back where I started. I thought,  . . . what’s the use?

That was in the beginning. Things soon changed. I would get hi on the energy and the action of the streets at night. I was sucked under by the pull of the low life. I was fascinated by the worse place, skid row. I would cruise around feeding on it all.

I started writing. I wrote down stories and events as they occurred. Your benefiting from that now you lucky dog, you. Driving was a dangerous job. I got a gun. I started stashing a little twenty five caliber automatic in my boot for protection. I went out to the desert for some target practice and discovered it didn’t shoot.

I started carrying a camera. A 35mm Minolta. I’d push tri-X film to 3200 asa. By opening the lens all the way and bracing myself and the camera I was able to get grainy but acceptable shots. I shot 28 rolls of thirty six exposures and recorded forty five stories.

This was Hollywood, tinsel town. The land of broken dreams. Everyone here was either an artist, an actor or an illegal alien.

It got so after awhile I could black mail a lot of people. Hi, you don’t remember me. I was