Picked up a woman in my cab at Turk and Leavenworth.

She was a light complected, black woman, wearing billowy, peasant-type pants.

She smelled bad. Really bad. Like shit.

She must of weighed over 200 pounds.

She kept wiggling in the back seat, making the cab tilt left and right.

Left and right. Back and forth. Aft and stern.

Port and Starboard. It was a rough crossing.

She got out at 16th and Mission,

but she didn’t really leave me.

Her smell lingered, pervaded,

a remembrance past, of fecal matter, lost love,

gangrene, sour grapes,

dog shit in left field.

I opened all the windows and sped away.

Got flagged at 18th and Dolores.

Young man hops in and tells me, "USF."

A minute later he informs me that

there is a turd on the floor.

I pull over, and we both get out and look at it.

There it is. In the back, on the floor.

A perfectly formed log. Stinkin’ Lincoln.

You couldn’t draw a better turd.

I told the passenger, "You couldn’t draw a better turd."

Looking at it, I realized that it scared me.

I was afraid of other people’s shit.

This was something I hadn’t realized

until that very moment. So I learned something

about myself.

I took the classified section of the S.F. Chronicle,

and rolled it into a scoop.

The Chron finally realizing its potential.

I judged the shot to be a 3 iron.

I placed the tip of the scoop under the middle of the turd

and flipped it with a counter-clockwise motion of my wrist.

It flew out of the cab and onto the green

bordering the sidewalk,

an easy 6 inch putt for birdie.

The passenger got in front

and I delivered him to USF.

He was a good kid about the whole thing.

Made a good bong and beer story.

I wish all my customers were such good sports.

That night I laid in bed and thought about the woman.

Was she married? Did she have a lover?

Was she a good kisser?

Did she take a cab every time she needed a

bowel movement?

I started to get aroused.

I took out my 1978 calendar of topless Hawaiian girls,

and things moved quickly from there.