Helen

There comes a time in every cab driver’s career, and not too far into it (if they’re paying attention), when he (or she) must make a choice. Play it straight, or accept the blatant opportunities for deceit. The short con. The invitation to relieve customers of small sums of cash, or merchandise, above and beyond the cab fare. The opportunities arise with surprising frequency, and it’s usually something as simple as a European tourist mistaking a hundred dollar bill for a ten, or a camera left on the backseat. People like to exit the cab without their cell phones, laptops, attaches, wallets, and in one case, 5 year old daughter. Occasions may arise when you’ll want to add on special tariffs, such as late night fees, zone charges, or baggage handling fees. You can make up your own additonal charges, and/or not even turn on the meter, and name your price. Out-of-towners are afraid of cabbies. They think we’re all crazy, when in fact only 75% of us are. They’ll pay anything. It’s all expensed anyway. Hell, they know the score, but they cough up the money, with a gratuity on top. The back of your head scares them senseless, and fear = money.

I was an honest cabbie for the first couple of years, adhering to the ethics taught to me by my parents, and other annoying authority figures of my youth. This couldn’t last. It seemed as though certain customers were BEGGING me to rip them off. An older cab driver explained this phenomenon in the following manner; "People make themselves victims, until they’re victimized. Once victimized, they can affirm their ‘delusions of persecution’, thus making sense of their lives, and keeping their logic circular." Well, this guy was just a thief, but I liked his Psych 101 view of the world. I needed a reason to steal from my customers, and this one would just have to do. I began dabbling, then finally surrendering to the grift. Once shedding the nagging dogma of guilt, ethics, morals, and karma, my income increased by 30%. Past the barriers of taboo lay freedom, and I felt... free.

One evening, I picked up a woman on Geary Street near Mason. She was probably in her mid-fifties, well-heeled, and massively drunk. It took her 3 attempts to get into the cab, a maneuver that I’d always taken for granted as being fairly easy. This woman made it look like she was trying to mount a wild, bucking, muledeer. I had to get out and close the door for her, which annoyed me because I’m lazy. She was sprawled out on the back seat, with her dress pulled up to her waist, and her eyes rolled back into a big, puffy face. Her hair... well, let’s not even talk about her hair. In one hand she clutched a Nordstrom’s bag, in the other an umbrella. This was around late September, and it hadn’t rained in 4 or 5 months. One shoe seemed to have gotten misplaced during her busy day, thus completing her Bukowski pin-up girl ensemble.

She told me her name was Helen, and politely asked me to carry her to 6th Avenue and Clement. Halfway there she started rambling some alcohol-induced nonsense, so I turned up the Giants’ game and tried to ignore her as best I could. At some point, she managed to communicate to me that she’d had too much to drink, and was in some sort of trouble. As it turned out, the address at 6th and Clement was an alcohol detox halfway house that her husband had sent her to. A place for rich ladies to dry out, without the neighbors watching.

Apparently Helen had been a model inmate for 6 months, and was rewarded with a shopping day, downtown, unchaperoned. She hopped on the 38 Geary bus, and took it down to Market Street, then walked 2 blocks to Nordy’s and bought a lovely blouse. Helen then went to a bar and had about, oh I’d say, 14 vodka gimlets, or as Helen explained it, "I like vodka gimlets a lot." And a lot is just the way she enjoyed them on this night. I guess she thought she could sneak a couple, and stay in control, but 6 months made Helen very thirsty.

As we neared her destination, Helen began to cry, and asked me if I would drive her around until she sobered up. I told her it would take too long, and I walked her out of my cab. Helen argued that she could pay me for my time, and pulled a wad of twenties that barely fit in her hand, and she had big hands. I suggested a motel where we could cool out, watch a little TV, and maybe have a cocktail. She thought this was a wonderful idea, and started kissing my neck.

After stocking up at a liquor store, I drove down to 18th and Geary, site of the Geary Sunrest Motel. This was an older motel, in the middle of a residential neighborhood, and I’d always wondered who the hell stayed there. Now I knew. I told Helen that I would handle the negotiations, and secure us a room at a reasonable rate. The room was $50, I told her it was $70, I was up $20. After we got settled in, Helen took off her shoe and stockings, and I noticed that she had beautiful feet. Small, even toes, with freshly painted nails, lovely high arches, supporting well turned ankles. Well, I’ve never been what you’d call a "foot freak", but Helen’s were giving me unexpected stirrings. I pulled her off the bed and kissed her. She tasted sour, like Rose’s lime juice, and smelled of Shalamar and death, so I pushed her back on the bed, and reverted to Plan A.

I fixed her a strong drink, turned on the tube, got her comfy on the bed, and repaired to the bathroom. I turned on the shower, waited 10 minutes, and returned to the room. She was snoring like I imagined Jackie Gleason snored, and I started looking for the money. After searching her bag and clothes, I concluded that it was in the bed, on her person. Helen didn’t trust me. I removed the blanket and sheet and she was clad only in salmon colored, matching bra and panties. Quite lovely. She turned her head towards me, said, "Harold", and resumed snoring. I couldn’t find the money anywhere, and I was losing my nerve. I was not this kind of thief, the aggresor making the victim, as opposed to a victim forcing me into the role of aggresor. This was a felony with serious consequences. The man at the desk got a very good look at me, and my cab, which was parked right across from the office, had large numbers all over it. I could leave now, a good samaritan, scot-free. Suddenly I felt a wave of tremendous relief, warm blood flowing through my recently cold heart. Catharsis. I wanted to be a good person, from that point onward, in the cab, out of the cab, with friends, family, strangers, acquaintances, children, pets. I was going to start replacing my "bad karma" point total with "good karma" points. Take about 2 years, tops, to get back to ground zero, I quickly calculated. It was so simple. I had no intention of going to the penitentiary, and wiping my ass in front of several other me. I reached under Helen’s pillow, and found the wad, the only place it could be. I stared at it and smiled, laughing (to myself) at its impotence. I was stronger than fate, unimpressed with circumstance, impervious to temptation. I peeled off 3 twenties, for my time, and replaced the bills under the pillow. I left Helen in that room, dreaming her dreams, struggling even in sleep, to hang onto a world spinning too fast. I guess no one had ever told Helen about gravity.

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