THEORY OF CONCENTRIC CIRCLES

I started driving a cab in 1984, on the day shift, with Veteran’s Cab Co., known for their good day radio and lousy cabs. My first day, a slow Sunday in the middle of winter, the front wheel on the passenger side fell off. After getting towed in, the dispatcher offered a half-hearted apology, then extolled the virtues of the 3 wheels that stayed on. A real "glass is three quarters full" kind of guy. I soon learned that a 5-dollar gratuity to the dispatcher in the morning got you a decent cab. Five when you turned in made sure they didn’t forget the five you gave them earlier. This is the way most cab companies operate. You must tip an overweight, chain smoking man at least 5 dollars for their time and exertion, or get an undriveable vehicle, or not get out at all. But it’s not their fault. Upper management has made tipping policies what they are by paying dispatchers $7 an hour. It’s like a waiter, or waitress tipping out the busboy, or busgirl. The only difference being the busperson probably works their ass off and the cab dispatcher hands you a waybill, keys, and taxi medallion. That’s it. I’ve known drivers who refused to tip (myself being one for about a week) and they lost a lot of money. That little 5 in, 5 out will basically keep you in service. I now tip $6. A fellow driver asked me "Why $6 and not $5?" to which I explained "It’s $1 more."

Driving a public passenger vehicle took some getting used to. I never liked picking up hitchhikers and now it was my sole source of income. It took about 3 weeks for me to get over the fear of being in close quarters with complete strangers. I didn’t like having someone behind me, and I still don’t. I’m constantly angling my rear view mirror to the back seat, expecting to see a meat cleaver hurtling towards my neck and shoulder area. It hasn’t happened yet, but that’s only because of my watchful eyes. I know the bastards want my blood and money. All of it. (All of my blood AND all of my money.)

Gradually I started to relax and enjoy the freedom of being my own boss. I also realized that if I only picked up people I knew, I wouldn’t make very much money. My biggest concerns then became customer criticisms, the most common complaint being my choice of routes. This was probably due in part to my "Theory of Concentric Circles" method of finding unknown addresses, or locations. This involved driving around in circles, starting small and making the diameters slightly larger with each lap, until desired destination was found. I eventually dropped this method for the more conventional "Map Reading" technique, after several heated arguments and one physical altercation.

But if customers couldn’t complain about my routes, there was always something else to bitch about. Traffic, poorly timed lights, potholes, cab is too noisy, too hot, too cold, too smelly, too small, and on one occasion, too square. More complaints: "The meter’s too fast", "You’re driving too fast", "You’re driving too slow", "I hate my haircut", "I hate my job", "I hate my husband/wife/son/daughter/stepson/stepdaughter", "Get in the left lane/middle lane/right lane GODDAMNIT", and on and on, ad nauseum. I soon came to the realization that everyone’s an asshole, and a power struggle must, MUST, exist between the proletariat and the bourgeoisie, the service provider and the service consumer, Tom and Jerry. I’d had my suspicions that conflict between any two people, in any situation, in the world, was inevitable, but driving a cab drove the point home with shocking, and depressing clarity. Hell, if you plant a pretty little shrub in the garden near the stately elm tree, the roots of the elm will strangle the shrub, in apparent disregard of subterranean etiquette, decorum, or anything resembling a "Welcome Wagon". People didn’t evolve from the ape. We are direct descendants of plants. This is obvious, and I pity the fools who have yet to figure this out.

About 3 or 4 months into the job, I started having taxi dreams, and still do. A typical dream goes like this: Pick up a couple of suits downtown and head for the airport. When I turn on the meter, it will display some totally unrelated numbers and letters, or just not work at all. The next thing to happen is always the same... my cab turns into a bicycle. One irate businessman on the handlebars, and one on the rear fender. Pedaling slowly over Nob Hill, towards SFO, they may hurl abusive comments about my stamina and haircut, or just not make little clicking sounds with their tongues through clenched teeth. Finally, there’s no vehicle at all, just me piggy-backing some stuffed suit, doing a kind of trot/gallop/maneuver, on the shoulder of the freeway. At this point I think about asking the customer if perhaps a different cab would be more expeditious, but my sense of duty and loyalty won’t let me. So off we ride into the sunset, hell-bent for the United terminal. I’ll usually wake up at this point, feeling as tired as if I’d worked a double. The job was under my skin.

My stint as a day driver for Veteran’s Cab Company lasted 9 months and, in retrospect, was fairly uneventful. My musical pursuits led me to full time employment for the next 3 years (‘85 - ’88). During those 3 years, I kept having cab dreams, and found myself reliving even the most mundane aspects of the job. I also missed the tension/release factor inherent in any job where you’re dealing with the unknown. The fear of having a complete stranger behind me, and the relief of their departure. Being paid with gratuity, instead of stabbed with an ice pick 7 to 9 times about the head and shoulders. I missed that. In 1988 I came off the road with no money, no gigs, and very few prospects. I decided to drive a cab for a few months, just until the music thing picked up. That was 13 years ago. I’m in the cab line at the downtown Marriott, eating a small bag of Doritos, and writing this shit, in small dispatches, on cab receipts. Somewhere I lost 13 years, but have $1.28 in an account drawing 1.5% interest to show for it. My ears are ringing, my ass hurts, my back hurts, my left knee aches, the mind is... numb.

 
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