Shoo Fly

Young Asian man shyly flags me at the corner of Broadway and Columbus. By shyly, I mean he quickly flicks his wrist in my general direction, as if shooing a fly. I am annoyed by this cab flagging technique, as I am by most peoples’ pathetic attempts to get my attention. How hard is it to step off the curb and calmly and confidently raise one’s hand? You don’t have to do a little dance, or wave your arms frantically as if there’s an impending shark attack, or scream, or show some leg, or stare defiantly, or do anything but look at me and raise your hand high and proud. You know the answer to the question, and as your teacher I’ll call on you if you don’t act retarded.

I pull over and the man gets in the front and says nothing. He is carrying several pornographic magazines, has greasy hair and is clearly retarded. Actually he is probably autistic. He can’t look at me and is shaking. Literally vibrating. I am empathetic to his condition and hope that he gets right back out of my cab. (Empathy does not necessarily make allowances for loss of revenue in times of recession.) I ask him what he wants and he yells, “BARRR!” 3 times. I try to decipher what he’s just said. I don’t think he wants a drinking establishment, but “BARRR” isn’t ringing any bells. He looks out his window and moans, “barrr”.

I ask the man where he lives and get no answer. He can’t look at me. One of his magazines has a picture of a fake blond woman spreading her ass cheeks, and I wonder what he thinks of that. Bet he can’t wait to get home and flail away with an uninhibited passion that can only be matched by his pathological introversion. His public face. The one he’s showing me. I point towards downtown and he nods. I ask him if he wants BART, and he utters some kind of assent. I drive him to the Montgomery BART station.

As I pull over at Montgomery and Market, the man gets out and heads down the escalator toward the trains. I jump out of the cab, get in front of him, and ask for my money. He backs away terrified and mutters something I can’t understand. I point to the cab and say, “You owe me what’s on the meter... you have to pay me!”

I pull out a five and show him what it is that he has to give me in exchange for the livery service. I wave the five in his face. He screams and runs down the escalator. I might as well have tried to explain the “infield fly rule” to a shrub. I let him go, laughing at my attempt to make this strange person pay me for something he felt was owed to him. I’m sure his mother and father don’t charge him for rides. This is the only time I’ve ever laughed off a “runner”. Hell, if I had that fake blonde waitin’ for me at home, I’d run too.

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