Hoodies

It's eight oclock in the evening and you've just about made your nut and your gas, when a call comes in from Yesler terrace. You're close by and you take it. It turns out to be a phone booth, where teen-age boy in a hoodie is waving you down.

You roll down the window.

Can you take me to PacMed?

Sure, you say. Hop in.

He opens the door behind you. Some boys emerge from the bushes and pile into the rear. The kid who called comes around to the right and gets in beside you. They're all wearing hoodies, and you don't like the look of them, but there's not much you can do about it. If they're up to no good they can do it here just as well as anywhere. No sense telling them no. You've had gangs like this before and they were businessmen, not muggers. Give respect, get respect, that's what you're always telling yourself. But you keep an eye out for the cops, nonetheless.

You take the only route to PacMed.

You got someone there? You say, trying to make a connection with them. Hope their doing okay.

But the boys don't say a word. You come up around the left side of the building and signal a turn at the main entrance.

Not here, the boy says.

But this is the main entrance.

We need to go to the car lot, other side of the building. Take the next right.

You turn in anyway and stop in front of the door. You notice there is no one there.

This is as far as I go, you say.

Pay the man, Jimmy, the leader says.

The boys get out of the car. One of them beats you on the head. The door beside you opens and the leader is pointing a gun at you, right between the eyes.

His hands are steady and his eyes are blank. You have no doubt he's killed before. Your bladder can't contain your panic.

Give me your money, he says.

You grab what's in your pocket and throw it.

Where's the rest, he says.

You're patting your pockets for more when you notice the car is still in gear, so you hit the gas instead. A shot rings out but misses, and you just keep on going, all the way back to the hostel, where you wash and change, and go out again to make it all back and then some. 

How Do You Meet Girls?

What do you do to meet women? she says.

I don't have time for that, you say, my schedule's all wrong.

He'd picked her up earlier from one motel, delivered her to another, in the meantime took a second call, which kept him in the neighborhood, and was then called back to the same motel. She'd given two cross streets on Capital Hill that were popular with the younger set, and told him it would be a round trip. Now that she had made her score they were on their way back to her room.

Supermarkets are good for that.

How's that?

You pick out someone you'd like to meet, wait for her to come your way, then you ask for her advice.

Like I don't know how to shop, you mean?

Yeah. That'll get her talking.

I guess that's one way of doing it.

Don't even try to meet women in bars. They're no good for you.

Oh?

They're just out to use somebody. You don't seem like their type, somehow.

So what's their type?

Someone they can forget about.

What kind of type do I seem like?

You're one of those sensitive guys.

Never thought of myself like that.

Trust me, you are. Kind of women you want to meet, they hang out in libraries, places like that.

You're almost back to the motel when her cell phone rings. She speaks in low tones for a minute.

There's been a change of plans, she says, if you don't mind waiting for me, I need to go down to the Omni. 

Bladder Trouble

You've been been taking the one digit fares all night, one after another and you've made your nut and your gas, but it's almost ten o'clock, and you're halfway through the shift. If something good doesn't happen soon it's not going to be a good night.

Car needed on Capitol Hill.

This is 91, I'm on Capital Hill.

Take it 91.

The call is from the rehab center. They're pushing someone out the door just as you drive up. He sees the car and gets inside. His skin is dark and his hair is grey, parted down the middle and braided. He might look like a skid row bum but he puts a hundred dollars on the seat.

How long will this keep me warm? he says.

Couple of hours maybe. I can take you to a motel if you like. With money like that you...

The money is wet to the touch. You pull your hand back and smell it. It's exactly what you think it is, and now you understand everything.

Take me to see some sights, he says. What do you suggest?

Alki point is pretty nice. Good view this time of night.

Never been out to Alki Point. Sounds like just the place.

You head for the freeway, going south.

They fucking threw me out, he says. I go in for a drying out, instead they give me a tossing out.

They didn't have no reason for it?

Hell if they did.

Well, they shouldn't have done it then, should they?

Glad we're eye to eye on that.

You turn off I-5 and head for West Seattle. Pretty soon you're at Alki Point. You pull into the turnout and stop.

The downtown office towers are all lit up against the night sky.

Damn, that's a beautiful sight, he says. Sure is peaceful out here, too.

I always like to come out here. Don't get the chance too often.

You sit there in silence for several minutes, just soaking it all in.

Yep, sure is peaceful, he says on occasion.

You just let him enjoy it until he's finished his reverie.

Take me back downtown, he says. Gotta find a buddy of mine.

Where do you want to go?

He hangs out in Bell town. Up near Denny Way.

Let's go find him then, you say.

You head downtown by the viaduct and drop the fare in an alley between first and western. He returns with a sinister cuss who can't be much older than twenty. How someone that young ends up on the streets like that you can barely imagine. But you're not so far from there yourself, so you're not in a position to judge. The older man seems to be okay, so you let the young one ride.

They ask you for a convenience store that isn't a major brand. The sinister one goes in and comes back out with a brown paper bag.

Take us anywhere you like, the fare says.

They open the bottle and pass it between them.

You figure you'll circle Queen Anne Hill, to use up some miles fast. So, you head north past the grain elevators, where the wheat gets shipped to the far east, past the auto import lot, where the Japanese cars come in, until you come to Ballard Bridge, where all the fishing boats are docked. You turn right on Nickerson, and head southeast along the ship canal. Your passengers are still guzzling beer and talking in tones that you can't hear, and you don't like the sound of it. You turn on Westlake heading south, back towards downtown.

Where are we now? the fare says.

We're on our way back downtown.

Take us to the Seven Eleven, he says.

You mean the one on Denny?

That'll do, he says.

You take another right on Denny and turn into the lot. The fare sends the kid on another errand.

Drive, he says. Take me up to Capitol Hill.

You're only too happy to comply.

What about the kid? you say, as you leave the lot.

Fuck'm, he says, he just wanted to roll you.

When you get to the base of Capital Hill, the fare says he'll get out.

But there's only eighty dollars on the meter, you say.

You'll have to change the seat, he says. That'll cost you some time.

I appreciate your consideration. Take good care out there, you say.

Gonna try to back in rehab, he says. And do it right this time.

The Blazing Hat

The call comes from a small cafe downtown on Second Avenue. You're two blocks away and you take it. The fare is already outside waiting already, flagging you down. His suit is orange, his coat is brown, the shoes and hat are orange and brown. All apparently made to order in a no name cut and sew, perhaps to match the shoes. It makes quite an impression.

Take me to see my ladies, he says. They're over in Denny Park.

You're amused. The park is only a few blocks away and the man could have walked there sooner.

With the lights, it takes another five minutes and the fare is getting fidgety, tapping out a beat with his fingers.

Keep the meter running, he says. I'll just be a minute or two.

No problem, sir, no problem at all.

You're not exactly convinced. You'd seen a fare run out on Dan during your orientation, so you keep an eye on the blazing hat as it disappears into the park. If you were into profiling, you would have made him pay up front. Instead you give everyone respect, in the hope of receiving the same.

As the minute or two turns to five then ten, you begin to swear at yourself for being such a dupe. Finally, the blazing hat reappears, its owner holding a roll of bills.

Sorry, I kept you waiting, he says. How much do I owe you? 

The Mission

So begins your new career in the car service business. In some ways you enjoy it, too. Sitting alone in the cab each day, totally your own boss; you get a surge of excitement inside thinking about the money you'll make in a way that requires so little work. Clearing two fifty or more a night isn't such a bad day's pay, and since it's all in cash, you can easily fudge the reporting of it. All you have to do is drive, and you don't mind doing that. The people make it interesting; characters the like of which you've never known before. They're showing you a side of life that's always been outside your ken, and a part of yourself that's a total stranger.

Need a car on the waterfront.

This is 91, I'm on Western now.

The GPS flashes Western and Spring, where a slender young man with curly blond hair waves you to a stop.

The fare gets in behind you and drops a fifty on the front seat.

Take me out to Alki beach. I'm on a mish.

What's a mish?

I just got off a fishing boat. I gotta make a score.

You turn on to the ViaDuct and head south past the shipping terminals on your way to West Seattle.

I'm on a mish. I'm on a mish.

You eye your fare through the rearview mirror.

Ever work the fishing boats? he says.

Can't say I have.

Don't. It ain't worth it.

Oh?

Only thing that's good about it is getting your money all at once after you've been out for weeks.

And throwing it all away, you're thinking, trying to impress a taxi driver.

That doesn't sound so bad, you say.

Overtime is pretty good, but once you total the hours up, it don't pay more than minimum wage.

Can't be having that.

Lotta crazies, too. Getting into fights and shit.

Don't like the sound of that, either. The conversation dies.

Ever drive across across the country, you say?

Never done that.

Sure is one helluva trip.

I'm on a mish. I'm on a mish.

You turn off the viaduct and head north towards Alki point, where the view of the downtown office towers is one of the best in Seattle. Then west towards the beach.

I'm on a mish. I'm on a mish.

Here's the beach, you say, where do you want me to drop you?

Down at the far end. Take a left at Seven Eleven. I'm on a mish. I'm on a mish.

Stop right here. He drops another fifty on the seat and you're not too proud to take it either.

Why don't you come inside. I gotta make some calls.

So you follow him in, wondering what he has in mind.

I'm on a mish. I'm on a mish.

The house is a cozy three room cottage that once had a view of the water, perhaps, but now looks out on some low rise apartments and the 7/11's garbage dumpster. He offers you the window seat then punches a number into his phone.

This is Ray, Jerry Mack sends his regards... Where can I find you... I'll be there in a heartbeat... By taxi... Okay, I understand.

Let's go. I'm on a mish. I'm on a mish.

He guides you to a well established neighborhood of red brick ranch and split level houses high above the beach.

You'll have to wait here, Ray says. They see the car, it's a deal breaker.

He drops another fifty in the seat. You feel like he's buying your complicity, but you take the money anyway, because it's all the same to you.

The fare returns about twenty minutes later.

Done deal, take me home.

Back at the cottage he drops another twenty dollars in the seat.

Thanks a lot. Have a wonderful night.

And thank you too, sir. Have fun.

You slip the last bill in your pocket, thinking its just your first call of the night and you have already have your nut and your gas, a couple of meals and your next night's flop.

Car needed in West Seattle.

This is 91, I'm in West Seattle.

The GPS gives the address and you're on your way.

This one wants to go downtown, you're thankful you don't have to deadhead back. 

The Garbage Van

If you don't know what your getting into maybe you shouldn't take the job. Driving in the rain with the windows open, holding your breath for minutes at a time, sticking your head out to gasp for air, you begin to understand the depravity to which people in poverty can sink.

The dispatch came about eight o'clock.

Two drivers needed on Capitol Hill. Round trip to the impound lot. Return with one of you driving a van. Dan, why don't you and the new guy take it. He could probably use the income.

The screen of a GPS device indicates the address.

On it, Dan responds, we're just two minutes away.

You exchange foreboding glances as the cab pulls up in front of the house. It hasn't been maintained in years. The porch is stacked with junk and all the windows are dark. On either side two vacant lots await the gentrification process which had transformed most of the neighborhood but not yet that one block.

I'll blast the horn at 'em, Dan says, I wouldn't go near a house like that…

To save yourself from zombies? you add, when he can't complete the sentence.

Something like that, yeah. He laughs.

You wait a awhile, but no one comes. You get out and approach the door.

Be careful, Dan calls out behind you. Knock from the side, like a cop.

Your foot going through the first step to the porch tells you that isn't the way inside, so you go around the back. From what you can see through the windows, the rooms are stuffed with plastic bags and the stench of garbage tells you what must be lurking inside. There is no light coming from the backside either so you wonder wonder if it weren't a prank call.

You stand to the right of the door, reach out with your left and knock.

Who's there.

It's a woman's voice, but the tone is rough and edgy.

Car service ma'am, you're expecting us.

Give me a moment.

Take your time.

The sound of superfluous deadbolts slipping out of their cylinders takes you by surprise. There must be four or five of them, though the smell ought to keep intruders better than any lock devised. In the rainy dark you can barely see the figure who emerges from the door. If it weren't for the body odor you would hardly know she was there.

Evening ma'am, you say. Care to use the umbrella?

You're not from around here, are you?

Ma'am?

Slicker'll do just fine.

Suit yourself.

It's not until you get back to the car that you manage to get a good look at her. Morbidly obese, with flecks of black in her matted grey-white hair, and dressed in unwashed sweats; it's a filth like that of a cockroach nest. She otherwise seems like a rational creature, not the sort you're used to seeing in the wards you'd visited your sister in back when you were kids. Like the man with the snot hanging out of his nose all the way to the floor. You wonder what her story is but you're not about to pry.

Then she says, You know where you're going, and what you gotta do. I'll pay you twenty-five dollars for it. That's all I got to spare.

That'll suit me fine, you say, thinking about your food and flop, and how she's got a house anyway, which is more than you've got lately. You won't be driving on your own until the following night and there's nothing to pay your next day's rent for the bunk you're using in the fishermen's hostel that is now your official address.

Most people would hate the smell. Got no sense of that myself. Remember when I did, though.

Smell?

Keep my garbage in it. Can't be paying for garbage service. Not with so little work about.

There must must be something you can do.

Delivering papers, mainly. But that cut back to once a day. Took a big hit when that happened.

I can't imagine losing my sense of smell.

Anosomia (sic) they call it. Takes all the pleasure outta life not being able to taste my food. Doctor says it's nerve damage. All the beatings I used to get. Finally had to kill the monster. Not a day goes by, though, I don't regret I did it. Wasn't his fault, really. Kinda people he come from, I guess it just came natural.