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jackshoegazerMy life as a cabbie has officially begun. Maybe I should watch Taxi Driver.
My orientation began with a brief history of the company, which in turn lends a strange hidden history of Madison.
Apparently cabbie-speak doesn't evolve much or keep up with the times. Bars, restaurants and hospitals are commonly referred to with names they haven't been for twenty years. Or even names they were never called, like the street the cabbies call Ho Chi Mihn Trail because the city tried to rename it in the 70's but it never went through. There is even a "Lost City", a neighborhood that was planned, a few streets laid down and a some houses built when the University annexed the whole surrounding area for its Arboretum.
My first trainer was an old retired man who'd never trained anyone before. As I got in the taxi that morning, he said to me, "Now why in the hell you want to drive a taxi for?" Before I could answer he said, "Whatever reason, it sure beats the hell out of work." He was bleary-eyed, explaining that he'd been up late working as an election official. Prior to his manifestation as a cab driver, he'd worked as a carpenter for dozens and dozens of years. He told me crazy stories about being in Vietnam and smoking pot in the Emerald Triangle of Oregon and northern California, his friends making the best creole food in New Orleans, tales of his father, the tail-gunner who was a P.O.W. in World War II. He drove like a maniac and swore like a sailor (even though he was a Marine.)
My second trainer was the polar-opposite in terms of temperament. He was slow and relaxed, enjoyed driving the old ladies three blocks to their doctor appointments. In a way, he reminded me of a goofy hybrid of the old man from Fraggle Rock and Nickelodeon's Mr. Wizard. Apparently he is one of the three or four drivers who have Ph.D's, (and several more drivers who are working on theirs.) His handwriting was indecipherable which led me to wonder if perhaps bad penmanship is the symptom of a doctorate, or perhaps a psychological disposition toward getting a doctorate, or perhaps universities should require penmanship or calligraphy courses in order to graduate.
The last trainer was the most professional so far, which I found odd since his side job is improv comedy. He was in the Chad Vader series that have recently gotten much attention on teh interwebs. In fact, in the plot line of Chad Vader, Chad (the less-famous brother of Darth Vader) has left the Empire Market and has gone on to cab driving. So yes, dear readers, I work with Chad Vader. Sort of. We had some "It's a Small World After All" moments when we realized we both knew the guys from The Dead Alewives. We talked about serendipitous girlfriends and the women-are-crazy/men-are-stupid paradigm and what it's like to grow old and hit those weird mile markers of age (I turn 30 this summer and he turned 40 last week.)
I have one more training shift before they let me out on my own, driving around Madison with my new iPod (a gift from Jacquelyn.) No total weirdos yet, no drunks or pimps. A girl from Los Angeles going to pick up a prescription, a lot of people going to the hospital. I picked up an old black woman who moved in slow-motion at a psychiatric clinic and three Hispanic men at the bus station going to catch another bus down to Chicago. They had so much luggage we could barely fit it in the cavernous trunk of the cab. One complained to the other that he shouldn't have bought the whole mall for his wife and kids. The other man brushed him off with a glowing smile, saying "Whatever, they're totally worth it."
Jacquelyn has had the flu which massive migraine. Ethan is here this weekend as well. I'm going to prepare dinner for them while they play Knights of the Old Republic II on the 360. Later on I have to make a St. Patrick's Day-themed rave flyer called "Corned Beef and Cabbage." There is also a blizzard on the way. Do I even need to say, "My, how strange things are!"?
No, I didn't really think so.
My orientation began with a brief history of the company, which in turn lends a strange hidden history of Madison.
Apparently cabbie-speak doesn't evolve much or keep up with the times. Bars, restaurants and hospitals are commonly referred to with names they haven't been for twenty years. Or even names they were never called, like the street the cabbies call Ho Chi Mihn Trail because the city tried to rename it in the 70's but it never went through. There is even a "Lost City", a neighborhood that was planned, a few streets laid down and a some houses built when the University annexed the whole surrounding area for its Arboretum.
My first trainer was an old retired man who'd never trained anyone before. As I got in the taxi that morning, he said to me, "Now why in the hell you want to drive a taxi for?" Before I could answer he said, "Whatever reason, it sure beats the hell out of work." He was bleary-eyed, explaining that he'd been up late working as an election official. Prior to his manifestation as a cab driver, he'd worked as a carpenter for dozens and dozens of years. He told me crazy stories about being in Vietnam and smoking pot in the Emerald Triangle of Oregon and northern California, his friends making the best creole food in New Orleans, tales of his father, the tail-gunner who was a P.O.W. in World War II. He drove like a maniac and swore like a sailor (even though he was a Marine.)
My second trainer was the polar-opposite in terms of temperament. He was slow and relaxed, enjoyed driving the old ladies three blocks to their doctor appointments. In a way, he reminded me of a goofy hybrid of the old man from Fraggle Rock and Nickelodeon's Mr. Wizard. Apparently he is one of the three or four drivers who have Ph.D's, (and several more drivers who are working on theirs.) His handwriting was indecipherable which led me to wonder if perhaps bad penmanship is the symptom of a doctorate, or perhaps a psychological disposition toward getting a doctorate, or perhaps universities should require penmanship or calligraphy courses in order to graduate.
The last trainer was the most professional so far, which I found odd since his side job is improv comedy. He was in the Chad Vader series that have recently gotten much attention on teh interwebs. In fact, in the plot line of Chad Vader, Chad (the less-famous brother of Darth Vader) has left the Empire Market and has gone on to cab driving. So yes, dear readers, I work with Chad Vader. Sort of. We had some "It's a Small World After All" moments when we realized we both knew the guys from The Dead Alewives. We talked about serendipitous girlfriends and the women-are-crazy/men-are-stupid paradigm and what it's like to grow old and hit those weird mile markers of age (I turn 30 this summer and he turned 40 last week.)
I have one more training shift before they let me out on my own, driving around Madison with my new iPod (a gift from Jacquelyn.) No total weirdos yet, no drunks or pimps. A girl from Los Angeles going to pick up a prescription, a lot of people going to the hospital. I picked up an old black woman who moved in slow-motion at a psychiatric clinic and three Hispanic men at the bus station going to catch another bus down to Chicago. They had so much luggage we could barely fit it in the cavernous trunk of the cab. One complained to the other that he shouldn't have bought the whole mall for his wife and kids. The other man brushed him off with a glowing smile, saying "Whatever, they're totally worth it."
Jacquelyn has had the flu which massive migraine. Ethan is here this weekend as well. I'm going to prepare dinner for them while they play Knights of the Old Republic II on the 360. Later on I have to make a St. Patrick's Day-themed rave flyer called "Corned Beef and Cabbage." There is also a blizzard on the way. Do I even need to say, "My, how strange things are!"?
No, I didn't really think so.
