Cabbies. Scum of the earth right?
Topher says this all the time and wastes no time letting them know his sentiments. But after the past couple of weeks, I’m starting to buy into his theory.
On occasion, a Sketch Hotel patron will request a hotel shuttle to his/her destination of choice. Well tough shit. We have no such accommodation. I mean this wouldn’t be a “Sketch Hotel” if we did right? It’s the actual equivalent of showing up to a Motel 6 in Fresno at 3am and asking where their day spa is located. So, I’m often left to do the next best thing. Call up the cab service and cross my fingers.
Over the past two months my love/hate relationship with taxi drivers has truly blossomed. It all started with “the discovery.” Yes, by the end of this post, you my loyal reader, will now know the filthiest secret of the hotel underworld.
One afternoon after losing the number to the regular Taxi conglomerate, I stumbled upon the most fantastic business card I have ever laid eyes on. Bold print covered the front, silhouetted by exploding fireworks in the background:
“PALMS CAB CO. AVAILABLE FOR V.I.P. SERVICE 555-555-5555.”
OK, what the hell. I dial the number, a quick talking high pitched voice answers. I have come to hate the cabbie, "Jersey Style", accent.
“What’s up buddy!”
(Holy shit, I have friends I don’t even know).
“Uh yeah, I need a cab for two down to O’Shea’s Pub,” I mutter.
He arrives in less than 5 minutes. I watch him exit his yellow chariot and walk into the front office as his customers hop in the back. Then it happened. The big burly fellow reaches into his pocket and drops three bucks into my hand.
At that point all my wildest mafia dreams had been realized. I was finally part of a racket. A scam. A black market. A jip. A con. Dirty money in my palm! OK, so maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but you get the point.
After he sped from the parking lot that day, I made the next logical move. Every guest that checked in that evening was given a room key, local information brochure and, you guessed it, asked if they needed a cab. “Cause um, if you do, I could call one for you sir.” This continued for weeks. Everything was fantastic, I was rolling in the dough. Enough money to buy a Snickers after work every day. King size!
At this point I made the typical mistake that most mafia rookies always fall into. I schemed of ways to scam my supplier. I pondered calling other cab companies and offering my wealth of business in exchange for four bucks (that’s right, FOUR dollars) at pick up. Maybe we could even arrange a warehouse/dockside meeting. My mind ran wild and it showed. I had no idea what I was doing.
Eventually all good things come to an end and my cabbie cash flow was not different. I blame Topher. We won’t get into that. All that I know is that if you do call a cab, and nobody shows up to claim it- don’t expect two things: 1.) your three dollars or 2.) a friendly exchange. Cabbies tend to draw their anger up from the depths of their scheming checkered souls, and it is painfully obvious when one has reached his breaking point. Maybe it's one too many drunk girls puking in the back seat. Maybe it's one too many stick ups. Maybe it's one too many people named Topher explaining how being a cab driver spawns the worst human being imaginable. Who knows? But for Mr. PALMS CAB it was one too many no shows from that seedy Sketch Hotel. Bummer. Instead of three dollars I got a solid Jersey style lecture and it was all over just as quickly as it started. No more kickbacks. No more hotel clerk bonuses. And needless to say, things are a little different now.
....
Guest: “ Hey, um, I don’t have a phone, could you call me a cab?”
Me: “Take the fucking bus.”
-Burt
No comments:
Post a Comment