Working the Hard Side of the Street Page 5

  I got her to the house in Studio City and I had $8.90 on the meter. She gave me $15.

  It wasn’t the money, the money had very little to do with it, it was the person, the woman, she had smiled when she got out, truly smiled.

  I let her know I had enjoyed the chat. She said she had too. But that smile, that warm, radiating smile—I had forgotten what a smile could do to you, the power of a genuine smile. It more than made up for all the bullshit fares I’d encountered during the past two years, more than made up.

  Thank you, Sue, for that smile that carried me for quite a while. Just a smile can do that to you now and then.

  Trouble With A Diva

  “PICK UP THE famous person in front of Barney’s Beanery,” the dispatcher said.

  I had just dropped off a fare in Hollywood and was heading back west on Santa Monica Bl., when I took this call. It was Sunday afternoon. Sunny Sunday. But to me it was just another day of barely hanging onto my sanity, struggling to keep from having a total breakdown and being sent away to the VA mental ward in a straight jacket (insanity, I was certain, was a dark pit from which there would be no bouncing back, not for me—if I dropped into it. So I fought, did my best to remain among “the sane.”).

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “What famous person is that?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  I hadn’t liked the tone of that, but shrugged, and let my fare flag me down. She was a woman in her 30s, heavy-set, 5’6”. I noticed the rouge on her cheeks; there was too much of it really. She was wearing a plain summer dress, sandals, and she carried a small purse.

  Well, when I see a woman with this much rouge and lipstick on her face I know something is not right. I waited for her to get in the cab.

  “Hello,” she said merrily.

  I greeted her with a nod; eyed her skeptically.

  “To the airport.”

  “LAX?”

  “Of course,” she said. I pulled away from the curb, stayed on Holloway Dr., taking it toward La Cienega. As we passed the International House of Pancakes on our left, I noticed a police car parked near the entrance. The pancake house was popular with the West Hollywood sheriffs who worked the area. Now, why I even bothered to notice the cop car at all I have no idea, but I sure am glad that I did, because I was going to need a badge in about a minute.

  I got us to La Cienega, heading south.

  “The dispatcher said you were a famous person …”

  “Your dispatcher is right, honey. I am a famous person.”

  By this time I had developed a system for screening my passengers to determine whether they were safe or not, whether I ought to get my money up front and avoid getting “burned” at the other end. I liked to talk to my fares a bit; if they sounded okay, had all their marbles (meaning they were in better shape mentally than I was), then I could relax some and usually expect a relatively smooth ride.

  Since she didn’t look like any famous person that I knew of, I said, “May I ask whom?”

  “Maria Callas.”

  “Who?”

  “Maria Callas.”

  I said: “Maria Callas died two months ago. It was in the paper.” It just so happened I had read the obit myself in the L.A. Times.

  “What do you want?” came from the backseat. “Ya want proof? That what you want? Ya want to see my license? Ya need to look at I.D.? That what you’re saying?”

  I had the cab going a lot slower than the posted speed limit.

  “I need my money up front,” I told her.

  “You gonna bother me with that bullshit now? Whatsa matter? You don’t believe me?!”

  We were two blocks south of Santa Monica Bl. I pulled over to the curb, turned my head to face her.

  “Ma’am, the company policy is that we get our money up front for trips like this—” I was being polite, courteous about it, I thought.

  “I am Maria Callas, I tell you, the world-famous opera star! Why are we sitting here? I have to get to the airport!”

  Why is this happening to me? I wondered. Why me? What did I do to get passengers like this? Wished I could have said to my ex: Do you see now why it often took me upwards of two hours to unwind after a night of dealing with sad cases like this? Do you understand the depression? The blues that wouldn’t lift? The blues that kept me down, even when all I ever wanted was to be up for you and for me—up and happy and full of life? I just wanted a chance to do something meaningful with my life.

  “I’m sorry,” I said calmly. “I need the money up front—”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen bucks.”

  “Fifteen dollars? All right, you’ll get your fifteen dollars when we get there. I am in a hurry. NOW, CAN WE GET A MOVE ON IT?!”

  I shook my head. “Sorry,” I said.

  “What is the matter with you?! I have to get back to New York. Take me to the airport!”

  I turned away. I couldn’t take looking at the red lipstick mouth and all that rouge. How do I get myself into these messes? How? And how do I get out of this one? I remembered having passed the cop car in the IHOP parking lot moments earlier. I wondered if I was going to have to go back there in order to get rid of this woman now.

  I could hear her digging around inside her purse for something. “Where in the hell is that goddamn picture?!”

  Finally, she came up with a faded, dog-eared, black-and-white photo of a guy in his 40s, hair greased back. I didn’t know what any of it was supposed to mean. I just wanted to get paid in advance, or else figure out a way to unload her, get her out of my life. Period. I didn’t need this. I wasn’t in any shape to handle scenes like this. I felt empathy for people like her, I truly did, but my own state was pretty damn shaky at best.

  “Here,” she said. “Isn’t he handsome? That’s my sweetheart.” Then she started kissing the photograph. “I love you, Manny honey. I love you so much. I luvvvyoouuuu! I’ll soon be at your side, Manny honey.”

  Then she looked up. “We’re still sitting here—why? Why aren’t we moving?”

  “Because I need that money.”

  “You what? How dare you insult me like this?! Do you realize who I am?!”

  I was shaking my head hopelessly. “Yes,” I said. “You’re “Maria Callas.” But I still need my money up front—or else we’re not going anywhere. We’re not moving; in fact, if I don’t get my money you’ll have to get out of my cab.”

  “You’re strange,” she said. “I knew it. I knew there was something strange about you the minute I laid eyes on you.”

  It takes one to know one, I guess—something to that effect.

  It took a nut to see that I was as batty as she was—only, for the Grace of God, I was able to keep it in check somehow (and for how long? Fares like this made it impossible).

  “Please,” I begged, “I don’t want any trouble. I’ll be glad to take you anywhere you want—just pay me first.”

  “You don’t believe anything I say, do you?” she screamed, then suddenly started singing arias at the top of her voice, just belting it out right there in broad daylight on La Cienega Boulevard. It was probable that she’d had voice training somewhere along the way—only that did not make things any easier for me. I was trapped with a psychotic. It didn’t make any sense for me to keep talking because she didn’t want to hear a word of it. Nothing. So I kept my mouth shut, thought about that cop car back there. I’d never done this sort of thing before—but I was trapped—no other way around it. If I went back to the IHOP she would get handcuffed, arrested, and hauled off to jail for not paying the fare.

  When at last she stopped singing to catch her breath she was raising the hem of her dress, revealing those heavy, sunburned thighs. There was a queer smile on her face. I kept looking at all that rouge, the smeared lipstick, and it did things to my stomach, tightened my guts.

  Why me? Why couldn’t I get a break? I was just trying to make ends meet, playing by the rules; just another poor schmuck stuck in the mire—and now this.

&nb
sp; She rubbed her inner thighs. “How about it?” she whispered. “Would you accept a little love instead? Would you?”

  I found myself sighing. “Please don’t do this to me, lady. Please?”

  “My God,” she undertoned, “a rapist. You’re a rapist. You want to rape me.” And her voice increased in volume as she continued: “You just want to use my body and discard me as if I’d never existed. My Dear God, how could you? How could you?”

  “Please, lady; don’t do this—”

  “A SEX FIEND! I KNOW YOUR KIND. SEX—THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE AFTER!” And then she started yelling at the top of her voice: “RAPE! RAPE! I’M BEING RAPED! HELP ME! RAYYPPE!”

  I had no choice now; I turned the key in the ignition, and pulled away from the curb. I made a U-turn right in the middle of La Cienega Boulevard. I was one desperate cab driver.

  She stopped screaming long enough to say: “What are you doing now? Where are you taking me? I demand an answer!”

  “Taking you back where I found you. Forget what you owe me.”

  I had just under four bucks on the meter—most of it Waiting Time. As we pulled into the I-HOP parking lot I was relieved to see the police car still sitting there, the ace up my sleeve, even though the last thing I wanted was to bring rollers into it.

  I said: “I want you out of my cab.”

  She would not budge. “Why are you doing this?!” she yelled. “Why are you being so rude?! Why do people have to be such assholes?!”

  “I’m just trying to make a living,” I explained in an exasperated tone of voice. “Please understand that, if you can—”

  “YOU UNDERSTAND THIS—IF YOU WANT ME OUT OF THIS CAB YOU’LL HAVE TO DRAG ME OUT! THAT IS THE ONLY WAY I WILL GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING CAB! YOU GOT THAT?!”

  “See the sheriff over there?” I said, indicating the vehicle— actually there was no one in the car itself.

  “What do I care about the sheriff?”

  I sighed, got out of the cab. “You pushed me into this. I know you’ve got problems; I didn’t want to bring the law into this—” I looked up just then—two county sheriffs were emerging from the pancake house and could easily pick up on the commotion coming from my cab.

  “YOU BASTARD!” she shouted. “YOU ROTTEN BASTARD!”

  “Look, I don’t care about the money; just get out of my cab.”

  She noticed the sheriffs looking our way and suddenly decided to leave my backseat, slamming the door behind her.

  “You satisfied, you bastard?! All you care about is money! MONEY, MONEY, MONEY!!!”

  “Did she pay you?” the taller of the cops asked. The guy had reddish blond hair, a full mustache. The other cop’s mustache was dark, perfectly trimmed, as always. L.A. cops looked like TV soap actors. Still, I was not unhappy to see them.

  “No,” I answered. “But it’s okay. I’m just relieved to be rid of her. She’s been screaming ever since she got in the cab. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Maria Callas started to walk away. “Hold it right there, Miss,” the taller cop said. When the woman refused to do as asked the cops grabbed her arms.

  “LET GO OF ME, YOU COCKSUCKERS! LET GO! LET ME GO!”

  They suggested she settle down, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  “What does she owe you?” the tall cop asked.

  “It’s really not that important, officer,” I said. I just wanted to erase the entire incident from my mind, forget it had ever happened. “If she doesn’t have it, that’s fine. I don’t care about the money.” And I didn’t. Let me go off somewhere and collect myself, let me go about my business. Let someone else handle the “famous persons” of the world.

  “What’s on the meter?”

  “$4.10.”

  “Where’d you pick her up?”

  “In front of Barney’s Beanery,” I told him.

  “How far did you get?”

  When I answered that one, he said: “That’s kind of high, ain’t it, cabbie?”

  “There was Waiting Time involved,” I explained. “She wanted to go to LAX initially. When I asked to be paid up front she gave me a hard time, wouldn’t get out of my cab.”

  “That’s against the law, you know?” he said to her.

  “FUCK OFF!” she shouted. “HE TRIED TO MOLEST ME, AND ALL YOU CAN THINK ABOUT IS FOUR DOLLARS AND TEN CENTS!”

  “Do you have money to pay the man?” the tall one’s partner asked her. She was nodding and spitting. “How can you stand there when I’m being molested?!” she was saying to me now. “I’m being molested by these animals, and you stand there with your thumb up your ass! WHAT KIND OF MAN ARE YOU?!”

  The tall cop had been holding her purse while all this was going on. He extracted her wallet, handed it to her. The woman withdrew a five dollar bill and flung it at my feet.

  “There’s your fucking money!” she snarled, spitting at the ground. “You make me sick! ALL OF YOU—MAKE ME SICK!” Reluctantly, I reached for the five dollar bill. “Thank you,” I said, and started for my cab. I wanted to get out of there.

  “GO TO HELL!” was her message to me, to all of us, I guess.

  Bracelets were clamped on the woman’s wrists, and she was shoved into the backseat of the cop car.

  “Hold on a second, cabbie,” the reddish-haired cop called after me. “We’ll need some information from you.”

  “YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS! YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS!” she kept screaming from the backseat.

  “I really should be getting back to work, officer,” I said to the cop.

  “I understand that. It’ll only take a minute.”

  I nodded. I didn’t want to, but I would stick around.

  “We’ll need to know where you picked her up. We’ll need to know your name, address, etc., what exactly happened. All that. She hurt you?”

  “No, sir.”

  I was handed a piece of paper, a pen. And as I started writing I could hear the woman singing again, sotto voce now. She wanted us to know she had control, that she could sing at that. Rollers in this area were used to scenes like this. It happened all too often. It was a typical Hollywood occurrence. Both were grinning now, their sense of humor returning, as the tall cop said to his partner: “She’s not bad, you know?”

  His partner was nodding his head, agreeing. “Not bad at all.”

  As long as she was singing in their squad car and not in my cab, that’s all that mattered to me. She could sing all she wanted—and I didn’t even have anything against opera at all.

  Over the years I had learned to appreciate the greats, the masters—Pavarotti, Placido Domingo, Kiri Te Kanawa, and some others with names too tough to pronounce or remember.

  I jotted down the information requested of me in a hurry, handed the piece of paper over to them.

  I was free to go.

  As I got in my cab and slowly pulled out of the I-HOP parking lot I could hear “the famous person” singing her arias back there, opening up all the way, wanting us to hear what powerful lungs she had—full blast. Maybe she was trying to tell me something—what I would be missing out on now, all that fine singing, now that she was no longer sitting in my backseat, but in theirs.

  I rejoined the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard. I understood, I really did. It was not her fault. Sometimes the old melon had a way of malfunctioning, but to have a “Maria Callas” happen to a guy who was hanging on by a mere thread himself…

  The gods couldn’t be this cruel—or could they?

  I turned south on La Cienega, followed that up with a left at Holloway. A while later I was on Sunset, holding the mike in my hand.

  “She flipped out on me,” I told the dispatcher. “You knew it was going to happen, too, didn’t you, Palmer?”

  It was easy enough to detect the dispatcher doing his best to suppress a chuckle.

  “Yeah,” he finally conceded, “I half-suspected.”

  “She claimed she was Maria Callas.”

  “What’s your present location?” he asked.<
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  “Sunset Boulevard.”

  “Got another call on the Strip. Want it?”

  “I don’t think so,” I told him. “I need a break after that last one.”

  A year later, I was sitting at the Beverly Hills Hotel along with several other drivers one afternoon waiting for a fare. There were two Beverly Hills cop cars parked in the driveway under the world-famous canopy. The cabbies wondered what was going on. Why were the cops here?

  Twenty minutes passed and a couple of the police officers stepped out of the main lobby entrance, turned right, walked down the driveway past our cabs. They made another right, reentering the hotel through this side entrance.

  What the hell was going on?—we all wondered. The carhops were always “too busy” either parking cars or else retrieving them for the famous guests who frequently stayed at this hotel to bother with cab drivers like us and let us know what the commotion was about.

  Another twenty minutes elapsed, and a fire truck drove up.

  Two firemen entered the lobby. The cabbies craned their necks. The carhops were not offering any information. We weren’t good enough to even bother with. Most of these guys had the attitude. They drove late model cars and lived in comfortable homes in the Valley. For the most part they remained indifferent to the celebrities who favored this hotel when in town, but always managed to shine that professional smile at just the right time, and say: no, sir, or yes, sir; no, ma’am, yes, ma’am. Their timing was impeccable. They were paid to be ass-kissers and they were the best at it—even though they didn’t care for the two-bit phonies any more than we did.

  Was this another bomb threat? I asked myself. There had been several over the years. Nothing had come of these threats. Overzealous fans got rebuffed by their favorite star and suddenly that fan was no longer a fan and was busy phoning the desk to warn the hotel of a hidden bomb somewhere on the premises.

  Like I said, it happened from time to time. Finally, Jimmy Vance (black, 45), the former chain smoker who owned and operated his own shoeshine stand inside the lobby, sauntered over to chat with us.