No. You Weren't Talking To Me.

So I became a taxi driver. Insert Travis Bickle joke here. I was quite optimistic, and it was actually kinda fun. I had more than a few "fares" (that's what we call 'em in the biz, you wouldn't know) that acted up while taking residence in my backseat. My favorite being the young black woman I picked up outside the Irish Pub who commanded me to take her to Perkins pancake house, all the while assaulting me with her racial epithets and simply making sure I knew how "hard it is for a hoodrat to meet some man who ain't married, got a girlfriend, or both!" Amen sister.



Then there was the slobbering drunk guy in his mid 40's who managed to, amongst a sea of F-bombs, instruct me to take him and his heavily Greek accented lady friend to Mt. Airy Casino. I guess after a couple minutes they forgot I was there because the conversation was definitely a private one, something about a tantric foot massage, their previous rendezvous in Reno, and the woman's "restranging" order on her three ex-husbands. Aww what a sweet date.



Anyhow, I quit.

Not that I didn't enjoy it, just wasn't going to work out in the longrun, so why kill myself. The wife is the boss.

My first fare: Adriana.



Thus begins and ends my career as a taxi driver. Probably for the best, since we all know what happens to taxi driver's named Travis....



Wow! I feel like I can really identify with that now.