cabman #2
“so what are you doing now?”
“i’m driving a cab.”
“you drive a cab?”
“yeah.”
“ok.”
“yeah…it’s alright. i mean, it’s certainly a change of pace, a change of scenery. different mindset. i like it.”
“you like it?”
“yeah, motherfucker, i like it.”
“sure you do. so is this like a Yellow Cab or what?”
“no, it’s not yellow.”
“no?”
“naw…it’s this old silver limo. a lot of my runs are from the airport to downtown. vice-versa. it’s a little classier than a regular cab, i guess.”
“what’s the name of the company?”
“i’d rather not go into that.”
“…uh…”
“sixty dollars plus tip is the cab fee…that airport run. i get some crazy riders in there. it’s a cool job. someone said something like you haven’t lived until you’ve worked as a cab driver or a bartender. i think it was ‘lived.’ maybe it was ‘worked.’ anyway…it’s cool. sometimes some crazy shit, ya know. like last week, i had michael keaton.”
“you had him?”
“yeah man.”
“in the Biblical sense?”
“no. i picked him up at the airport, and then i was taking him to the stadium for some kind of interview and then the pirates' game. he was throwing out the first pitch, i think. then to the hilton. i was supposed to drive for him while he was here.”
“supposed to?”
“yeah.”
“well?”
“well what?”
“well what the fuck happened? ‘supposed to.’ what happened? why didn’t you drive him.”
“i did.”
“you just said you didn’t.”
“i did not. i said i was supposed to drive for him while he was here. i didn’t stay on the whole time.”
“why not?”
“problems, man, problems. i mean…everything was cool. i picked him up at the airport. he introduced himself like, ‘i’m batman.’ started laughing, real corny. he seemed okay. he talked a little on his cell phone. talked to me about growing up here. about LA. real hollywood shit. whatever, ya know. so, i picked him up and took him to the game. i had to wait…walked around on the north side, bought some drugs, ate a sandwich. you know, and then it was back to the hilton.”
“fascinating.”
“yeah, so…when we got back to the hilton, i popped the trunk on the cab…”
“i thought it was a limo.”
“yeah, it is. the limo. cab. whatever. what the fuck was i saying?”
“the trunk.”
“what? oh. yeah…so i popped the trunk and let the little bellhops monkey around with his bags. and i was like ‘hey, batman, how about something, you know, for the effort.’ and he gets all michael keaton on me. movin’ his eyebrows and buggin’ his eyes out and shit. ‘well, ah…a tip…ah…jeez…ah…’ patting his pockets down. you know, lookin’ all perplexed and shit. kinda like reverend jim on Taxi.”
“who?”
“not important. so anyway…i get to thinkin’ that keaton’s gonna stiff me on the tip, right. he says ‘a tip? hey…i…ummm…i’ll get you some stuff. autographs. memorabilia. e-bay. you know. i’ll be seeing you around later. you’re my driver here in the ‘burgh, right? OKAY!!!’ and i just kinda nod, just lookin’ at this cheap motherfucker. i mean, come on, right? he’s a fuckin’ millionaire. i’m pissed.”
“is he?”
“i guess so…fuckin’ batman, right?”
“learn to fuckin’ type.”
“what?”
“a tip? please. that’s offensive. why don’t you just get a styrofoam cup and spare for change on Liberty?”
“whatever…so keaton. he’s all like smiling at me after he tells me he’s about to stiff me, or give me some cheap movie promo shit. fuck that. and then in an instant, his face gets all serious, and he thrusts a fist out at me.”
“a fist?”
“yeah.”
“he punched you?”
“yeah…i mean, no. he didn’t. he didn’t punch me. he just wanted a pound or to bump fists or whatever it is those rap guys call it.”
“michael keaton’s a rap guy?”
“right! i definitely didn’t think so. and when he got all serious and threw out his fist, i thought he was about to punch me. natural reaction. a reflex. and when he got all serious like that and put his fist out…”
“you thought he was trying to punch you.”
“i thought he was trying to punch me.”
“…so…”
“you know…i clocked that motherfucker.”
“you punched him?”
“yeah man.”
“that’s nice. that’s real fuckin’ classy.”
“laid him out.”
“unbelievable.”
“come on…who expects keaton to get all ‘source awards’ up in here?”
“certainly not you.”
“of course i didn’t.”
“you’re lying.”
“i’m lying? i’m lying? ok. i got his autograph out in the car, some posters, and this yellow plastic thing that he says was his utility belt in the movie.”
“no shit?”
“no shit. and you can ask your girl about my batwings.”
“i’m driving a cab.”
“you drive a cab?”
“yeah.”
“ok.”
“yeah…it’s alright. i mean, it’s certainly a change of pace, a change of scenery. different mindset. i like it.”
“you like it?”
“yeah, motherfucker, i like it.”
“sure you do. so is this like a Yellow Cab or what?”
“no, it’s not yellow.”
“no?”
“naw…it’s this old silver limo. a lot of my runs are from the airport to downtown. vice-versa. it’s a little classier than a regular cab, i guess.”
“what’s the name of the company?”
“i’d rather not go into that.”
“…uh…”
“sixty dollars plus tip is the cab fee…that airport run. i get some crazy riders in there. it’s a cool job. someone said something like you haven’t lived until you’ve worked as a cab driver or a bartender. i think it was ‘lived.’ maybe it was ‘worked.’ anyway…it’s cool. sometimes some crazy shit, ya know. like last week, i had michael keaton.”
“you had him?”
“yeah man.”
“in the Biblical sense?”
“no. i picked him up at the airport, and then i was taking him to the stadium for some kind of interview and then the pirates' game. he was throwing out the first pitch, i think. then to the hilton. i was supposed to drive for him while he was here.”
“supposed to?”
“yeah.”
“well?”
“well what?”
“well what the fuck happened? ‘supposed to.’ what happened? why didn’t you drive him.”
“i did.”
“you just said you didn’t.”
“i did not. i said i was supposed to drive for him while he was here. i didn’t stay on the whole time.”
“why not?”
“problems, man, problems. i mean…everything was cool. i picked him up at the airport. he introduced himself like, ‘i’m batman.’ started laughing, real corny. he seemed okay. he talked a little on his cell phone. talked to me about growing up here. about LA. real hollywood shit. whatever, ya know. so, i picked him up and took him to the game. i had to wait…walked around on the north side, bought some drugs, ate a sandwich. you know, and then it was back to the hilton.”
“fascinating.”
“yeah, so…when we got back to the hilton, i popped the trunk on the cab…”
“i thought it was a limo.”
“yeah, it is. the limo. cab. whatever. what the fuck was i saying?”
“the trunk.”
“what? oh. yeah…so i popped the trunk and let the little bellhops monkey around with his bags. and i was like ‘hey, batman, how about something, you know, for the effort.’ and he gets all michael keaton on me. movin’ his eyebrows and buggin’ his eyes out and shit. ‘well, ah…a tip…ah…jeez…ah…’ patting his pockets down. you know, lookin’ all perplexed and shit. kinda like reverend jim on Taxi.”
“who?”
“not important. so anyway…i get to thinkin’ that keaton’s gonna stiff me on the tip, right. he says ‘a tip? hey…i…ummm…i’ll get you some stuff. autographs. memorabilia. e-bay. you know. i’ll be seeing you around later. you’re my driver here in the ‘burgh, right? OKAY!!!’ and i just kinda nod, just lookin’ at this cheap motherfucker. i mean, come on, right? he’s a fuckin’ millionaire. i’m pissed.”
“is he?”
“i guess so…fuckin’ batman, right?”
“learn to fuckin’ type.”
“what?”
“a tip? please. that’s offensive. why don’t you just get a styrofoam cup and spare for change on Liberty?”
“whatever…so keaton. he’s all like smiling at me after he tells me he’s about to stiff me, or give me some cheap movie promo shit. fuck that. and then in an instant, his face gets all serious, and he thrusts a fist out at me.”
“a fist?”
“yeah.”
“he punched you?”
“yeah…i mean, no. he didn’t. he didn’t punch me. he just wanted a pound or to bump fists or whatever it is those rap guys call it.”
“michael keaton’s a rap guy?”
“right! i definitely didn’t think so. and when he got all serious and threw out his fist, i thought he was about to punch me. natural reaction. a reflex. and when he got all serious like that and put his fist out…”
“you thought he was trying to punch you.”
“i thought he was trying to punch me.”
“…so…”
“you know…i clocked that motherfucker.”
“you punched him?”
“yeah man.”
“that’s nice. that’s real fuckin’ classy.”
“laid him out.”
“unbelievable.”
“come on…who expects keaton to get all ‘source awards’ up in here?”
“certainly not you.”
“of course i didn’t.”
“you’re lying.”
“i’m lying? i’m lying? ok. i got his autograph out in the car, some posters, and this yellow plastic thing that he says was his utility belt in the movie.”
“no shit?”
“no shit. and you can ask your girl about my batwings.”
Johnny St. Clair wuz here at 11:58 PM
1 Comments:
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