Chinese Confessions

Shanghai
(soon I will be able to post my own pictures, but for the time being, I'll just have to "borrow" some from other people)

For any of you who follow along with my cabbage confessions, you are probably well aware by now that I will be in Shanghai (and occasionally elsewhere) on August 28th through December 22nd. I've pretty much given up on any hope I may have superficially had at containing my enthusiasm about going. I've enjoyed writing my cabbage confessions so much that I am going to continue them while I am experiencing China. I'll try to keep them entertaining! However, rather than adopting yet another blogspot address for them, I will go ahead and post them here. I am justifying this, of course, by the fact that have cabbage in Chinese food, so that will be enough to keep the address for this blog relevant.

In the meantime, I have been thinking a lot about what am amazing opportunity this is going to be. I actually sat down and tried to put it into words, and I am going to include those here.

A strange feeling has come over me today. I feel more excited about future than I ever have. Last Friday night I had dinner at my Chinese teacher’s house with a bunch of her other Chinese students. While I was there, she gave me a photocopy of a couple chapters from a book about a westerner’s trip in China along a 3,100 mile long highway. These specific chapters were talking about his experience in Shanghai. I read some of it during my lunch break today. It was amazing! His descriptions were so vivid, and having studied Chinese history for the past semester and the language/culture for the past year, I could follow it very well. It’s simply breathtaking. If ever there was a perfect moment to go see Shanghai, this is that moment. It’s like seeing all of the following take place, in the same place, at the same time: the industrial revolution, New York city massive skyscraper development boom in the roaring 1920s and the massive influx of immigrants (with the only missing element being a statue of liberty), the silicon valley during the dot com boom of the 1990s, some of the most amazing architecture in the world being built right before your eyes right next to historical buildings, businesses from all over the world coming to one city to set up their operations in one of the most important cities of this century, and the vibrant, modern, cutting-edge, and ever-changing cosmopolitan life of the city. All of this is happening right now in Shanghai – home to 18 million people from all over the globe. Needless to say, if I didn’t have 55 – 60 hour work weeks and the last Harry Potter book to look forward to in 19 days, I would be going absolutely insane right now. This upcoming semester is going to be a truly amazing experience. The thought of having to wait is agonizing!

On another, but equally exciting note, I came across a fascinating article in the Bloomberg magazine today talking about careers for people in my position and age, those getting ready to graduate from college and enter the work force in the world of finance. I’ve spent the past 4 years in college trying to make all of the right moves, learn all of the most critical things for my future, and seize every worthy opportunity that presented itself – all this while working and paying for school by myself, doing art, and trying to maintain a social life. I won’t lie – I’m really satisfied and proud of what I have been able to accomplish up to this point. I have a well-developed (and constantly developing) knowledge about finance, investing, economics, and international business, along with knowledge of four languages. I have an unabashed passion for art, hard work, creativity in general, and math, and fairly impressive work experience to accompany it. I have worked like mad to get to this point, and I have had a lot of support from friends, family, and professors – and I have to give a large amount of credit to them for their encouragement and help. My main concern was about post-college life and trying to find a satisfying, rewarding, and intellectually stimulating career. In the Bloomberg article, entitled “The Graduates,” it said, “Wall Street and Silicon Valley are courting… graduates – kids with top grades, finance and math skills and a couple of languages – more heavily than any students since the days of the ‘90s dot-com explosion.”

When I read that sentence, everything clicked. Before, I had the feeling and the hope that I was doing all of the right things to have a good future. But now that I’ve read the news articles and actually seen what the Street is seeking most earnestly, I feel a profound satisfaction that my hopes are not in vain. And yes, even the amazing experience of studying in Shanghai for a semester is going to make that future that much brighter. Needless to say, I am thoroughly ecstatic and optimistic that the future will be bright. Not only will I get to do the things that I enjoy so much, but there is a major need for people who have that very ability.

I hope I don’t sound as if I am bragging or boasting. I just wanted to share my excitement about something that has me so excited.

Confession 15 - Irony

Irony is not without a sense of humor. If I haven't alluded to it yet in the context of any of my cabbage confessions, I have been looking for a full time job for the summer. This job may or may not replace my employment as a cabbie – I haven't decided yet. But since this confession is somewhat related to that, I will go ahead and post it. If any of you are disillusioned because this confession is not actual cabbie-ing, I apologize. I just had to share it. And I want to continue to tell my crazy employment-related stories.

I had a job interview last week in downtown Denver. I had been working hard at being well prepared for this interview, and I wanted to make sure that I had all of my bases covered. I had extra copies of my resumé, a full tank of gas, good tires for my car, functional car, made prearrangements for all of my classes that I would be missing, and even left early enough to allow extra time for getting stuck in rush hour traffic.

Once I got into the downtown area, I was starting to really focus on how I would handle the interview. Being only a mile away from my interview destination, I figured I was on the home stretch and had nothing to worry about.

My car didn’t agree. It decided, instead, to lose functionality in the gas pedal. If you’ve never had this experience, I will explain. A gas pedal works by pushing on it. Genius, I know. But somehow this mechanical marvel does a whole bunch of complicated mechanics and propels the car forward. In my case, I assume that it hooks up to spark plugs which are then used to shock the hamster under the hood, which then runs in a wheel that propels my car. I’m not sure how it survives. I think it lives off of the gas that I put in the tank. Whatever the case, this little hamster gets about 40mpg on the highway.

The problem arose when my gas pedal quite suddenly became rather flaccid. It had about as much motivation as most of the seniors on campus at CSU. It pushed on it and it collapsed to the floor. It gave no resistance, and exerted no effort. To make matters worse, this was in the middle of Speer Boulevard, which happens to comprise 8 lanes of insane traffic. So, I was trying to coast as far as possible in the vain hope of finding a good place to pull over. The red light ahead of me seemed to have a different idea.

In my attempt to keep my momentum, I decided that I should turn right at the stop light and pull over in an area with less traffic. I succeeded in doing so at the cost of running a red light. I could only hope that there were no police around. My car finally stopped in the middle of the single lane entrance into a downtown park-n-ride. Preparing for the worst, I popped the hood and took a look.

It wasn’t as bad as I expected. Apparently the cable that connected the throttle to the gas pedal had come loose and lost its tension. This was much better than the alternative of it completely breaking off (which had incidentally happened to me about 2 years ago while delivering pizza). So I popped it back in place, ecstatic that I actually managed to avoid opening the hood and staring in complete confusion while I anxiously decided what to do next.

I lowered the hood and then looked up to see a local police officer stopped behind my car. As everyone knows, I am a completely honest person, so I did what any honest person would do: I waved to him, jumped in my car, and drove into the parking lot to look for an exit. As I meandered my way through to the gated entrance, the police officer stopped next to me and asked me if I was aware that I ran the red light back there.

“Oh, sorry. My car wasn’t working.” I replied. I then…well… just drove off. In hind sight that probably wasn’t such a good idea. But for some reason, he didn’t follow me. So once again I managed to avoid getting a ticket.

I even managed to arrive at the interview on time. I even managed to get the job. And, as of the time of me writing this, I have not received any ticket in the mail. Irony truly is not without its sense of humor, but the ironic thing is that the ironic situation had an even more ironic outcome. Don’t you think?

Confession 14 – A Throbbing Finger and a Filthy Dollar

The Infamous Dollar

A while back I posted the count of flirtations and such that I had received. As much fun as that was, I’ve actually lost track. It’s tragic, I know. There was so much grey area that it was getting difficult to determine what would count as a flirtation. Some of them were just funny, others were a bit awkward. That’s just part of the fun of being a cabbie.

Last night I got a call to take part of a big group of people to the Hunt club. Yes, I know – the Hunt club. I always dread those because the people are generally jerks. But I figured I’d keep an open mind about it. Maybe I would get some cool people.

I pulled up at a big house party. There were people everywhere, but they weren’t the usual clientele that would be going to the Hunt club. They were all CSU students or at least that age. I guess they told the dispatch that they needed to go to the Hunt club. When I talked to them, they were apparently going to the roller skating rink.

These people had obviously been drinking and were obviously having quite a lot of fun. One guy in particular must have been having a blast because he was wearing women’s lingerie. It it was quite… well… words can’t describe it. He was a little bit hairy and was running all over the place. I just had to laugh.

After we got everyone piled into the car, we headed over to the roller skating rink. They were talking like they were going to go to the Hunt club after skating. I couldn’t quite figure it out though. The group was actually very co-ed. There were at least as many girls as guys, and all of the girls seemed like the pretty, popular types. But I figured that they just wanted to have a good time and, if they were going to drink more, the Hunt Club was right next door and was one of the few bars in the area.

I just have to point out the irony though. Believe it or not, you can actually get a ticket for biking or even rollerblading drunk, just like you can for driving a car. If you don’t believe me, just ask around. I’m pretty sure that someone within the first or second degree of your social circle has had that unpleasant realization. And here I was, taking a big group of people to the roller rink where they would attempt to skate around while tipsy.

If anyone actually attempts this, let me know how it goes. I’m now curious as to whether it makes it more fun or you just end up crashing more.

As people were climbing out of the van after we arrived at the final destination, I ran around the car to the other side to lift the middle-back seat to let the people in the very back climb out. While fidgeting with the lever, one of the girls pulled out some money and asked if she could put it down my pants.

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, partly because that’s the first time one of my passengers has asked me that question, and also partly because my finger had gotten stuck it in the joint mechanism of the seat and was hurting quite badly. If I moved the seat forward, it pinched it even more. If I moved it backward, it pinched it even more. I’m always amazed by the little things that happen that make an ordinarily bizarre or, in hind sight, humorous situation even more random and crazy.

Another result of getting my finger caught in the seat, aside from the sheer pain of it, was that I managed to dodge the question. I actually have very good reason for not wanting her to put money down my pants. It’s the same reason that I tell people who handle a lot of cash for their job that they should wash their hands before they use the restroom. Money is dirty stuff! Who knows where that bill had been before? I could see it, as she was stretching her arm out to me, held lightly in her finger tips. Sure, her pretty smile and puppy dog eyes would have made it a very tempting offer for virtually every guy on the planet. But I knew better. That bill was obviously old and worn, wrinkled from passing hands countless times, brown, greasy, and dirty around the edges and creases. But on a more microscopic level, it was a bacteria and STD smörgåsbord of unsightliness. And the last thing I wanted to do was get an STD from some random person putting money down my pants. No thank you. Not to mention that I’m not that kind of guy :)

And so, after I finally got my throbbing finger free from the seemingly perilous trap of that was the hinge of the seat, I stepped back and let her out. She gave me the money as a tip, and smiled as she and her friends walked off to go roller skating. I wished her a good night, my finger continuing to throb, and wondered to myself if that counted as another flirtation?

Confession 13 - Conspiracy Theory

Being a student at Colorado State University, I am constantly exposed to individuals and ideas that can be surprisingly irrational. Whether it is manifest through random comments made in class, the clothes people wear, or what the CSU administration insists that I do for registration, some things just naturally bring out completely screwed up look to my face and, if I were a comic, the letters WTF would be written in a size 128 font above my head.

In driving a cab job, on the other hand, I generally expect for the people I meet to be a bit crazy. After all, enough alcohol can make just about anything happen. But last night I think I met one of the craziest of all of them. She was especially crazy because she was so confident that she was not crazy but that the world was crazy. The craziness was based on “Conspiracy Theory,” which, until last night, I thought was just a fabrication used on TV for our amusement. How wrong I was.

I picked her and another guy up to take them to Tailgate Tommy’s, the bar at Drake and College. As we pulled away from their house, she started telling me that she knew the future and that anyone who knew the future was going to get f***ing killed. They always kill the people that know the future. For this specific reason, she would not tell me her name.

“How is it that ‘they’ know that you know the future?” I asked her, humoring her slightly.

“They just do!” she replied. She then asked me, “Do you know anything about the truth behind 9-11 and the New World Order?”

“Uh… I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know a whole lot about it.” I replied cautiously and dumbfoundedly with the invisible letters WTF flashing above my head.

“Well, I’ll go ahead and tell you about it in a nutshell.” She replied.

Oh great! What a way to start out a fun filled evening of cabbying.

“Do you remember Hitler?” she asked me. I tried to contain my inner laughter because I immediately recognized that as a genuinely stupid question.

“No I don’t remember Hitler because I wasn’t alive back then, but I do know about him.” I replied.

“You should read more history then.” she told me, completely oblivious to the fact that I, very subtly, was jabbing at her ridiculous question by taking it literally – the same subtle jab that I am now making again with the letters LOL flashing invisibly above my head.

She then proceeded to inform me about the “New World Order” and what that entailed. I will do my best to summarize her summary of this massive conspiracy that is going to shake the world.

She started out by saying that very soon there is going to be only one country and one religion in the world that will govern all. She didn’t specify which country this would be, but did mention that before it happened, the US, Canada, and Mexico would all join together as one country. Apparently Condoleezza Rice had just gone up to Canada to meet and discuss this very topic. As proof, or to validate her argument, the lady claimed that she had footage of the meeting.

Then she started talking about Hitler and how George W. Bush’s grandfather or great grandfather had provided him with the funding for WWII. At this point, it was getting rather difficult to contain my mocking laughter. I still didn’t know what this had to do with the point that she was trying to make, but I decided I would just humor her and be entertained for a while.

She then talked about some massive highway that was being build leading from Mexico through the middle of the US and up to Canada. I think she missed a conjunction because she never mentioned how this was supposed to weaken the US and allow us to be taken over by invading Russian forces that would poison our water supply and use submarines to destroy our country. I think it had something to do with nukes as well, but I’m not certain. Oh yeah, she also insisted that 9-11 was a fabrication of the government, though she never said why they did it.

Then she made the biggest mistake of all – she tried to enter into the topic of economics and the market. She said that the major drop of the US market that occurred “4 weeks ago” (which I happen to know actually occurred 6 weeks ago on February 27^th, 2007) was because Russia, which held all of the US’s debt decided to sell them. Apparently this was an attempt to undermine the American economy. I asked her how that related to the Shanghai Composite dropping nearly 9% on that day, but she didn’t really have a good answer to that question. She just said that that was because of Russia as well.

Then she moved back to the whole “New World Order” idea that between the nukes, the poisoned water supply (I still have no idea how Russia could possibly poison all of the US’ water supply because, well, that’s a whole lot of streams and lakes and wells and treatment facilities to deal with), and the submarines, America would be destroyed. The only way to survive, she explained, was to accept Christianity.

At about this point, we arrived at Tailgate Tommy’s, where she paid for the fare with a credit card, thus completely disclosing her identity (though I’m sure she overlooked that). Before she got out, she decided to give me a DVD that I should watch that talked about all of this. I gladly accepted the DVD, with the letters LOL and CYA flashing invisibly above my head.

I still have this DVD and if anybody wants to watch it and join me in bringing up valid and irrefutable arguments that completely undermine every single point that is made, just let me know! I’m sure it would be much more fun to have someone to join me.

Confession 12 - Just Because

No description required.

Confession 11 - Crazy Little Thing Called "Life"

As the title denotes, life is not lacking a sense of humor. Just take my job for example. You’ve read the confessions. I see some really crazy stuff. Granted, it’s not nearly as crazy as the stuff New York cabbies probably see, but it is for FoCo.

I also seem to have a genuine knack for picking the cabs that have “issues”. I’ve gotten used to this, actually, so I try to have a sense of humor about it. I’m sure, however, that the office personnel just roll their eyes when I come in and tell them what’s wrong with my cab this time. That thought actually makes me laugh. I’m not trying to find reasons to not have to work; I just genuinely find problems with these cars.

Anyway, enough rambling there. It’s confession time!

Last night was looking like it would be a rather dismal night. The car I picked, which was incidentally one of the only two left, was having issues. Actually, this thing had been through quite a lot. It had over 580,000 miles for starters. When I got in, the meter wasn’t working, so I figured I would just have to calculate the fares with my calculator. When I put the car in drive, it took absolutely forever to even start to accelerate. When I would punch the gas pedal, the RPMs would rev up and then slowly come back down as the car ever…. so….. slowly….. began….. to….. consider….. the….. idea…. of….. accelerating………………. maybe. But it actually did run and I really didn’t feel like missing yet another night of work, so I decided to go with it. I would just have to be careful when pulling out into traffic.

Just to give a better illustration of how much “character” this car had, after driving about 3 miles, the meter actually popped off of the dashboard and rolled onto the floor beside me. The hood had some strange bumps and awkward angles in it – a good indication of the considerable repairs that it has gone through. If this car could tell stories, I’m quite sure its confessions would blow anything I could possibly write out of the water.

Oh yeah, the car also shook quite violently if I tried to accelerate after completing a turn. I laughed and told my customers that it was the “built in massage feature.” They usually laughed and thought nothing else of it.

Well, the night was going rather uneventfully. I talked with some cool people, but I also had the misfortune of meeting a jerk from the Hunt Club. I have actually noticed that, almost without exception, the people that I drive from the Hunt Club are the most unpleasant individuals I meet as a cabbie. And this is not just a casual observation after a couple of experiences. They genuinely are completely unpleasant people. I don’t know exactly why. Maybe it’s because I’m not a hot chick and so they hate me. Maybe it’s because they realized that they just wasted hundreds of dollars and have nothing to show for it. Or maybe they have come to the realization that the only way they can get remotely close to girls without receiving a restraining order is by going to a strip club. Whatever the case, I think it’s pathetic and a waste.

The only exception to this was one guy who was there just because his girlfriend works there. He seemed like an okay guy.

As for the jerk, Mark (There, I divulged his name! Vengance is mine! Mwahahahahaha), I was supposed to pick up at the Hunt Club last night, fortunately for me, he decided that he didn’t actually need a ride. That was a good thing because I’m pretty sure he would have thrown up in my back seat. That’s something I avoid at all costs.

I got a call about an hour later from someone who incidentally happened to be at the Hunt Club, and he asked me if I want to pick a guy named Mark and his friend. I laughed lightly and said, “No. I was supposed to drive that guy earlier tonight and he was not a very nice person. So no, I won’t drive him.” It felt so good to be able to say that!

About half an hour later, I was cruising around through old town looking for someone who needed a ride home. It was about 1:45am. (Side note: isn’t it odd that the vast majority of my confessions occur around 2:00am?) I saw a guy flagging me down and he seemed okay from a distance, so I pulled around.

Closer up, he was really grubby-looking and dirty, perhaps 40 years old. His skin was thick and prematurely worn and stressed from over exposure to bitter conditions. His clothes were very dirty and he carried a tightly packed backpack. A second guy was tall and very skinny. His clothing was in about the same condition. As they were approaching the cab, I wanted nothing more than to just drive away. I probably should have, if only for my own personal safety. These guys looked extremely dodgy. The second guy’s motor skills were terrible. He struggled just to climb into the back seat of the car. I would say it was comparable to seeing a giant graham cracker try to bend and fit in. Somehow he managed to get settled in. His hair was grey and wiry, though he couldn’t possibly have been as old as he appeared. I can usually smell it when people have been drinking a lot. But from this guy I caught no odors of alcohol. His brain must have been completely fried by drugs. It was a really sad sight.

When they both were settled in, trying to warm up from the cold outside, I asked them where they needed to go. They said they needed to go toward the Charcoal Broiler. This happens to be right next to what is probably the most ghetto and dodgy trailer park in the city.

I am generally not a very judgmental person, but I was started to be extremely cautious. Everything just seemed wrong. So I asked them plenty of questions, trying to figure out what they were up to that night, where they were from. Whenever possible I would dart a glance toward them and try to pick out some identifying features that I could easily remember.

Just as I was hoping that I wouldn’t get robbed by these two guys, something crazy happened. I actually wasn’t a bit surprised by this either. My transmission went out! I tried downshifting and hitting the gas pedal but all that would happen was the RPMs would rev up. I was heading East on Mulberry, a high traffic road, and was losing speed fast. I did what I had to do – I pulled over and explained to them what was happening. I ended up parked next to Carls Jr. where the cab finally came to a stop. I apologetically told them that I couldn’t go any further because the transmission went out and then called dispatch. After several minutes of talking on the phone, they found someone who could come get me and these two guys.

As we were waiting for the other cab to arrive, they whipped out some rolling papers and something to fill it. You’ll have to excuse my ignorance because I have no idea what pot is like, never having smoked it. I’m guessing that’s probably what these guys had, but maybe it was just tobacco. I don’t know. But I told them they’d have to get out of the cab if they wanted to smoke, so they did. The other cab finally arrived and I got my things and loaded them up, as did the other two guys. We took them to their extremely dodgy trailer. I was glad I didn’t have to go there on my own, especially after the other cabbie said, as we were driving away, that it was probably the biggest crack house in Fort Collins.

And after that, I got dropped off at base and went home. I didn’t make much of any money, so in that sense it was pretty much a waste of a night. But I am glad that things worked out the way that they did. I didn’t get robbed, I officially concluded that the Hunt Club sucks, and I managed to kill a cab without being at fault. I’m pretty sure that you would probably agree that life truly is not without a sense of humor.

Confession 10 - The Night Off

Today's confession picks up where we last left off. As you may or may not recall, I had just decided that it was a bad night for cars and I really am death averse. So, that being the case, I decided to opt out of working for the night.

Upon my arrival home, I began pondering what I should do. After all, it's not every night that you actually get out of work and can actually do something fun. On a purely sporadic and whimsical... umm.... whim... I decided to take a previously humourous activity to the next level.

The concept was simple, and originated with my good friend Regina. We had previously taken paper bags, drawn on faces, and used them as masks for taking rather hilarious and random pictures. For an example, the following picture was probably the best scenario we have come up with so far:



As I was saying before, on a rather spontaneous basis, I decided to take the mask fun to a higher level: a music video! Apparently I have a reputation as being a dancer. I cannot attest to this because I haven't actually really seen myself dance. But apparently I was at least entertaining enough to win $100 doing it several years back in a talent show.

So with that, I give you the very short "Masked Dancer" music video.

But before watching, please remember that upon clicking "play", you hereby waive any use of this video for the purposes of blackmail.

And with no further ado, here it is!

Confession i - A Mid Winter Night's Foreshadow

Yes you read that right. It’s not a typo. This is confession i – as in the imaginary number; the square root of negative one. Given the strange nature of this particular confession, I figured that such a numeration was only appropriate.

I’ve never really been one to believe in luck, fate, astrology, curses, or even manbearpig. Life is what you make of it. I stand by that. But at the same time, I’m also not stupid. I do recognize that sometimes bad things happen. Sometimes there are indicators or warnings, sometimes there aren’t. I’m sure we all can think of times where we should have done or not done something, and we ended up regretting it bitterly. Last night, I am convinced, could easily have been such a night.

When I arrived at work, I was ecstatic that there was actually a nice selection of cabs that I could drive. Usually there are only a couple of vehicles left by the time I check in, and I end up driving the big beastly Ford Aerostar that gets approximately 2 gallons per mile. You read that right. Gallons per mile. Don’t you just love American cars?

I picked one of our Honda minivans because they carry more people and are pretty comfortable. When I was checking the vehicle out, I noticed one of the headlights was out. I honestly don’t have much trouble driving with one headlight; I’ve done it before. In fact, I had been doing it Wednesday night, completely unaware of course, when a kind police officer pulled me over and burst my blissful bubble of ignorance. So, knowing that the Fort Collins police exercise no reserve in pulling over someone with only one headlight, I decided to pass on that cab.

Next, I opted for a Camry. We have a bunch of those cars and I like how they drive as well, particularly since they are virtually identical to my Corolla. So, as I was checking out this vehicle, I opened up the hood and immediately noticed a sweet smelling steam rising steadily from the radiator.

“No way. No way am I driving this one.” I thought to myself. I also had learned just one week ago the travails of driving a car that leaks engine coolant. That particular reality check hit me down in Denver in Cherry Hills. An overheated cab in Fort Collins on a Friday night, probably at 2:00am just like the rest of my confessions, is not my idea of a good time. So, I passed on this car.

I tried a third car. It started up fine and everything checked out alright. Well, all but the horn. Technically we aren’t supposed to drive without a working horn. But I figured I would just conveniently forget that little detail. I checked out and hit the roads of FoCo.

I got about 3 miles up the road when I started to notice that the car just happened to be teetering on the edge of losing control. Whenever I would get above 30 mph, the car would start to swerve back and forth, rhythmically. It wasn’t just a casual swaying. This was the kind where your hands leave imprints in the steering wheel because it’s impossible to maintain control. I have never experienced anything like it. All the traffic was flying past me at normal speed and I couldn’t even keep the vehicle going straight at 30. I was lucky there were no cops around because they probably would have pulled me over thinking I was drunk.

So, I called dispatch and explained my predicament. They said I could bring the car back and get another one. Whoever said “third time’s a charm” must have only tried twice. There’s another thing I don’t believe in: stupid cliché expressions like that one. So, I carefully drove back to the base. They gave me yet another car. I was sincerely apologetic. I didn’t want to be a pain, and I’m really not that picky. Apparently it just wasn’t my night for cars. Actually, I was surprised the each vehicle kept getting worse and worse. Finally, I was walking out to the fourth cab of the night, when I noticed it was totally covered in snow. Apparently it hadn’t been driven in a while.

“That’s odd.” I thought to myself. As I started wiping it off, I noticed that the driver side of the vehicle was dented. Okay, it was actually totally bashed in. In fact, neither of the two doors were able to open.

“Yeah, that one had a slight fender bender, but it should still be drivable.” they told me.

Okay, go ahead and put yourself in my shoes at this point. The first cab I picked had a burned out headlight. I probably would have gotten pulled over. The second vehicle had a leak in the radiator, so it probably would have overheated and left me stranded. The third vehicle couldn’t even drive straight when it got about 30 mph (I’m still puzzled about that one), and I would have almost been guaranteed to get in a wreck if I drove it. The fourth vehicle had actually been in a wreck and only the two passenger side doors could be opened.

As I said, I don’t really believe in luck, fate, or anything like that. But I do have common sense. And common sense was telling me that it was not going to be a good night. I would be lucky to get out of it without getting killed.

So I did what any person with common sense would do. I went home. I would rather have a lack of a confession than see how things could have gotten worse. And thus explains why this is confession i. It’s the confession that doesn’t exist, because hopefully I managed to avoid something I would have bitterly regretted.

Confession 9 - The Cling On

We all know one. Or have known one. Or, as much as we may not want to admit, have actually been one. I am referring, of course, to the infamous cling on – and no, not the Star Trek variety. Well, perhaps the cling on may have been a die hard trekky, which may have contributed somewhat to a limited development of social skills. Or maybe the person is as unobservant as I am. Either way, the cling ons are out there, enjoying the bliss of ignorance because they probably don’t recognize that they actually are cling ons.

You may be wondering why I am going on about cling ons. Well, I happened to have a run-in with one while doing some cabbage a few weeks back. But before I go into the actual story, I must at least try to pre-“save face” by saying that I really do think that I am a nice person. I try to be respectful of people and, for the most part, treat them as I would want to be treated. With that being said, and with no further ado, confession time!

It was an unusually warm night for mid December. The bars had just closed and it was a bit past 2:00am. I found myself up in old town looking to pick some people up near Old Town Square. I pulled up to the corner, in my giant, boxy, ghettolicious Ford Windstar cab/van that I was cursed… I mean “blessed” to be able to drive for the evening. The group I was picking up came to the van and piled in the middle seat. A fourth guy, in his late 20s and fairly chubby (okay, I admit, he was fat) climbed in the front seat. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt and a pair of plain blue jeans that were anything but flattering. Sorry ladies, if you are swooning for him already, I can’t help you out. I don’t have his name or number.

Before I even had the chance to pull out, this guy next to me in a drunken haze exclaimed, “You should drive this thing like it’s stolen!”

“Ooooookay… you’re weird/annoying. I will just politely chuckle and pretend you are a fungus so I don’t have to say anything back” I thought to myself. And that’s what I did. Well, minus the whole “pretending he’s a fungus part”. Well, who knows? He may have had some fungus growing on him somewhere, but I’d rather not know. So, I asked the group how their night was going.

“Good” was the overall reply. And of course, the guy next to me again said, “You should drive this thing like it’s stolen!”

We made it no further than 2 blocks before a girl sitting in the middle of the middle seat behind me leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Could you pull over so we can let this guy out?”

Usually I would say “what?” just to make sure I understood her correctly, but there was communication taking place that didn’t need words. This guy must have been driving them crazy and I could tell. So, I immediately whispered back “Where?”

She sat back and then said out loud, in a not-very-convincing-unless-you-are-so-drunk-that-you-can’t-tell-the-difference-between-cornstarch-and-a-car kind of way, “You can just drop us off at the light up there. That’s our stop.” The guy, who was quite drunk (in case you haven’t figured out yet) said “But that’s not Shields [street]…”

“Oh, you’re right. It’s the next light.” she said in reply. I confirmed that and before we even got to the next stop light the guy said in a rather anxious tone of voice, “Hey man, can you pull over?” He was making sounds that I dreaded more than any: those of one about to vomit.

Everything happened so fast, and with such acute coordination that you would have thought I had been preparing for this moment for hours. I brought the van to a near immediate stop (barely having time to pull it over to the side of the road. In about 3 seconds I had put the van in park, undone my seat belt, undone his, and even leaned across him and opened the door to help him get out. The last thing I wanted was for a guy of this volume to let loose of all he had drunk that night in my front seat. Oddly enough, he was actually saying “thank you, thank you” as I my arms were flying every which way but with precision. Apparently he thought I was being polite and helping him. I suppose I was, but my motives were not quite as good-natured as he thought. I still laugh at that thought.

He stepped out of the van, which rides about as high as any big SUV. Because the edge of the road sloped down toward the curve, and more so because he was absolutely wasted, when he stepped onto the pavement, he lost his balance, tripped on the curve, and came tumbling down. It almost seemed to happen in slow motion, like it would in a movie or instant replay. He crashed down on his side and began to roll. He ended up lying flat on his back, arms and legs completely sprawled, looking straight up at the night sky, eyes and mouth wide open, about 10 feet away from the van in the middle of a parking lot. All of us in the car, of course, were staring at him in complete silence and utter shock (well, slight shock at least. In hindsight, such an outcome would be anything but surprising). After a couple of seconds of us just staring at him, in his wrecked and fallen state, the van door hanging open, I again leaned over and pulled the door shut.

And then we drove away. It took about 3 more seconds before everyone busted out in laughter. The three seated behind me explained that they didn’t even know who the guy was. He had just been following them around all night in Old Town and they had been trying time and time again to ditch him. And when the cab came, he just jumped in with them. They thanked me profusely for helping them finally get rid of him and even tipped me well!

And thus is the story of the cling on. It’s a tragic tale, but one that has nevertheless probably made you laugh, even if just a little.

Confession 8 - Static Drama

A very wise man, for whom I hold a great amount of respect, once told me, “only nice people go to heaven”. And at the time, I agreed with him entirely. And for the most part I still do, but I am starting to wonder if such is truly the case. Why? Because sometimes “nice” people can be “too nice” and let other people really annoy them, to the point where they consider doing not so “nice” things. I suppose it would be best to illustrate my point with a nice little story.

While engaged in my normal weekend cabbage, I got a call to go pick up a girl at Club Static. If none of you have ever been there, I understand completely. I haven’t either. Well, I did deliver pizza there several times and have picked up/dropped people off there, but that’s about the extent of it. But the people generally seem to be pretty nice, plus they tip okay, so I was glad to go.

When I got there, a girl jumped in the cab. Apparently she had been kicked out of the club because she was drunk but was only 19 years old. This, of course, was what she was recounting to me as we were backing out of the parking lot.

“I can’t believe they would just kick me out! I don’t look drunk to you, do I?” she asked. As I have stated before, I am painfully non-observant, but even I could tell she was a bit past “tipsy”.

“Well, I can tell that you have been drinking, (which was the truth) but I have met a lot of people a lot drunker than you. (which was also the truth)” I replied. Playing the diplomat is usually the best choice. But come on – I’m a cab driver! I deal with drunk people all the time! She seemed relatively appeased, thinking that I was on her side in the whole ordeal.

Now I will be completely honest. I didn’t like this girl very much. Actually, that’s kind of an understatement. For whatever reason, this girl was actually more annoying than anything. Perhaps it was because she asked my name 5 times in one mile and still couldn’t remember it. Or perhaps it was because during that same mile she kept going through the same story “I can’t believe they kicked me out! I don’t look drunk to you, do I? Why would they kick me out! I just can’t believe it!”

“Yes yes, you got kicked out of a club for being drunk. Cry me a river.” I kept thinking to myself. It’s one thing to complain about it once and then ponder it, but it’s quite another to literally keep repeating the same questions over and over and over and keep forgetting that you’ve already asked me. You want my opinion? I think they just kicked her out because she was so annoying.

Anyway, so the story continues. After that first mile, I offered to turn on the radio (mostly to just get her to forget about it and think about something else). That seemed to work, at least for the next mile, but then we had to start changing radio stations and that was equally annoying. So, I finally just turned it off.

“I mean, like, I can’t believe they just kicked me out of the club! Why would they do that! I’m like, barely drunk. I could drive right now! Why would they kick me out!”

It was not even physically possible for me to get this girl home soon enough. I’m usually a nice person, and I kept up that face, but this girl was driving me crazy. Finally we got her home. She paid for her cab and went up to her apartment door. I should have pulled out and left, but for whatever reason I didn’t. I was writing down my numbers for this particular trip. Before I got to pull out, she came running back down and jumped in the cab.

“I can’t believe it. I forgot my purse at my friend’s house and it has my keys in it and my roommate is not home. Uhh… can I just ride along with you for a while? ”

Oh no. No way girlfriend. You are not staying in this cab if I can help it. “Would you like to try calling your roommate with my cell phone? Maybe she can help you out.” I asked, trying everything possible to get rid of her.

“Yeah, maybe that will work.” she replied. So, I asked her what her roommate’s number was, and she said she wasn’t sure, but she ratted off a number, so I dialed it and handed her the phone. It didn’t work. We tried another. It still didn’t work.

As much as I wanted to ditch this girl, I knew that I couldn’t live with myself if she froze to death out there. I hate being a nice person sometimes. She had a skirt and a sleeveless shirt on. She wouldn’t make it past an hour. So, reluctantly, I offered to let her ride along with me.

“Thank you! I promise this won’t take long… Hey, now we can have fun together!” she exclaimed. I think I may have rolled my eyes a few times, but I doubt she noticed. And with that, we went on to go pick up another fare.

We arrived at Match Ups, a relatively non-eventful bar where people generally play cards and shoot pool. When we got there, I decided to go in and find the person I was supposed to pick up, and she went in to use the restroom. While she was doing that, I found my fare and we went out to the car.

It took every ounce of moral strength I had to not just ditch this girl and leave her there. That “nice” part of me was quickly being drowned out by my desire to just get her out of my hair. She still hadn’t stopped complaining about getting kicked out of the bar, nor did she have any clue as to why that happened.

I explained to the man I was taking home that this girl was going to be riding along with me because she was locked out of her apartment and I didn’t want her to freeze to death. He was fine with it and didn’t seem to be very annoyed by her when she came back out.

As we were pulling out, she proceeded to recount to him her story of being kicked out of the club. I know she said “Club Static” but for some reason the man thought she had said “The Hunt Club”. Maybe he was looking at some part of her physique at the time, or maybe he just genuinely misinterpreted her. For those of you who may not know, The Hunt Club is Fort Collins’ premiere “Gentleman’s Club”, a strange way of saying that it’s a strip club. Yes, that was the same place where I spent an hour in my cab studying Chinese with the meter running while two middle aged gentleman did who knows what inside.

“Don’t you have to be 21 to get into that place?” the man asked. She didn’t really listen to him but instead kept on complaining about getting kicked out. I knew this must have been one jumbled miscommunication. I can only imagine what the guy was thinking: here’s this cab driver with a 19 year old girl wearing practically nothing on a freezing night that he picked up at a strip club. I’ll let you draw the conclusions.

Rather than try to sort the entire situation out, I decided to just laugh at the irony of it all and get the guy home as quickly as possible. After we finally dropped him off and he smiled brightly at the girl and wished her a good night, we left and she said I could drop her off at her house.

“My roommate should be home soon.” She said. So, with that, I decided enough time had transpired and it should be okay. So I took her home. When we got there, she jumped out and I drove off immediately and didn’t dare look back.

And this, my friends, is the story that brings into question whether nice people really go to heaven. Theoretically I would think that they do, but then again “nice” people put up with a lot of annoying people. Who knows? Maybe one day that nice person will snap and do something irrational, like post a truthful blog about the annoying people they deal with.

Confession 7 - Randomness

Today's confession is dedicated to my Investments professor, Dr. Vickie Bajtelsmit, for the assignment that was given to us and is due Wednesday that I should be doing right now. Once again I find myself dutifully procrastinating, but still managing to be productive. I went to the bank (one of my least favorite tasks), cleaned the kitchen (including the grime under the burners on the stove), and even made my savory couscous dish for dinner.

But alas, reality sets in and I realize that I must do what is truly most important: post a new confession. Then I'll do my assignment... maybe.

To preface today's confession, I suggest that we all step back and take a look at the age-old institution of marraige. However it is defined, it is amongst the most romanticized and memorable occassions in all of life, whether it proves to be for better or for worse. I've known individuals that have planned every individual detail, down to the color combination of the M&Ms in the dish and the songs at the reception. The only detail they left out was the future spouse. And no, I'm not referring to myself. I have no idea of what color combination of M&Ms I will have. I'm still working on that.

As the title of this confession indicates, the story here is all about randomness. I'm sure you are all wondering what this could possibly have to do with a normal night of driving a taxi. And so, with no further ado, the story:

I got a call to pick up someone at the Marriot, located near the Foothills Fashion mall. It was close to midnight, and this was nothing unusual. We often get calls to pick people up from the hotel to take them to old town or a party or a liquor store.

When I got there, I went in and was heading to the front desk when a young lad, at most 20 years old, began looking at me quite intently. So, I changed my course and asked him if he had called for a taxi. He affirmed, and so we headed out to the cab.

As we were getting situated in the vehicle, we engaged in our natural conversation.

"Where would you like to go?" I asked.

"Whatever Walmart is open 24 hours" he said. Apparently he needed to go there to purchase a CD player. It was a slightly unusual request, but not too out-of-the-ordinary. So, as we were pulling out, I asked him if he was from out of town.

"No, I'm from here. I'm actually on my honeymoon." he explained.

I was really starting to be amused by how unusual the whole situation was. But we kept up an interesting conversation. One of the parents had volunteered to pay for their honeymoon, which consisted of a one-night stay in the honeymoon suite. He told me about the contents of the "honeymoon courtesy basket" that was awaiting for them on the bed after they checked in. I won't go into detail of what it contained. Imagination makes it far more amusing, but rest assured that I laughed - quite heartedly too.

When we got to Walmart, he went in to buy the CD player. I waited there in the parking lot for him to come back, as it was a round trip ride. He finally came running out and jumped in the cab.

"They didn't have a CD player, so I got a nice watch instead." he explained.

I didn't ask why he was even wanting to buy a CD player in the first place. Instead I just assumed, probably wrongfully so, that he would be using it to play some Barry White. Or maybe some Marvin Gaye. Who knows? But he explained that it was a gift for his now "wife".

To any romantic individuals out there, don't worry, this wasn't the only gift he had gotten for her. He told me about all the other things he bought for her for this momentous occassion, and I imagine she must have been fairly happy. I just thought that this was truly a random story.

And for all of you guys out there who have no ideas of what to do if you are planning a wedding, maybe this will give you at least one idea. You can always go on your honeymoon overnight to the local Marriot and stay in the honeymoon suite for only $199 per night. There's even a complimentary gift basket! It even contains... well... you'll just have to find out for yourself.

And with that, I think I will start my investments homework. Maybe. I really do need a watch though. I've been meaning to buy one for so long...

Confession 6 - Flirtations, Etc.

It's cabbage confession time! Now I will warn you, there are some confessions that I don't actually post because, well, there is not really any way for me to post them without being a bit more graphic than I would like to be. That being said, I will continue.

To all my devoted confession followers, I thank you. Normally I would feel like a moderately-to-excessively abnormal person for posting such random stories, but your feedback makes my lack-of-social-life-due-to-my-crazy-job seem worth the sacrifice.

I would also like to thank my Financial Statement Analysis teacher for giving us a 15 page report assignment. Why? Because one of the by products of my procrastination is the fact that I can't bear sitting and doing nothing. Were I to do that, I would go insane and be racked with guilt. Instead, I engage in other productive activities that otherwise would not likely get done, just because that way I can at least justify my procrastinating. One of these "productive" activities consists, of course, of posting new confessions.

Okay, preface is done. Confession time!

Amongst the things that I keep track of with my job, I seem to find it amusing to track how many times I have been hit on by people. Don't worry, it's not an egotistical thing. I just think it's hilarious the things people do and say when they are in a chemically altered state of conscience. To add a bit to the amusement factor, I have divided it into many times I have been hit on by girls vs. guys.

So what's the count?

Girls: 5
Guys: 2 or 3?

The reason for the question mark is that I'm honestly not sure if the following confession counts or not.

Okay, I was driving a group of 4 very amusing and even moreso drunk people to their father's house. Three of them (two girls and one guy) were siblings and there was a friend as well. I was priviledged enough to hear about all the drama of the evening, though it was mostly just unique and laughable drama as opposed to that of the awkward and lamentable variety.

Amongst the drama of the evening somehow they had hinted that the brother was gay, but I wasn't quite sure. I didn't really care either way, I was just having fun being amused by their comical drunken stories.

Then out of the blue, the guy in the back seat asked me if he could pay for the cab by... well... you can use your imagination. And I'll give you a hint, it didn't consist of the use of any currency.

So, I'm not sure if I should add that to my count or not. And that's my current predicament.

Confession 5 - The Comprehensibility of a Drunk Mexican vs. a Drunk French Person

VS.

I must preface this blog for a moment. Normally I try to keep my cabbage confessions in relative chronological order. However, I just had to post this one because it was so unusual. Not unusual in a dramatic way, just unexpected.

As many of you know, I seem to have a knack for foreign languages. I find them to be a lot of fun and I seem to be pretty good at them as well. I usually am completely excited at the opportunity to actually use them and speak with people, even if those people don't actually speak the language or are able to respond. Somehow, we still manage to communicate.

Last night I picked up a couple of Mexican guys from old town during a slow moment of the night. I at least thought they were Mexican because they appeared to be. But when they spoke, I could understand almost nothing of what they said. I occasionally could catch a "está" and "cuanto", but that was about it. If they were speaking Spanish, which I was pretty sure they were, it was either extremely ghetto and full of slang, or else they weren't enunciating anything. It was probably both. But regardless, I decided to not try my luck. I would just pretend to be the typical monolingual American.

Perhaps the only thing as cool as being able to speak another language is being able to understand people when they speak it, but still pretend that you don't. That way when the moment comes that you do actually spout something out in their language, they are completely taken back.

Unfortunately, that didn't happen in this situation. I just wnated to get them home safely and find more fares because it was a slow night. So when I took them to their drop of point, I was surprised when the one who actually spoke relatively good English paid, got out, and left, while the non-English speaker remained in the back seat.

"Do you need to go somewhere else?" I asked.

"fwa hunidwsa qnickui fenwonfu" he replied. Okay, he didn't actually say that, but that's about what it sounded like to me because I couldn't understand a single word this guy was trying to say. Who knows? Maybe's that's what he actually did say.

I knew I could speak Spanish with this guy, but that would only facilitate part of the communication. He would be able to understand me. I would be completely hopeless to understand him. Plus my speaking Spanish would only encourage him to keep speaking Spanish, so we would get nowhere. For this reason I kept with the "ignorant monolingual American" role and tried to get what he was saying in English. Occasionally he would actually form some Spanish words that I could understand, but I still had no idea where he wanted me to go. All I could understand was "barro" "familia" and something about chicken.

I prayed that he wasn't actually saying "pollo" (chicken), because the last thing I want to be doing at 11:30 pm on a Saturday night is driving an incomprehensible drunk Mexican in a cab full of chickens. I'm quite sure that there would be feathers flying everywhere, wings flapping, and some particularly lamentable Spanish polka music in the background to complement the scenario.

So, I told him to just direct me where to go as we drove. Making delightfully effective use of fingers and gestures, we managed to communicate well enough to get him to his destination. I should have guessed it, but I had completely spaced it. He actually wanted to go to "Polo's" Mexican bar. I was relieved. Now he just needed to pay and be off on his merry way so he could have fun speaking Spanish with other people who were actual native speakers, and maybe go watch a chicken fight or something. At this point, I started to drop Spanish words "dos cincuenta" to speed up the process. But then he stalled before actually paying me.

"¿You have familia?" he asked me.

"uhh....no...." I replied.

"¿Why you no have familia?" he further inquired.

Oh no. No no no no. We are not going into this subject, and especially since there is no way that you're even going to be able to understand my words I'm saying, let alone my actual reasons for not having a family.

"Porque no estoy casado." (because I'm not married) I replied, hoping that would satisfy him. It didn't.

"¿Porqué no está casado?' he continued asking. He looked completely taken back, as if I was the only person on the planet that didn't have children and was a complete anomolie.

Ugh. I really didn't want to explain all of this to him, so I tried my best to say "It's complicated" hoping that would finish it off. Fortunately for me, it worked. He shook my hand with a big wide smile and wished me a good noche.

I was completely relieved that the whole situation was over, and I had even managed to get out of it without having to drive a bunch of chickens to who knows where.

The night continued to be extremely slow, even through the bar rush at 2:00am, when usually so many people want a cab that it's near impossible to get one. Fortunately there were at least some people who needed a ride. Incidentally, at about 2:00, I picked up a group from Old Town Square and proceeded to drive them home. One of the most fun parts of this job is getting to actually talk with people (or rather listen to them), so I started to make conversation with a girl in her mid twenties sitting in the front seat. I recognized that she had an accent, but she didn't say very much initially, so I couldn't quite pick up what it was. So, I asked her where she was from.

"I'm from France" she replied.

I was stoked. I couldn't contain my enthusiasm. I immediately responded,

"Ah! Vous parlez français alors!" (Ah, you speak French then !) It seemed to take a moment for it to click with her that what I had said was actually French, but she definitely understood me. So we got to have a very animated conversation in French while the rest of the people in the group were completely astonished that their cab driver actually spoke it.

If you don't know it by now, my personality seems to change quite noticeably when I speak French. Suddenly, I become much more animated, my facial expressions and vocal tones change completely, as does my sarcasm and personality overall. It's like I have a completely different French character. I guess that's what you get after you live in France for two years.

What surprised me the most by this story, however, was how easy it was to understand her, a drunk French girl as opposed to the drunk Mexican guy I drove earlier. I could understand her perfectly. I was hopeless to understand the Mexican. All in all, it was a truly delightful experience to actually be able to dust off my French a bit and still be able to use it and have a blast and even get paid for it in the process.

And I was totally relieved that she never mentioned anything related to needing to go pick up some chickens, even though her husband (who was in the back seat) was in the CSU vet program. I just don't think French music would have gone well with a car full of chickens.

Confession 4 - A Tale of Two Freshmen

Something unique happens to all of us when we turn 18 and graduate from high school. A whole new world of freedom opens up to us. No longer do we have to forge our parents’ signature for permission slips. In fact, we can write our own dismissal notes (though in my experience, they aren’t as effective as they legally should be). We can enter into binding contracts like loans and credit cards, make our opinion heard by voting, move out on our own, or, if we so desire, spend exorbitant amounts of money on products such as tobacco, porn magazines, spray paint, strong adhesives, and rear-view mirror reattachment kits.

It is, therefore, no surprise that some people take advantage of this new found freedom to experience and experiment as much as possible. I think that Chef from Southpark put it well when he said:

“There is a time and a place for everything and it’s called college.”

I recently witnessed this occurrence, manifest through two freshmen. I say “recently” meaning that it was about a month ago. The reason I have waited this long to recount this confession is that I wanted to make sure that the situation had been fully defused.

And so the story begins. At about 1:30am, I received a call to go pick someone at a party two blocks north of campus, at a house disturbingly close to my apartment. The contact was a girl, but I had no idea how many people would be getting a ride or anything. When I pulled up, there was no denying that it was a party. Considering that it was at a house on a Mulberry intersection, I was surprised that the police hadn’t broken it up hours earlier. Nobody in sight had the appearance of being 21 or older, nor did any of them appear to be sober. Notwithstanding, most of them seemed to be enjoying their chemically altered state of consciousness.

Nobody immediately proceeded toward the cab, so I turned the van off and picked up my phone and proceeded to dial the number of the person I was supposed to pick up. But something caught my eye, so I stopped. Emerging from between to cars parallel parked along the street just ahead of me, I saw a limp body being dragged quite non-effortlessly toward my vehicle.

“Oh no. Not this. Anything but this.” I thought to myself. Driving drunk people is usually acceptably pleasant/entertaining, but in my experience, the drunker they are, the more annoying they are. When it gets to the point where they can barely make out a sentence without slurring all their words together into something that would sound more appropriate coming from the mouth of an alien race on the Sci-Fi channel, that is the worst. Especially when they are trying to give you directions.

The body and the person dragging him drew closer and closer to the van. Then the rear door behind me opened. A less intoxicated and thoroughly annoyed guy about 20 years old made his best attempt to load the individual/body into the seat. The body, which was that of a kid about 18 years old with short, dark brown hair, denim shorts, a white shirt, and completely soaked from head to toe, began making noises.

Unexpectedly, he was making his best efforts to laugh and show that he was having a good time. As he was being loaded in, he tried to tell the guy struggling under his weight “Youu’rrrrrre grrrrrrreaaaaaaaaat man. Thaaaaaaanksssssssss.” Not surprisingly, this friend didn’t seem to foster the same elation. He then turned to me and said, “Hold on. I’ve got one more.”

And so, to my delight, (sarcasm definitely intended here) I got to wait there as he made his best attempt to drag another body. This second kid, also about 18, was a lot smaller, skinner, but equally wet. In contrast, however, this kid couldn’t have appeared more miserable. He was quite incapable of exerting any kind of control at all. After the “friend” loaded him in the other side of the back seat, he told me that they needed to be taken to Corbett hall, which was a dorm on campus about a half of a mile away.

“Don’t worry man. When you get there, you can just go in a get some people to help them back into the hall.” he told me, not very convincingly.

I asked him how they were going to pay for the cab since neither of them could even sit up straight. So, he was frantically digging in their pockets looking for a wallet. As he was doing so, my front passenger door flew open and two girls tried to climb in.

“What are you guys doing?! This is our cab and we’ve been waiting for 2 hours for it!”

Oh great. Not only did I have two corpses in the back seat, I now had drama going on as well. Moreover, I wasn’t even supposed to be dealing with the two guys since it wasn’t their cab in the first place. I hate drama. And so, the negotiations began and went for about 5 more minutes. As the girls were expressing their anger at how the two corpses had been behaving for the evening, spending the last two hours vomiting on the lawn in the midst of the downpour, the “friend” was trying to convince them to just let me drop them off at the hall on the way to their apartment.

During this period of fragile negotiations, the skinny kid was using what faculties he could to implore them to pump his stomach. Isn’t that a good sign? One more reason I’m so glad I don’t drink.

As the bickering continued, I wanted nothing more than to get everyone out of the cab with as little drama as possible and in as little time as possible. So, I finally told them that I could just drop them off at the dorm since it’s only 3 minutes away and get them home and it would be less expensive for them in the process. They appeared appeased, and so we drove off.

Even though the drive was only a half of a mile long, it was a delicate process. I had to drive as quickly as I could so as to minimize their window of opportunity to vomit and generally make a mess of my back seat, while also keeping from accelerating, decelerating, or turning to abruptly so as to provoke such a deplorable event, and also avoid getting a speeding ticket in the process. It was truly multitasking in its finest and most horrendous hour.

As we were about 500 feet and one sharp turn away from the dorm, the skinny sick kid begged for us to pull over because he was about to puke.

“No way dude. Not on my watch or in my cab” I thought to myself. So, I slammed on the gas and had all my attention of the finish line, that special place on the sidewalk right in front of Corbett which symbolized the end of drama and queasiness.

It was approaching. The hall was already beside us, and I slowed the cab. Immediately after stopping I ripped my seatbelt off, threw the door open, jumped out, opened their doors, and with the help of the two girls, we dragged them out to the cold, wet sidewalk in front of Corbett. It was almost 2am, and I knew there would be no way I could get in there to get people to come drag them back into the hall. Plus the meter was running and I wanted to get there girls home, particularly since it was unfair that they should have had to deal with all of this.

So we left the two guys, lying on the grass, incapable of even getting up. It wasn’t entirely heartless of an act. I asked the girls to call the “friend” and have him make some calls to people in the hall so they could go out and help.

I was quite relieved that the experience was over. And I was also quite annoyed with people who don’t know when to stop drinking. After scanning the newspaper the following day, I took comfort that I didn’t see any headlines relating to two dead freshmen found on campus. And I’ve resolved to never allow people that drunk into my cab ever again without a responsible person escorting them.

Here’s to the hope that I won’t have any more blogs like this one again.

Confession 3 - The Sandwich

It’s amazing the cravings that people get whilst in a chemically altered state of mind, particularly following a prolonged consumption of such substances. If you don’t believe me, just try going through the Taco Bell drive-thru on a Friday or Saturday night at about 2:00am. Then call me once you finally get your food at 8:27am, only to discover that they messed up your order. Or you could do as I did and stop by Taste of Philly in old town at 2:15am.

As hard as I may try, I cannot offer any explanation as to why

Every time I have a customer to pick up at Taste of Philly, it is inevitable that they will have placed an order for food approximately one minute before I arrive. This was no exception. But they did offer me food, which was kind of them. I get offered food quite frequently, actually. I generally politely decline, for reasons of modesty and also just to be safe. But at least once per night someone offers to buy me some food. (I won’t even go into how many times people offer to buy me alcohol or to join them at their party) I have come to the realization that the real solution to world hunger would be to just have starving people drive taxis. Then they can finally have a regular source of food. Granted, they would probably die of salmonella, but at least the starvation issue would be resolved.

And with this thought, I decided to make the most out of the few minutes I would be waiting and go use the restroom.

After stepping into the bathroom, carefully closing the door behind me, I felt something wet on my hand. I figured it was probably just water from someone who didn’t dry their hands sufficiently after washing. Yes, I am quite good at being painfully naïve like that. But when I turned around, reality set in. I’m sure many of us have heard the saying “Sometimes boys miss”. Usually this statement refers to them missing the toilet. Well, that wasn’t quite the case this time. Whoever had meant to use the toilet not only managed to completely miss it entirely (except for some abundant splatter all over the seat), I wondered if they had managed to actually miss the bathroom as well.

Needless to say, I thoroughly washed my hands several times afterwards. As I walked toward the counter where the employees were hard at work, I contemplated whether or not I should tell them. It was so busy, and I didn’t want to add to the stress of the situation. So, I decided to leave them in their state of relatively ignorant bliss and not inform them of the atrocities that had occurred in their restroom facilities. I figured it was the most humane thing I could do.

I sat down with the group of people I was to drive to their destination, since it would still be a few minutes until their sandwiches were ready. We made casual chit chat, and they entertained me with a brief recounting of some of the events of their evening.

Then one guy, a semi-jock type, semi-pretty boy, semi-fraternity brother type, turned to look directly at me and asked me an unexpected question.

“Does my nose look crooked to you?”

Since I am among the least observant people I know, I hadn’t even taken note it before. So, my eyes slowly moved down from looking into his and followed down the center of his nose. As I got to the tip, there was no denying it. Something was off, and I mean literally. It was bent to the side about 2/3 of the way down. Answering his question as honestly, yet tactfully as possible, I said:

“Hmm, it looks like it is a little bit. But I probably wouldn’t have noticed”.

I am proud to say that this answer was completely, 100% truthful. I never would have noticed.

“Spoken like a true diplomatic cab driver.” one of his friends said.

It turns out that he got in a fight with a few people earlier that night. Well, by saying a “few” people, I actually mean 10. I have no idea what the fight was about (though I do seem to recall there being a girl involved in the story somewhere). Needless to say, I was thoroughly impressed. He managed to take on 10 people in a fight and emerge with nothing but a slightly crooked nose. This guy was awesome.

When the sandwiches were finally ready, we went out and climbed into the cab. There were 5 of us total, and the most chemically altered one was in the passenger seat next to me. We drove about half a mile and the three guys in the back were still laughingly recounting more of the events of the night. Suddenly, the guy next to me, a guy in his early twenties with dark hair and seemed to be of a Hispanic descent, freaked out.

“Whoa! There’s a cop!”

So what did he do? He did exactly what any logical person would do. He rolled down the window and threw out the last half of his Philly Steak sandwich.

“Did you just throw your sandwich out the window?!” I asked, thoroughly confused by what was going on.

“Yes! I don’t want to get arrested!” he exclaimed.

“You could get in trouble for having a sandwich?” I asked, trying to understand the logic in this situation.

“Yes! And they would do it too!” he replied.

All I could do was laugh. It wasn’t quite ROTF laughter, but it was definitely up there.

What confuses me most now is the fact that he was so freaked out about a sandwich but he had no problem shortly thereafter talking about the drugs that he was going to do once we got to his house. He could hardly contain his excitement and desire to party as he broke out exclaiming, “Yeah! We’re gonna get hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh!”

He asked me if I wanted to join them (once again, a nice illustration of the variety of things I get offered every night as I engage in more cabbage), but I laughed politely and said that I am clean. I have no desire to do anything like that. And I don’t think I’m ever going to look at a Philly Steak sandwich from Taste of Philly the same way again. Or use their bathroom.