Jack descrbes how hard he tried to avoid taking the job as a cab driver. And, then we go on his training run with an older driver, Casey.

“To speak the truth one must know what the truth is and what a lie is, and first of all in oneself. And this, nobody wants to know.” Gurdjieff




Chapter-Three


Two years earlier how I loathed and feared the prospect of driving cab. It’s the lowest job on earth. You don’t even consider it unless you are desperate. It’s the very last resort, lower than selling Fuller Brushes, lower than selling encyclopedias, lower than a telegraph messenger, I told myself. I remember that I never really intended to take the job. I kept seeing the add in the Oakland Tribune however. I kept reading, “Our drivers average over two hundred dollars a week.” Back in 1969 that wasn’t bad money. You could get by on a couple hundred dollars a week. I kept putting it off, though. I told myself that I’d be out on the streets a couple weeks at the most, that a teaching job was sure to come through any day now. So, I kept putting it off. Putting it off and thinking about the dark streets of Oakland, remembering the T.V. news up in Willows, news about Black Panthers, rape and murder, hold ups and muggings, rioting and looting, streets not safe anymore even in broad daylight. I put it off until I ran out of excuses, until we were down to our last fifty bucks in the bank with only Anne’s check from the Credit Union coming in.

Jus’ finding the place must knock out half the applicants, I told myself when I finally slipped under the freeway overpass and doubled back a block above the one-way street. I parked behind the cyclone fence and peeked into the lot full of cabs. There must be a hundred of them, I told myself. I had just finished a hamburger and coffee at the Doggie Dinner down on San Pablo. I had been turned down for a job at the Pepsi Cola Company. I had convinced myself not to go back to American Rubber where I worked nights while earning my degree. I had been laid off at the cannery for over a week. I know it’s a waste of time putting in an application. A teaching job’s bound to come up in the next couple days, I told myself as I stepped my way between holes in the sidewalk.

At the concrete block building, I rang a bell and waited for a buzzer to unlock the door. Inside, were doors and hallways, dark wood and dirty glass and four middle-aged men with coffee cups in their hands. Under an arrow that said Employment! Straight ahead, I saw an open door on which I read Personnel Office backwards through the glass. I peeked inside and saw two huge cluttered empty desks. Three boys at a side counter were filling out applications. Before I could ask them where they got them, a pimply-faced twenty-year-old kid walked into the room with a coke in his hand. He waved me to the first desk, and gave me a one-sheet application. Fill it out over there; he said pointing to the counter. There was no room at the counter for another body. I stood in front of the desk and watched the kid walk to the second desk and take a brown bag from a desk drawer. I reached for my shirt pocket and realized that I didn’t have a pen.

I left my pen in the car, I told the kid.

He gave me a look that said, You don’t own a fucking pen, you asshole, and got up from his desk.

Fuck you, cock sucker, I say to myself eyeing the textbook on his desk. I already finished five years ‘a college. You ain’t no better’n me…. I take the pen he offers and thank him. The very thought of filling out the application fills me with dread. I look at the empty lines and wipe my sweaty hands on my good dress pants.

One of the bodies leaves the counter and walks toward me. I’m gonna take this home and bring it back tomorrow. There’s some information on here I got to look up, he tells the college kid. The kid nods his head and bites into his bologna sandwich. I wonder if I shouldn’t take my application home also as I squeeze into the vacated spot at the counter. I print my last name first and tell myself I might as well get I over with. When I get to the place that says list all employment for the past ten years, I tell myself, Well, at least I don’t have to go back East no more. A heavy-set man in his late forties walks in with middle-aged man in a black and red sweater and bow tie following him. The first man closes the door and sits down behind his desk. I glance at his heavy-set body, his deep red face, his wrinkled suit, his tie. A sign on his desk says Tex in big gold letters. He’s the boss, I tell myself. The kid in back hangs up the phone. The man in the sweater stands head down in front of Tex’s desk. Accusations and excuses fly between them. I hear them talk about company policy and falsifying waybills as I try to remember if Limpkey is spelled with an i or an e. The guy next to me takes the place of the chastised driver. I listen to him answer questions while I try to remember my foreman’s name at American Rubber.

When I finish my application, Tex is interviewing the next applicant. I sit down in a folding chair in the corner and look over my hastily scrawled application. I should’a taken it home, I tell myself. Then I think of the dozens of applications that I filled out for teaching jobs in the past two years. This one is nothing. What am I worried about? What’s wrong wid me? I ask myself.

So you’re a school teacher! Tex says as he looks up from my application. I nod my head yes, and watch his eyes go back to the paper. He scans a few more lines. Well, he tells me, you’ll find a lot of your friends on the second shift.

I’m jus’ substituting right now. But, I should be landing a regular job any day, now, I tell Tex.

Lots of teachers driving after five o’clock. Times are tough. Jobs are hard to come by. When I find myself in here taking applications all day long I know something’s wrong. Taxes. Government interference in everything a man tries to do. People not willing to take care of themselves. He pauses and looks me straight in the eye for a moment. Is there anything you didn’t put on your application that should be on it?

Well, I did lose my driver’s license once. But, dat was over ten years ago. Drunk driving charge, I say biting my tongue.

Do you drink every day? Tex asks.

I hesitate a second as I watch Tex scrawl a line on my application. I wasn’t even twenty-one when that happened. I learned my lesson. You know, the only drinking I do now is maybe a glass of wine with dinner, or a beer when it’s hot….

Do you use dope?

Naw, I don’t mess wid dat.

Well, you might not believe it, but some old boys think they can fool me. Been on this job too long. I can always tell when a man is lying. They sometimes wonder how I can know. When you’ve been on a job some thirty years, it’s second nature. He looks up and smiles at me. I return his smile. He tells me about his early years as a driver in Dallas. How he worked his way up to manager. How he brought the company out of the red and made it a going concern. How he came here ten years ago, put ten times as many cabs on the street. We’d do even better if those idiots in San Francisco would just keep their nose out’a my business, he tells me.

He explains that he doesn’t stay behind the desk. That he still takes a cab out every now and then. He knows every trick there is to high flagging; every way there is to dead head. And some old boys still think they can fool him with a doctored waybill. He tells me he never drove a night when he didn’t make book if he followed all the rules. The rules are set up to make a driver money. When you’re making money, so are we. The radio is the key, taking radio orders, he tells me and explains how it works.

I’m only listening with half an ear, though. In my mind, I know this is all a waste of time. I know my last interview was a really good one. I know they’ll be calling me in a day or two. Maybe they called already. I could be teaching tomorrow, I tell myself as I watch Tex pull several forms from a drawer.

We don’t allow no heavy drinkers, or dope addicts. Helps a lot if you can read and write, too, he says and shows me the first set of forms. He explains that they are for police clearance. I’m to take one to the Oakland Police and the other to Berkeley. Before you go you get two sets of pictures. One for each department, he says and asks me what size hat I wear.

I’m not sure. Six and seven-eighths, I think.

He yells for the kid to get me a hat, and explains that I have to have my picture taken with the hat on. They’ll issue a temporary right away. You can start work tomorrow if you get your forms filled, he tells me. The third form is for the physical. You don’t have to pay for the physical. We take care of that, he explains and gives me directions to their doctor in San Francisco.

I listen to a description of an incident that happened when Tex was still in Dallas, and take the closest hat to my size that the kid can find. The kid tells me there is a mirror outside. I can change it if it don’t fit. I figure I’ll never have to wear it and ease my way out.

On the way to my car, I recall how Alex had put in an application to drive cab when he was just starting back to school. He even went out on the one-day training session. He took a job at a root beer stand instead. More steady money, he told me.

I won’t even go on the training run. Dis is all a game to me. Jus’ a way to keep Anne off my back, I tell myself and think of Anne’s words from a week ago.

What are you going to do when you get laid of f at Hunt’s? We still have to eat you know. The rent has to be paid. You haven’t even put in your application to sub. Who’s going to pay the bills while you sit around and wait for someone to hand you a job?

When I get home, there’s no calls or letters waiting. I show the forms to Anne and try on my hat. A wave of shame and humiliation sweeps over me. In the kitchen, I ask, Anybody need a cab? We laugh and talk about the job at Moraga. When I tell Anne I have to cash a check at the Co-Op tomorrow, she tells me I can’t. We’re overdrawn, already! she says. I tell her I can pick up my two-day check from Hunt’s on Thursday. The Co-Op check won’t go through before then.

Next morning, there are still no calls. I go through the motions. Cross the Bay Bridge and catch the sights on Ninth Street. Eyeing the other patients in doctor’s waiting room, I’m wondering if there is anything wrong with me. A young hip looking intern gives me a quick exam and declares me fit for work. Fit, but not willing, I tell myself and wonder why my teaching job hasn’t come through.

Back in Oakland, I park in front of the brand new police station, walk through the glass doors and ask for directions. The blue clad man in front of the permit desk hands me four sets of forms and sends me to another office. Another blue clad man feeds my name into the computer. The computer comes back with a warrant for my arrest. Instead of putting the handcuffs on me, the officer explains that it’s a parking ticket from Cal-State-Hayward. It can’t be. I always paid my parking tickets on time, I tell him, but vaguely remember my very last ticket a few days after graduation when I was still working as a graduate reader. Didn’t I tell myself that I’d be splitting for the junior college job in Michigan? The computer is probably right, I tell myself. The police officer tells me that I’ll have to pay the fifteen-dollar fine before he can give me clearance for the permit. I think I did pay that ticket. Could the computer be wrong? I ask.

You’ll have to clear that up with Hayward. You can arrange for a court appearance to plead innocent if you want. We can’t do nuthin about that here, he tells me.

I’m surprised that he lets me away from the desk with just a promise to check it out in Hayward. I figure the ticket cinches it, No way I’m gonna pay out fifteen dollars to get a job that won’t last more’n a couple days, I tell myself. But, when I get home, there are still no messages. Next morning, no phone calls. I drive to Hayward to pick up my final check from Hunt’s. It’s nine dollars less than I expected. I see that they took out union dues for the one day I worked in October. At the Hayward City Court, the clerk tells me I’ll have to wait fifteen days for a court appearance. I pay the fine and wonder how we’ll eat next week. I get pictures at the Fun Center in Hayward and return to Oakland. In the final processing room they tell me I have to have three sets of references for people who have known me for at least ten years. I drive to San Leandro and have Liz fill out one set. In San Ramon, Sara fills out another set. I try to think of someone else that I’ve known for several years. I can think of no one else in the Bay Area. When I get home, the girl up front fills out the third form. When she checks the part where it says she’s known me for ten years, she tells me it almost seems like that long. I think of the three months that we’ve been in Walnut Creek waiting for a teaching job. I think of the trip back East, and our decision to return to California. I think of how I quit my teaching job in Willows just five months ago. And I tell myself, She’s right. It has been a long summer.

In Berkeley, the clearance goes a little faster. A girl feeds my name and numbers into the computer. While we wait for results we chat about how the city’s grown in the past ten years. A plain clothed detective interviews me and signs my clearance. They don’t ask for any references. I come back in an hour and find that the police chief has signed my temporary permit. I’m ready to go to work!

But, still I’m certain of a last minute reprieve. Just as I’m getting ready to report for duty, I get a vacancy notice. It’s a high school history position. I already have an application filed with the district. We set up an appointment for the next day. At the interview, they like what they see and tell me so. The assistant superintendent takes me to the school. We talk to the principal, talk to the head of the history department, talk with the head of the P.E. department. Everyone agrees that I’m perfect for the vacancy. I have taken just the right college courses, just enough previous experience. The P.E. man is just a little hesitant. I could learn a lot as an assistant tennis coach, but if I’ve never played any tennis…. However, I’m sure the others will over rule him. They will let me know by the end of the week.

On Thursday, I go in for the one-day training session just for the experience of it. Tex introduces me to an old timer named Casey, He’s a regular high booker. You lisen good to him and you’ll do all right here, Tex tells me. I gulp at the knot in my tie and nod my head up and down. Casey tells Tex that I look like I’ll be able to handle it and points me toward the door. Be sure you buy the ole boy some lunch. He looks like he could use some fattening up, Tex yells after us.

In the front seat of Casey’s cab I feel the cold leather against my body. I tug at my tie and loosen it a little. I rub sweaty palms on my good dress pants and smooth out a wrinkle. My temples throb against the too tight fitting cap. Taking it off, I run a hand through my hair, and watch Casey lay his hat on the dashboard. I figure I’ll do the same. Ye gotta wear de hat all de time ye’re in the cab. Otherwise, dey get me for high-flagging, he tells me. I return my hat, and listen to Casey explain how he always wears his hat when he’s on the street. Not wearing de hat is a signal to police ye need help. I’m sure that I look like a complete idiot with the hat, and figure that this is going to be one long day.

Casey begins an explanation of how the radio works. I nod my head that I’m listening. Just passed the office door, he pulls the cab to a stop and we get out. He shows me a yellow phone on the wall. Ye check outa de garage here, he tells me and lifts the phone to his ear. Dey told me ta check in at de Hound. Things is slow. If dere moving, dey give ye an order. We’re on channel one now. Downtown, West, and North are on one, and so is Alameda. Lake, Berkeley, Piedmont, and East is on channel two. Ye gotta switch channels when ye go into different areas. Dey got a map a’ de whole city. Takes up de whole fucking wall. It’s divided into different sections wid de radio channels. Ye gotta go inside and see how it works. Ye gotta use yer radio ta make money, he tells me.

I nod my head that I’m listening and tell myself that I’m not going to be out here long enough to worry about making money. Christ, I don’t even get paid for today. I got to sit here the whole day with this fucking hat on my head, and I won’t make a fucking dime…. I listen to Casey’s chatter as he points out this and that, but my heart isn’t in it.

Just above San Pablo, Casey pulls into the Doggie Dinner and tells me it’s time for his second cup. He explains that he likes to sleep late. Dat’s why I work de ten-thirty t’seven shift. Yu can sleep late and still get home before it’s too dark outside. Yu still got time ta have dinner wid de family and watch a little T.V.” He shows me how to check out of the cab, and I follow him inside. At the counter he orders a coffee and doughnut for both of us. I wonder if I should offer to pay since the company is buying lunch. Fuck it; I’ m putting in a whole day of my time. I ought’a get something, I tell myself.

Back in the cab with our breakfast, Casey says into the mike, One-O-Five back inside.

One-O-Five in, the dispatcher answers.

Te make money around here, ye gotta know what’s moving. Right now, the Hound is dead. De next bus don’t get in ‘til eleven-ten and there ain’t nobody on it when it does come in. Some guys would spot dere anyhow. Some guys would rather sit and wait for de long one.
I figure four two-dollar trips is as good as one long if you gotta wait an hour for de long. Ye don’t got to worry about no shot down neither. Casey tells me.

He explains that the morning action is over on Pill Hill. Ye don’t get no long trips off de Hill, but one will set ye up for de next one. Dey don’t take you all the way de hell out to nowhere. Usually dere good for a small tip too. Get yer cigarette money…. I watch the streets and traffic, and keep nodding my head that I’m listening. Casey explains which Pill Hill stands are best. I notice a couple other cabs are moving in the same direction on different streets and realize that we’re in a race for the best stand. When we’re about a block away from a vacant white curb line, Casey puts the mike to his lips and says, One-O-Five on Four-Sixteen. The dispatcher answers that he already has a cab spotted there. De fucking stand’s empty, Casey tells me pointing with his mike across the street. One-O-Five…. Casey starts as we see a cab speed off Broadway and slide into the stand. We pass the stand and Casey and the other driver exchange angry looks. Dat fucking Harris. He spots on a stand when he’s five blocks away. De cock sucker….

We turn on to Telegraph and spot. Casey explains that Four-One-Six is a vicinity stand. Ye spot wid in a couple blocks. Dey ain’t as good as a marked stand. But, there’s a lot a radio action, he explains. He pulls a pack of Pall Malls out of his pocket, takes one out and offers the pack to me.

No, thanks. I quit a couple years ago, I tell him. The instant the words are out of my mouth, I’m sorry. A smoke would help pass the time, I tell myself.

Casey pulls out a stand sheet and starts pointing out different areas. Dis here is district Four, he says and underlines Four-Sixteen in blue ink. Dis is North. When you cross Grand you’re downtown, dat’s One, he says and points his pen to a number on the stand sheet. De quicker you learn dese de quicker ye start making money, he continues and points to all the stands that are worth spotting on in the North District. He’s giving off an order to that cock sucker, Harris, Casey says pointing to the radio. The radio answers with an order for us.

We pull to the curb at a four-story box of doctor’s offices. An elderly lady approaches from the red brick steps. Casey points to the curb door and tells me I can get out an open it. I catch a glimpse of my face beneath the beak of my yellow cap as it reflects off the rear view mirror. A wave of shame sweeps over me. It’s even worse than the National Guard, I tell myself. The old lady slides into the back seat and thanks me for holding the door. I nod my head and think, What a dull dead ass day this is gonna be.

Casey tells me and tells me and tells me as we race from one end of Pill Hill to the other. I find that I’m the perfect companion for him as he shows me the ropes. I don’t have to say a word; just a shake of my head will suffice. He never shuts down for more than a split second. Even with fares in the cab he’s explaining things. He shuttles between me and the passengers, who are some times old friends, explaining and gesturing, talking the local gossip, discussing the economy and current events. All he needs is the ear and a nod now and then. In an hour or so, I begin to fade out on him. I only listen with half an ear. I watch with one eye.

Ta make money on dis job ye gotta be wide-awake. Ye gotta be fast on your feet. Got to plan ahead where yer going. Gotta use de radio. Soon as you get your fare’s address, you shot off your destination. Dat way, if dere’s an order where ye T.C., de radio’s got to give it to ye. He’s got a pin wid your number on it. When ye call in going, he sits your pin sideways. When you call in T.C. he turns it right side up. He either gives ye an order, or spots ye to the closest empty stand. Ye gotta keep an ear on de radio all the time. Find out where de orders are going off. Work your way in that direction. Dere’s ways to do dat…. Ye gotta switch channels every now and then te see what’s going on de other one. Ye gotta take her where the action is if ye wanna make money! Casey tells me.

All this and so much more as we speed through side streets of Oakland that I never saw before, as he greets each fare and continues conversations from their last ride, as he demonstrates how to use the radio, as he marks the waybill with four different colored pens. We make our way towards Lake Merritt as he tells me and tells me and tells me. I nod yes, yes, yes. But, inside my yellow cap I tell myself, It’s all a mistake. It’ll cleared up by this time tomorrow. I know I got that history job. All this is a waste of time….

By noon, Casey is telling me his life story, how the company fucked him, how he was the first god damned division manager to ever make money on the school bus division. He handled all the handicapped kids in the Oakland City Public Schools. Used V.W. buses. Had to work out the routes just perfect. Had to cover every one of the widely spaced schools in the city. Dey don’t put dem all in de same school. Dey got ‘em spaced out all over de fucking place. Dey wanna keep dem in dere own neighborhoods. Den, all the buses got to be dere at de same fucking time…

Yea they all want to leave as soon as school’s out.

Dere’s a lot of public relations to de job. I use ta call a mother personally myself if something happened te make a driver late. Ye know some times de unavoidable happens. Heavy traffic. An accident. Rain. I always called de mothers myself. De kids were handicapped, you know. Dere mothers worry more about dem than normal kids.

He tells me how much he did to increase the division revenue, how he had combined runs, cut down the number of drivers, began running field trips on off hours. He had plans for negotiating the new contract that would have tripled the income. De fucking big wigs in Frisco wanna do de contract dereselves. Now, dat de division is making money dere interested in it. Dey fuck things up so bad dey lose de contract. City buys it’s own V.W. buses. Den, dey try to blame it on me. I’m back in de cab, but fuck ‘em. It’s dere loss, not mine. On a good week I can make jus’ as much out on de street. I’m my own fucking boss. I ain’t got all that responsibility….

It’s hard ta make both ends meet now’ a days, but I’m not worrying ‘bout it, Casey tells me. He explains that he’s got to get three hundred dollars together to make up the difference on the down payment and what they’ll get from the sale of his mother’s house. We gotta get out’ a de old neighborhood. De niggers are taking over de place. Dere moving in like flies. Prices are coming way down. De house won’t be worth nuthin if we don’t get out’a it soon. I got nuthin against ‘em. I ain’t prejudice or nuthin. Some’a my steady fares are colored. I jus’ don’t want my little girl going to school wid ‘em. You know, she’s only in the fourth grade. She ain’t had too much trouble yet. But, in another year or so. You know how fast kids develop now a days….

He tells me he has to support his mother all by himself. His lazy God dammed brothers won’t kick in a penny any more. His sister don’t even come over to clean the house. He and his wife have to do it all themselves. Den they kick up a big fuss when I put de house up for sale. I’m buying de house in San Ramon for my mother, putting it in her name. Dere around like vultures crying for dere share a’ de house….

Just as we are crossing Lake Shore on to Eighteenth, Casey breaks off his monologue and cocks an ear to the radio. He grabs for the mike and pushes the gas pedal to the floor. I grab for the side of my seat as we speed through the orange light on Park. One-O-Five on Seven-Fourteen. One-O-Five on Seven-Fourteen, he’s screaming at the top of his lungs.