A Resolution For the Irresolute

I’ve had a long standing agreement with my life… if there’s anything about it that I really don’t like, I procrastinate dealing with it until I hit one of two milestones…either my birthday or January 1…

It’s a shitty plan, admittedly.  And many times I just hit a mental “Postpone” button (kinda like that Windows Update that keeps cropping up on my screen… you do it, too.  Don’t judge me.)

I’m not a believer in resolutions.  I’m firmly irresolute.  The only thing that I do believe about resolutions is that they usually wind up left at the curb with the dried Scotch pine and broken light strands of the holidays somewhere mid-month.

As I write this, it’s 7 degrees outside, I’ve got a fire snapping and popping in the fireplace about 3 feet away, but I have something burning much more intensely inside.

The urge to write.  To create fantasy.  To actually make my living from all of the demented fermentation of thoughts, words and ideas sloshing around in the ol’ skull… at least while I still have enough synapses connected to accomplish that.

You only have so many good years on the planet.  I’ve been counseling my youngest on that very fact.  He spends an inordinate amount of time worrying about deep life issues that a 13 year old needn’t occupy their thoughts with.  But that’s a tale for another day.

As I lecture him from my Paternal Pulpit, a little voice distracts me.

“Great advice there, Pops.  Now, when does the physician heal himself?  When do you start taking your own advice?”

I firmly and politely tell that voice to piss off.  I’m tending to my fatherly duties.

“Sure, Pops.  You’re 47, you know.  Ain’t getting any damn younger, that’s for sure.  Just when do you expect this wonderful writing career to start?  Another year just flew past you.  Another year that you could have been living the life you want to, but you let it slip past.  It’s gone.  Adios.  Sayonara.”

Yeah, yeah.  I get it.

“Do you?  Do you get it?  I happen to recall YOU telling a co-worker that life was short…and if he was unhappy, he should retire.  You told him not to waste any more of his life being miserable.  You should have been having that conversation in the mirror, pal.”

And so on and so forth.  I won’t bore you with the rest of the mental debate,  but I’m pretty sure that the voice called me a dumbass and other less nice things.

But it’s true, folks.  Not just for me but for you as well.  You ain’t getting younger either.  So if you are as irresolute as I, skip the resolutions and instead pick one goal to accomplish.  I don’t care if it’s racing in the Cannonball Run, or creating art or simply getting your damn laundry caught up.  Accomplish that goal and then pick another.  Baby steps, just like Bill Murray’s mantra in “What about Bob?”

Tomorrow isn’t a guaranteed delivery.  The only thing that you know is that you have the moment now.  Take action.  Put paint to canvas.  Carve unflattering soap sculptures of your sister-in-law.  Seek and destroy whatever is creating that godawful funk in your teenager’s bedroom.  Whatever it is that you have been putting off, your time to do it is now.

Before another year passes you by, buttercup.

(But seriously, find out what in the hell is causing that smell.  The stench is overpowering)

Thanks for a great 2017.  I appreciate you and especially those who have been kind enough to give me comments and feedback.

Meanwhile, Imma get busy writing.  I’m going to try my hand at erotica, but I can’t post that stuff on a wholesome family blog like this…

Or can I?

(laughs wickedly and then coughs and hacks… damn cigarettes)

 

 

 

 

 

Taxicab Confidential aka The Devil in the Backseat

Babes, barf, bullets…

3 words that summarize the gig of taxi driving.

Some of you know that a few years ago (during a mini-retirement) I was in need of income, and the best laid plans that I had amounted to diddly. Jobs were damn hard to come by, so I sucked it up and got behind the wheel of Taxi #638 for 9 months or so…

And my oh my, it was a crazy, dirty, dangerous job (that I also had more fun doing then by rights I should have).

A few of those days stand out more than others. The New Year’s Eve that I spent driving #638 was the night I made the most money ever.

It was also the night I almost died.

But I jump ahead: here are a few of the highs and lows of hurtling towards mayhem behind the wheel on St. Louis’ streets.

1- The Devil in the Backseat

“I’m not the Devil, dude.”

Aw fuck, no good conversation EVER starts with that sentence. I picked him up at the South County Mall. His destination was unclear. Bad sign #1.

He talked to himself. A lot. And screamed. And cursed.

When I asked him where he was headed, he hemmed and hawed and had trouble forming a coherent sentence.

Drugs, I thought. Or just mentally ill.

Call me a bad person, but I really didn’t give a shit. After 2 minutes, I was ready to throw the crazy sonuvabitch out on Lemay Ferry and take the hit from the dispatchers.

I finally understood that he wanted food first. He directed me to the QuikTrip and got out to get a couple of hot dogs. Or so he said.

He actually just stood inside the door at QuikTrip and stared at me.

There are moments in life when one wishes that they had ready access to a gun. Or mace. Or Chinese throwing stars. This would have been one of those times.

He came out empty-handed and just sat in the back seat. Silent. Brooding.

Where to next?

He tried to tell me that he wanted to go to a hotel in an area where I knew there were no hotels.

It was at that point I knew that he was up to something. Fortunately, I was the one driving. I cranked up that old bad-ass Police Interceptor and screeched out onto Lindbergh. I pulled in to the lot of that crappy Motel 6 that used be there (Now thankfully demolished) and said,

“Ride’s over. Get out.”

He argued. I told him to get the fuck out on his own or I would come get his ass out myself. And he’d be staying overnight in the hospital instead of a cut-rate dive motel.

He looked at me and I stared right back into his eyes with the scariest look I could muster, even though my innards felt like jelly.

He got out and then tried to get back in so I laid some rubber down on that parking lot. Time to call it a night.

2 – Talisha

The area public schools have to provide transportation to certain types of students. There aren’t enough buses to do this so taxis do a lot of school runs. Some are fairly lucrative tickets and some aren’t. Talisha was a $8 fare that I grabbed every chance I could, even if it meant missing a higher paying trip.

She was a sweet, beautiful 7 year old with brown skin and dark eyes. I had to go into the school to pick her up and sign her out, and I always walked her to her grandma’s apartment door. She would hold my hand and skip down the school hall. I would tie her shoes for her and carry her books. She would make things for me at school: paper snowflakes, crayon drawings. We’d talk about her day on the short ride home. She’d tell about the things that her mom and grandma were up to. (I had given multiple rides to both over the months and we knew each other by name).

One day she was sad. It was “Wear your pajamas to school day” but she told me that she didn’t have any “bajammies” so she didn’t get to participate. That broke my heart. I wish I would have known about it the day before, because I would have bought some for her.

Of all the people I met driving, I miss her the most, and hope that she is doing well. I hope that she finally had some bajammies to wear to school on Pajama Day. Love you, T!

3 – For Auld Lang… holy shit, what was that?”

New Year’s Eve was drunk with the promise of lots of cash and lots of drunks. I had a core group of regulars who called upon me to guarantee them a safe ride that night. I started about 4pm and I knew that I’d be lucky to be home by 4am. I was all over town. Brentwood to Downtown. Webster to the West End. Affton to the Ritz-Carlton. Lots of sharp-dressed folks ready to get their party on.

The a slow spell. I started picking up fares from dispatch and I drew a short run in South St. Louis. State street to state street. As you STL folks know, the state streets can be kinda sketchy. I picked up a nice young woman and she told me her destination. I believe it was on Oregon Street at a dead end. It was about 9:30pm.

I pulled up in front of her building and as she was paying me

WHUMP!

It sounded like somebody threw a chunk of asphalt at the car.

Her eyes were big. “Where they shootin’ from?” she asked.

I told that I thought it was just a kid throwing rocks. “Naw, they shootin'” she said again.

Foolish or not, I decided to get out and make sure that the young lady got in her door safely. I opened the door and glanced across the roof of the car. A fresh, shiny divot in the steel showed me exactly where the bullet hit. 2 inches to the left and an inch or two down and that sucker would have been in the back of my head.

I got her to the door and ran back to the car.

All right, assholes, if you want a second shot, it is going to be at a fast-moving target. I cranked 638 around back in the direction that the bullet came from (dead end street, remember) and romped on it. The beautiful thing about police model Crown Vics is that even with a 120,000 miles on them, they can still flat out burn up the street.

I roared through the streets and didn’t stop until I was a few miles away. I pulled into a mini-mart and calmed my nerves by watching drunks stagger in and out, with one occasionally displaying what they had most recently enjoyed eating by spray-puking in front of my car. I came within a hair of calling the cab company, telling them where the bastard would be parked and that they could come and get it, that I was done. Instead I drove home, took an hour break and dropped off a lot of cash. And I hit the streets back around 11. I wisely decided not to tell my wife about the bullet until the next day.

Friends I have more of these to tell, so look for part two. It will involve sexual propositions and cocaine. Those two elements always lead to good experiences.

Happy New Year! Be safe out there.