The Irish and the Fork

The first time he passed by my spot at the counter he rubbed my shoulder, but the second time – as Jessica stood with pen in hand to take my order – he feigned tripping on the carpet and fell on me, groping my ribs as he steadied himself. Still seated, I grabbed him by the neck of his sweater and grabbed the fork from my place setting.

“Touch me again and you’re gonna get stabbed in the face,” I said.

His drunken response was gibberish. The look on his face betrayed surprise. Possibly, he expected me to respond in kind to his fumbling advances or invite him home with me. He obviously had no idea of the kind of tension and stress that my job entails. He couldn’t have known that the half-hour I spend sitting at the counter at Sparky’s every night was the half-hour I get to relax and not worry about driving or assholes in my car. Unfortunately for him I had just sat down. I hadn’t had a chance to unwind.

“Hey guys,” Jessica said calmly. “Come on, guys.” I ignored her.

“Go sit down,” I ordered. And he did, returning to his seat at the other side of the counter. He ate his food in silence and kept his gaze straight ahead on his plate, the counter, and the wall beyond. Before he left, I caught him muttering to himself a few times, addressing his plight at the center of the counter.

From what I could gather my first few times at Sparky’s it began service as one of the Castro’s three 24-hour diners in the late 70’s or early 80’s. The walls are white with royal blue and pink trim. Posters on the wall are classic advertisements for produce like “Gay Johnny Apples”. They provide the kitsch. There is also Sparky, himself, the freckled, red-headed mascot of the restaurant seated on the counter near the register and the front door. The counter is gray and black flecked masonite with stainless steel framing and I sit at the end of it, space permitting. It is the post I man when I don’t want to be driving. Sometimes, I find a little sanity there.

One night, weeks prior to the fork threat, there was no space at my end of the counter. It was busy and crowded, so I took the only seat I could get near the door. I ordered food, began working on a crossword puzzle, and a woman to my right began talking to me. She had a thick Irish accent, slurred by a night of drinking. She talked about her night and problems that the world threw at her on a daily basis. I said nothing.

“I guess you don’t like talking very much,” she said.

“It’s been a very long night,” I replied. “I’m sorry. I’d just prefer to do my crossword.”

She annoyed me.

“People in this country don’t like talking to each other. Where I’m from – Ireland – you can go to a place and sit down and strike up conversation with anyone.”

I said nothing and she was silent for a moment. Robert, they guy behind the counter, noticed that I was annoyed and came over to give me more coffee and chat for a second to ease my nerves. I, too, enjoy talking to strangers, but only when I like them.

Ten minutes later I began making significant progress on my crossword. She began talking again.

“I guess you don’t like talking to people,” she stated again, five minutes into her monologue.

“Look, lady,” I finally said, “I have to talk to people all night. Most of the time I don’t like them, but I have to talk to them and be cordial because it’s part of my job. Then, I get to come here and be quiet for a moment. I eat. I drink coffee. I do a crossword. I don’t have to talk to anyone at all, just for a half-hour. Sometimes, it’s the best part of my night. Right now, you’re fucking that up.”

I got up, walked to my server and paid him.

The next night, I came in to apologize to Robert, who was witness to my outburst.

“She started crying right after you walked out,” he said.

“I’m really sorry about that,” I said.

“No, don’t apologize. It was the best part of my night.”

More recently, I went into Sparky’s with a friend and sat at a table. Jessica was our waitress. She walked up and smiled. She took my fork and turned to walk away.

“You don’t need this,” she said.

The Man From Canada

The first sign that things were not entirely right with my fare came when I asked him where he wanted to go. “I don’t know,” he said with such troubled diffidence I knew this was not the usual drunk who had forgotten his way home.

“You don’t know?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Just pick a direction,” he said. “Here’s thirty bucks.”

So, I drove up Duboce toward the Castro. The man sighed a great deal and stared blankly out the window. It was as though a great disappointment rode with him. I started on him.

“So, uh, what’s going on? You alright?”

“It’s been a very long week,” he said.

“Care to elaborate?”

He looked at me, trying to make up his mind about me from the back seat, sizing me up. As a cab drier, I was always concerned with my safety, but halfway concerned with his safety, in particular. The back seat was silent. I turned up Market and followed it until it passed Castro and started curving up and around Twin Peaks.

“Do you really want to know?” he asked, finally. It was intriguing.

“Yes I do. Definitely.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m from Canada. I came here a week ago so someone could kill me.”

When you hear such a strange statement it is difficult to diverge from the set storylines already in your head, stories you’ve heard before. So, I misheard.

“Someone in Canada was trying to kill you?”

“No,” he said slowly, stubbornly. “I found someone on the internet that was willing to kill me for $10,000 and make it look like a random homicide. He lives in San Francisco, so I flew down here. Then, he backed out. Something about being afraid of forensic evidence.”

“I’ve never heard that one before. And I have to ask. Why?”

“It’s not important. I’m just really bummed out over the deal.”

And I was no longer afraid. If he was intent on killing himself, he probably wouldn’t be thinking about killing me. This was especially important as we drove higher up the hill, away from the city lights and wandering drunks in the Castro, all potential witnesses. We reached the top in silence and I turned back.. I drove slowly, hoping that he would catch the view of the city and the Bay Bridge and Oakland lighted beyond. For me, the views of this place were enough to keep me going in uncertain times. It was all there and visible – the little stage-set lighting of the Castro below moving out to Potrero Hill and the Bay – seeming more like a fantasy world than anything else.

But, why did he want to do it? The possibilities were numerous: including him having some terminal illness, wanting to benefit someone with his life insurance money; and a simple, if bizarre and fatal, sexual fantasy. Maybe the San Franciscan was to kill him at the climax of intercourse. That would explain the DNA worries. Reasons aside, I knew that the smarter a person is, the more bizarre their proclivities. The Canadian spoke with the force of extreme intelligence in his voice. This was confirmed when I glanced at him in the mirror. He looked back with lucid, intense eyes. But, as I looked at him, I couldn’t help but think of how badly I could use $10,000.

“Do you know of any places with dirty movies, you know, like the booths,” he asked.

“Of course I do,” I said. “I’m a cab driver.”

“I think there’s one down on Folsom. You wanna take me there?”

“Sure.”

We ran down Duboce and onto Folsom. Everything was closed so I suggested North Beach and told him about the Lusty Lady, the only union shop in town.

“You mean actual girls on the other side of the glass?” he asked.

I confirmed it and he cringed.

“No,” he said, “I just want the video booths. I can’t deal with actual girls.”

So, maybe he wasn’t to be killed at the height of a gay sexual tryst in the City. I stopped talking to him. I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted him out of my car. We pulled across Columbus, up Kearny, and I stopped at the corner of Broadway. The Canadian hadn’t said anything for a while, but, before he got out, he asked one last question.

“I don’t suppose you want to kill me for $10,000?”

Prelude

After I got a job as a cab driver, it was Kai who first suggested I write everything down. Initially, I ignored his advice because my first months as a hack were charmed and quaint. The customers were normally quite lovely and pleased to give me turn-by-turn directions to their house and show me a few shortcuts along the way. It was a very plain job. I drove and the fares rode. Some months later, I began to get comfortable, good at what I did. I no longer needed to ask the people directions and the social niceties that went along with helping someone who is new at their job went away. And that was when I became a cab driver, not just a guy driving a car up and down the hills of San Francisco. That was also when the troubles associated with being a cab driver began. When you get bored at two in the morning on a Monday, there's always the Lusty Lady with its peep-show booth girls to keep you company, or 24-hour diner waitresses to flirt with. There are hills to jump cabs on and other cabbies to race. There are crackheads to dodge and fires from buildings and cops running around in the street with guns drawn. In the end, there is a taxi and the fog in the yellowed glow of streetlights.

This is my blog. Allow me to tell you stories.