Changes (1989)
Salesmanship
101
(Selling
Yourself)
It was the beginning of the end of an era in my life when I had
my cab license yanked by the City. I had been at a dead end for several years
and I didn’t care. Cab driving always gave me the independence and pocket cash
I needed to survive; enough for a room at The Virginia Hotel; a place to stay
invisible driving at night; and, more importantly, enough to keep a bar tab.
But now that was gone.
I dumped the jar on the dresser and separated the pennies
from the dimes and quarters. There was enough for a pack of generic smokes and
a pint of Popov’s at Jerry’s. The pennies I might put in rolls later and take ‘em
to the bank. I didn’t necessarily want a drink but I definitely needed a drink.
I slipped out through the lobby while, Lucas, the desk clerk,
sat on his fat ass behind the check-in counter reading a Hustler or Penthouse. He
was a spider waiting for its prey all day without moving, the lobby was his
web. When anyone touched the carpet at the bottom of the stairs he sensed the
vibration at the desk. I made it all the way to the door before he called out,
“Crash, you need to…”
“Yeh, I know. I’ll come up with it… maybe this week?”
“I’ve let you go a week already. The boss…”
“C’mon Lucas, I’ve always paid up. The cab company told me I
could dispatch and I’m waiting for a call to get a shift.”
“Okay, but I want to see you before my shift ends tomorrow
with good news or you’re out.”
Spiderman was a good guy. He was just doing his job. He’d
covered me several times in the past but he had to answer to the boss. I went
back to the counter to apologize, “Lucas do you know how humiliating it is to
beg another week reprieve?”
“Humiliating? Look at me. I sit here at a dead-end job
putting the squeeze on losers for the rent. I probably have a year or two left
of my shitty life and you talk about humiliation?”
“Never looked at it that way, Spiderman. I’ll pay up soon
enough, okay?”
“It’s Lucas, not Spiderman. Friday… no later than five, Crash,”
he shook his head, “and that’s final.”
I was out the door before he finished. I got my smokes and
pint before it occurred to me to give the company one more try before I’d take
a toke off the pint. I didn’t need liquid courage to land my ass in jail again.
After being put on hold ad infinitum every time I’d called the past week I knew
what to expect. I just wanted someone to squirm face to face. The company’s offices
were down on East Yananoli, near South Salsipuedes, and not too far a walk if I
took the tracks.
It’s an uneasy feeling to be in a place where I was no
longer a part of the business after working for the company several years. It
was like we were family but I had become a ghost. Bob, the dayshift dispatcher,
sat behind the glassed-in office at the dispatch desk and swiveled around to
check me out. He looked at me was as though an intruder had broken through the
barricades.
Dr. Spawn, was in. I could see his door ajar when I stopped
at Ginny’s desk. Dr. Spawn was one of us; an old cabby that hooked into Rachelle
ten years before. He was once called #76, Larry, but now he insists we use his
formal name; title and all. Drivers like Doc and Bob were the opposite breed of
cab drivers from my kind. I was resigned to being a graveyard hack and harbored
no ambitions other than to stay out of sight, wanting nothing to do with the
wrangling of the territorial imperatives between drivers and the front office.
There are those in every cab company, however, who thrive on
pushing ahead in that kind of shark infested waters. They can haul groceries
and church ladies all day without losing sight that they are fishing for a
widow with enough inheritance and to glean what they can. Patient as any fly
fisher, they cast and wait to reel one in.
Rachelle was in her late fifties
when Doc sank a hook in her. He was a smooth talking thirty something then and
she fell big time for his pitch. He gave her a free ride to Vegas where they
got hitched by an Elvis impersonator, and that was the last time he did
anything for her that came from his own pocket.
Ginny pretended to be on the phone ignoring me. I stood
there for several lifelong minutes before she acknowledged my presence.
“Hi, Crash. What can I do for you?”There was an ice from her tenor that was unsettling. She was
warmer towards me the last time I saw her.
“I need to talk to Doc.”
“I’m sorry, Crash, Dr. Spawn’s not in…” Ginny held the phone
receiver between her ample breasts. She kept them locked up under a heavy duty bra
and puritan white cotton long sleeve blouse adorned with a silver cross.
Doc’s door shut quietly, “Don’t tell me that. Did a ghost just
close it?”
“You can come back when Dr. Spawn isn’t busy, Mr. Craszhinski,” her
tone became just a tad warmer but not enough to thaw the ice. “I’ll tell Rachelle
you were here when she comes in.”
All the drivers used to stop by the receptionist desk to
chat with Ginny just to be in the presence of her larger than Dolly Parton’s Alpine
rack. She was a freak of nature for sure. When Ginny became Doc’s plaything we
were only allowed as far as the dispatch office by the front door into the
office to make our drop. The fact that Ginny was a devout Christian made her
exceptionally attractive taboo and Doc’s prohibition only slowed us down a
little until after he left the office.
I knew Doc wasn’t busy. He didn’t run the company. Rachelle
and Bob did that. Doc only owned it; bought boats and Mercedes and business
trips to Paris with Ginny when Rachelle was away on real business. He was in
charge of PR and advertising. His wife was the money behind it all. She knew
about Doc and his receptionist but looked the other way.
Rachelle was, like
Doc, a minister that preached in one of those non-denominational charismatic
churches. Divorce was not an option and, besides, Doc had some other grip on
her bank account she’d signed away when the romance was hot. That was before
she converted Ginny and Doc did all the laying on of hands.
I’m really not all that into monster mammies on women but my
eyes couldn’t help themselves. I alternatively gave Ginny’s breasts the once
over before nailing her eye to eye. I planted both hands on her desk and demanded,
“Ginny, don’t give me any shit.”
Her magnificent bosom rose and fell with each breath, “Crash,
I want you to know that Jesus loves you. He died for your...”
Bob came out of dispatch. “Get back in there Bob,” I turned
to face him, “The phone’s ringing.”
Bob stood a minute and considered whether there was anything
he could do. We went back a few years. There was a time when he could have
mopped the floor with me but he’d grown soft in the office and wasn’t about to
take me on now. I passed Ginny’s desk and opened Doc’s door. Doc was standing a
few feet back and raised his hands palms out.
“Crash, good to see you. I was just going to tell Ginny to
let you in,” Doc backed behind his desk and sat down, “Have a seat.”
“Cut the shit, Doc,” I was brief with him. Behind Doc, on
the wall above his head where he sat, hung two certificates nicely framed. It
was his PHD diploma and a doctorate of Divinity from Universal Ministries. A
few of us knew about how Doc got his degree. It was a con like everything else
in his life. He had somehow incorporated, formed his own college, and turned in
a thesis. The fact that he was the college’s president, dean of graduate
studies, and only student, made no difference on the sheepskin. Bob was the
entire review board that accepted Doctor Lawrence Spawn’s thesis. It amounted
to little more than a list of stats about cab drivers... marital status...
military service... the average longevity... the age range... and education.
“Doc, I need a break. I know you need a graveyard dispatch
now that Pete’s in jail.”
“Crash, you know I can’t rehire you so soon after…”
“And you know damned well I wasn’t busted on the job like
they were... it wasn’t drugs.”
“It just doesn’t look right, Crash. Made the news… big DEA
sweep.”
“Yeh, like I’m a king pin living in the flea-bag Hotel Virginia.”
“Drunk in public; creating a nuisance; assaulting a police
officer...” Doc was flipping a pencil. He missed the catch and it rolled to the
floor.
“They dropped all the charges ‘cept drunk in public,” I
picked up the pencil and handed it to him, “Beside, Hell, I was at home... not
even in my cab... not even in public!”
“The city still pulled your license,” Doc started chewing on
the pencil. I couldn’t take my eyes off it wondering if he would choke on the
eraser, “I can’t do anything right away.” The pencil caused him to talk through
his teeth.
“That’s an excuse Doc and you know it.” I approached his
desk, “Dispatch is for drivers that get their license yanked. Who else would
want the job?”
Bob had returned to Ginny’s desk with a long cop flashlight
in his hand.
It was true. Dispatchers get paid barely above minimum wage
and supplement their income by squeezing tips from drivers. No tip... no good
fares.... all’s fair.
“Look Mike, I have to
clean up this place. Times are changing and Sergeant Lopez is getting on all
our asses. After last week the City’s leaning on him too. Go to Schick/Shadel;
to a rehab or AA. Let ‘em know you got sober... get it on paper when you
graduate.”
“Bullshit, Doc. Clean up all you want... but you know damned
well you ain’t so clean yourself.”
“So, you must know. But since I found the Lord...”
“Don’t give me that Lord shit, Doc,” and pointing to the
wall I threw his crap back at him, “You can get widows and schoolgirls to wipe
your ass with that paper but it won’t work with me!”
Doc stood from his chair to escort me out but I was on a
roll and knew I must have said something that got his goat but I had no idea of
the implications. His face turned from pasty white to beacon red like he’d been
hit in the nuts, “Mr. Crazshinski, if you don’t leave now I’m calling nine-one-one!”
I hadn’t ever heard the old smooth talker con-man yell like
that. Doc stood from his chair holding the phone receiver away from his ear.
Bob opened the door, “You need help Doc?” He lifted the
flashlight like he was ready to use it.
I slammed my body against Bob and shoved him out the door so
hard he landed on Ginny’s lap with one of her bullet breasts inches from his
mouth. I was out of the building and never did see him rise from Ginny’s lap. I
suppose I did him a favor landing him there between her Matterhorns.
There it was. A chapter in my life had just ended. I didn’t
want to but it was time to pack up everything and sneak out the hotel by the
next night. I had to put my stuff somewhere. My Remington... Maybe Anna will
keep that for me. I made it out through the lobby. Lucas waved and smiled. I
waved and smiled back at the old spider.
I needed a drink. My feet took me up State Street to Pal’s.
It was a sad walk that took me there. The old Kingston Trio song... Hang down
your head Tom Dooly and its repeated chorus replayed... for boy you’re bound to
die... over and over... a dirge. I got to the Snake Pit bar where Annadel stood
outside smoking a cigarette. “You want company, Crash?”
“Company, sure,” I smiled. Anna made me feel good. She
was a real friend, “but I can’t pay.”
“Well, sailor, your credit’s good.”
Anna had been a personal, a regular customer, since she
was fifteen. When I first drove her around town I thought she told me she was
going home late at night from babysitting or a date. I didn’t care whether her
story was a lie of not. However, home was always a different place: the
Biltmore cottages; Hope Ranch or Montecito mansions; or humble tract homes in
Goleta. She eventually told me she was turning tricks but I knew it.
I'd picked her up from the San Ysidro Ranch and my
curiosity got the best of me when she got in my cab crying. I wondered what had
upset her so much and tried to console her, “What’s wrong. You get fired or
something. It isn’t so bad getting fired. You’re young... something better will
come up.”
“I don’t know what makes people so sick,” she sobbed.
“You gotta look past that in a job like mine,” I said,
wondering how I could get to what was really going on with her. I probed,“You
must do good babysitting at places like this.”
She stopped sobbing, “I’m not a baby sitter. I get three
hundred bucks a pop for just taking my clothes off and dancing for a half-hour.
I’ve gotten as much as two grand for more... you know, an overnight stay.”
“Two thousand dollars! Whew... pretty good goin’ girl.
That’s a far cry from that back pack and nowhere to go when we first met.” I
thought, Shit... Real jail bait. Isn’t it illegal... or, at the least immoral,
for me to know this?
“Well, most of ‘em start out with a dance. I give ‘em a
discount. But if they want more they gotta pay.” She grinned seductively, “By the
time I’m done with a dance and tease, they always want more.”
“You get that most of the time?”
“Yep,” she teased, “If I asked that much up front I doubt if
I would get it. But ya gotta hit ‘em up gradual. It’s an art. You want a taste?”
“Naw, girl. You’re jail bait. I can’t do it. It would be
like doin’ my own daughter.”
“More like doing my daddy for me too, ha!” she had a laugh
that rippled a small stream from her belly.
“Maybe when you’re legal, eh?”
It could be said I was aiding and abetting child abuse but I
was ambivalent about it. I was certainly not one that would’ve been able to
change her even if I did snitch on her Johns. That was a while ago and we’ve
had a few good times since then but not that kind. We’d done a few lines, or a
joint now and then, but it became a relationship of trust we both needed. By
the time she was eighteen it was too much of a close friendship that I wasn’t
about to ruin with my libido.
“You look like you need a drink, Crash. What’s goin’ on?”
We were approaching De La Guerra arm in arm like lovers
would. People often turned to notice this young girl with a man like me in his
late forties. One guy approached her as though I wasn’t there and asked, “Is he
your father?”
She snuggled closer to me, “No, he’s my pimp.”
The creep checked me out making eye contact the way punks in
jail face each other off.
I would have decked him for that but Anna was capable of
handling it herself.
“You couldn’t afford two minutes with me,” she blew smoke
between us two stags rutting, “Shit head, make that one minute.”
The guy backed off and walked away.
I liked the way that, when Anna was with me, she always acted
as though we were a couple and that suited me fine. I think it was her way of
telegraphing to others that she was off-duty and to be left alone.
Searching her face for sympathy, I said, “Doc’s not going to
hire me back. I’m out of a job and soon to be homeless. I’ll have to move into
the van.”
“Oh, boo-hoo. Always on the edge, Mike. You’ll come through.
You need money? I can put up your rent.”
I didn’t like owing anyone anything. It meant they owned a
piece of me and I didn’t enjoy that idea at all, “Isn’t it bad enough that
you’re buying my drinks today?”
“Oh, it's okay. I’ll buy ‘em. C’mon, Mike. Cheer up. It ain’t that
bad. You told me once, pride ain’t an asset.”
“I could use you for a place to stash my crap though.” It
didn’t hurt my dignity for her to do that much for me.
“Sure, Mike. What are friends for?”
Claire was tending bar when we took our stools. She liked Anna
but wouldn’t serve her anything stronger than a soda water. She was already crossing
the line to serve her but she could take a chance on a soda water, “A soda
with lime for you and a beer on tap. Right?”
“See my new I.D. Claire... how do I look?”
“You look eighteen... hmmm, Laura Rogers... March 21, 1969?
That’s a good one. And, if you are what that I.D. says, I must be eighty five,”
Clair laughed.
“She kind of looks like you if you dye your hair.” I said.
“Madonna must be forty Claire but you look as good as her,” Anna
was sucking up while I snuck the pint to her glass and dumped a taste into her
soda, “I mean it, Claire. You’ve held your age well.”
“I saw that, Mike. Madonna’s
thirty-one... two... maybe three,” Claire corrected, poured a shot of schnapps
and downed it. “But time, sweetheart, will have us all joining the ranks of old
broads soon enough and you'll have to retire that body.”
I lightly elbowed Anna, “You’re eighteen, little woman. You
think anyone over thirty’s ancient. Like we did in the sixties.”
“Back to your stuff, Mike, old people talk is boring,” she
sipped her soda water. “I can take some of it but my place doesn’t have much
storage.”
“All I need, really, is a place to keep my typewriter where
I can use it.”
“You can hide it in the ice room... Back where the boss
won’t see it,” Claire offered.
“Look, Mike, my door’s always open. Get the point. You
helped me when I was a kid,” Anna countered Claire’s offer.
“You girls bidding for my attentions,” I was feeling a
little high thinking of the possibilities. I eyed Anna’s young abs exposed
above hip-huggers with a gemstone tucked into her God’s eye of a belly button.
“Your attention but not your intentions,” Claire said with a
shrug.
Anna was used to
leering old men but got serious with Claire... almost in tears, “Did I ever
tell you about when I rode in his cab in the middle of the night with
everything I owned in that ragged old backpack.”
“Oh, c’mon, a thousand times. Where did you find her, Mike?”
“The Snake Pit, why?”
“She’s repeating old stories.”
“I know… I know. Sorry.” Loretta returned to the subject, “You’re
used to writing at night Mike. The bars close at two. What if you want to bang
on that damned Remington and it’s locked up in the ice room?”
That was exactly what I wanted to hear... all pride aside...
but I said, “Pencil and paper worked for Poe.”
Claire grinned, “See. Don’t let him fool you. That’s what he
wanted all along, huh Mike?”
I am a man after all and I have to admit my mind was
swimming with the erotic idea of sharing an apartment with Anna. My silence
was most likely mistaken for hesitation but my sub-Mike was already introducing
her to my family, marrying her, and slipping between the sheets. It’s an ego
thing. Lonely men like me dream of entering a room with a fantastic young women
in arm... it smells of success... I imagine the envy... he must be rich to have
that! The best I usually get is another bar-fly past her prime like me.
Loretta must have read my mind because she patted my back sympathetically
cooing, “Now, grand-pa, you got the couch as long as you need it. Okay?”
“Now, all I’ve got to do is to get back with the company. I
kinda blew it today.”
Claire scowled, “What did you do now, you knucklehead.”
I laughed. It always made me laugh when Claire or Anna
called me a knucklehead. From anyone else it’s not so funny but there’s an
arcane cuteness about that word coming from them. I didn’t feel like explaining
it. Claire knew about the bust and everything but she didn’t know about how or
why I was shut out that morning. I didn’t feel much like explaining it to her
either because I had no idea what was going on with Doc and Bob.
“It was your last chance, Mike. What are you going to do
now?” Claire asked. I could tell she’d merely posed a rhetorical question so I
didn’t answer.
“C’mon,” Anna coaxed me off the stool, “We’ve got things
to do and they ain’t gonna get done sittin’ here all day.”
Claire called out as we left, “Don’t sell yourself short, Mike.
You’re better than you think you are.”
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