Taxicab Tales – Only In America

In the past, I have shared a series of stories from my days publishing small town newspapers, from a job I had selling cars, about my time in the Army, and some tales of the offbeat adventures and misadventures I’ve gotten into in a series called Nick Happens. Now, I thought I would share some stories about a period in my life many years ago when I drove a taxicab in Tucson, Arizona. Oh, some of the things I witnessed back then! I’ve told more than one prospective author that if they really want to learn about human nature, they need to become a cop, a nurse, or a cab driver. You will see the best and worst of people in any of those jobs.

It was Christmas Eve, and my son was spending the holiday with his mother and sister. At the time, I shared a cab with another driver named Manny. He would drive it on the day shift, and I would drive it on the night shift, and we’d switch back and forth from days to nights every couple of weeks. Manny was also a single father, his wife had deserted the family about the time my marriage broke up, so I decided to work an extra shift to allow him to be home with his kids.

Just about the time the sun was setting over the Tucson Mountains, I got a call to pick up a fare at a music store on Speedway Boulevard. Nobody was waiting outside, and when I went into the store, I discovered my passengers were two Native Americans. One of them was looking at harmonicas and told me they’d be a few minutes, so go out to the cab and start the meter and wait.

When they got in, it was obvious they had been drinking, but they weren’t obnoxious. In fact, they were very friendly, wishing me Merry Christmas and asking if I would take them to the small town of Sells, located on the Tohono O’odam Indian Reservation, about 60 miles west of Tucson. “Don’t worry, man, we’re not going to stiff you,” one of them said, handing me a $100 bill. “If it’s more than that when we get there, I’ll pay you.” So off we went.

We made a couple of stops before we left town, one at a Jack in the Box to load up on food, them insisting on buying me dinner, and then at a carryout where they bought two cases of beer and a couple of bottles of whiskey. All the while, they talked with me, telling jokes and laughing, the three of us having a good old time.

They were twin brothers, and I wish I could remember their names. They asked me about my life and told me what it was like growing up on the reservation. When they found out I was single, they said they were going to make sure to introduce me to a “squaw,” (their word, not mine.) I was a lot skinnier back in those days, and one of them told me that once I cozied up to a big, fat Papago girl, I’d never go back to those “skinny white chicks.”

Before we got to the reservation boundary, they decided they might need more booze, so we pulled into a little store and went inside. They bought two or three more cases of beer, some more hard liquor, and what seemed like a year’s supply of beef jerky, Slim Jims, and cigarettes. They asked if there was a restroom, and the man behind the counter, who had been giving them the stink eye since we walked in the door, told them no.

They went out back to relieve themselves, and as I was walking out the door, he said, “Watch yourself with those blanket asses. First chance they get, they’ll cut your throat.” I didn’t know that my two new friends were on their way back into the store when he said that. I turned around and said, “What the hell are you talking about? Those are my cousins. I grew up with them.”

They thought that was hilarious. When we got in the cab and back on the road, they decided we should probably all cut our wrists and mingle our blood so we could be blood brothers. I told him I was going to pass because I didn’t want my throat cut or my scalp lifted. That made them howl with laughter.

As we rolled along through the dark desert night onto the reservation, I started to see Christmas lights on houses scattered along the way. “What? You didn’t think Indians celebrated Christmas?” one of them asked. “Sure we do. But we’re not real big on Columbus Day.”

The one who had bought the $400 Suzuki Chromatix harmonica pulled it out and began to play Jingle Bells, then switched to the blues. This guy was amazing! He played Sonny Boy Williamson’s Help Me, I’m A Man, made famous by Muddy Waters, and Moanin’ At Midnight. They had cracked open a bottle of Black Velvet and were passing it back and forth. I was never a drinking man, and when they handed it to me, insisting I have some, I held the bottle to my lips like I was drinking and then passed it back to them.

I couldn’t help thinking, where else would you drive a car made in Detroit with two Native Americans as passengers, one of them playing the black blues on a Japanese harmonica while drinking Canadian whiskey? Only in America.

When we got to their home, somewhere outside of Sells, they insisted I come in and meet their family. Their mother, a large, gray-haired woman, insisted on making fry bread for all of us, and I wound up sitting at the kitchen table with all of them, talking and having a wonderful time. I had decided to work because I didn’t want to be alone on Christmas Eve, but it turned out to be one of the best holidays I ever had, with an amazing, loving family. Even their cousin Elana, who was indeed a large young woman whom I was quite sure was fully capable of keeping a skinny white boy warm on cold winter nights.

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And finally, here’s a chuckle to start your day from the collection of funny signs we see in our travels and that our readers share with us.

Thought For The Day – Life is too important to be taken seriously. – Oscar Wilde