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Saturday, April 21, 2007


Taxi story

Haven't been doing much gaming lately. Been working more than I like, so much of my thought has been in that direction. I told this story to someone the other day. Hadn't thought about it for years.

So I picked up this drunk guy (yes, this is a taxi story, not a gay story). Nice guy. Lived quite a ways out of town. Told me his address, Ringo road*. It was a gravel road up in the hills that I was unfamiliar with. I pulled out my map for a quick peek. No problem, he says, no need to look at your map. "I'll show you how to get there." It was night. It was pitch black. I learned years ago to not trust a drunk's sense of direction. But this guy seemed like a competent guy. He was well dressed, and he didn't seem that drunk. I figured he could get us there.

There I go figuring again.

Away we go. Down the Johansen Expressway, up the Steese Highway, right on Gilmore Trail "it'll be on the right in a couple miles." Things are going good to this point.

Soon we are 15 or 20 miles back in the hills on a road that I am only vaguely familiar with. I drove another couple miles and did not see Ringo road. He didn't say anything so I kept driving. I drove another couple miles. I finally said, "How much further is it?"

He was passed out.

I had to shake him awake. "I don't see Ringo Road. How much further is it?"

He looked around, "Where are we?"

"We're on Gilmore Trail. You told me that Ringo road was just a couple miles, four miles ago."

He looked around again. "I think we need to go back. No. Wait. I don't think we're there yet. Just keep going."


So I continued down the road. After another couple miles he said, "How much further is the Steese highway?"

(pregnant pause, with much rolling of eyes)

"The Steese highway is behind us."

"I thought we were going towards town."

"No. Do I need to turn around?"

"I think so. I don't recognize any of this."

I stopped and pulled my map out.

"No you don't need a map. I know where we are. Just go back. We went too far."

"Let me just take a look at the map."

"No. No. I know where we are. You missed the turn."

"I didn't see a sign for Ringo road. Is the street sign down?"

"No it's there, you just missed it."

Okay. I turned around and headed back toward town.

He started complaining. Can't say I blame him, but, as I pointed out, he told me that he would give me directions. It was pitch black in the hills, and I didn't realize he had fallen asleep until it was too late. "Well. You shouldn't have missed the turn," he said.

I was looking, I replied, I had not seen Ringo Road. The more we talked the more irate he bacame. He started to get rude.

He passed out again.

I insisted he stay awake.

After 4 or 5 miles he said, "Here it is. On the left. Turn here."

As we approached the street I noted that the street sign did not say Ringo road. "This is John* road."

"Yeah. This is the turn."

"You told me Ringo road."

"That's where I live, but you need to turn here."

"You told me we needed turn onto Ringo road from Gilmore Trail."

Now I'm starting to get ticked off. The guy had been belittling my driving abilities, and telling me how stupid I was for not being able to find his house. Plus, I'm mad at myself for trusting a drunk to give directions.

Turns out you need to drive another 3 miles down John, Paul, and George roads before you get to Ringo road.

I finally got him home. He paid the entire fare. (At my insistence.) He was rude enough that a discount was not in the cards.

At this point you are probably wondering, why am I relating this story?

Turns out the story isn't over yet.

A couple weeks later I got a call to pick up the same guy at the same bar.

He got into the cab and made a little small talk. It was clear that he didn't recognize me from our previous trip.

"Do you know where Ringo road is?"

I dummied up, which isn't much of a stretch for me, "Ummmmm. No."

"It runs off Gilmore Trail. I'll show you how to get there."

Off we went. I had to hear the story about the dumb-ass cabdriver who took him home a few weeks earlier. "Dummy couldn't find his ass with both hands and a map. He drove right by Ringo road and cost me an extra $50 to get home." (It was more like $20).

I just said, "Tsk, tsk. Must have been a new driver. He didn't charge you the whole amount, did he?"

"Yeah, he did."

"I would have given you a break."

"That's good. I told the dispatcher not to send a dumb ass this time."

He passed out. I got him home. He gave me a $20 tip, but not before he ranted about how good of a driver I was.

*Some road names have been changed.

I like your taxi stories. It must be difficult dealing with drunks. Cheers.
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