He's Not A Racist, He Just Hates Foreigners

Dear Diary,

tonight I made two friends. Both of them like me because I am white and other taxi drivers are not. My first friend claimed that it had nothing to do with race, but he just hated being driven around by 'them'. For my second friend, this was second time in my cab. I remember him from the first time because as I was dropping him and his friends off at Tequila's he gave me a casual 'White Power!' followed by a fistbump. My friends are racist, and now they have my cell phone number, so whenever they are drunk and feeling extra racist they can call me up and get a ride. I accept them as friends because they tip generously.

Okay, enough of that....

While playing a 'Death Cab for Cutie' CD a customer made the suggestion that I was actually a serial killer and I was playing the music as a hint that this was a literal 'death cab'. I told her that her fears were justified. The next thing that popped into my head was the tell her that with her in the cab and with me being a serial killer, and this would indeed be a death cab for a cutie. I decided that this was a terrible idea, not only because it was a terrible line, but because hitting on customers is a terrible idea in its own right.

Later in the evening, I drove by a radar trap on 108th street. As I approached, going 30 km/h over the speed limit, the squad car lit up his cherries and berries. When he saw that I was a taxi, he shut those suckers down. That's right! My customers were delighted with my diplomatic immunity (I have decided to call it this for no reason whatsoever)

A drunk girl came out of Tequila's, opened the door to my cab, looked at me, said 'ugh' and then closed the door and got in the cab behind me. WTF!

Tonight was a delightful evening because the majority of my fares were older people coming from Christmas parties as opposed to my usual club trash. When these drunks start a conversation, they are able to articulate complete sentences. We can discuss city transit, construction, music, and so on. This differs from my usual conversations on trying to discover the true nature of the chick who plays hard to get.

My debit machine magically stopped working tonight. I had to tell two customers that they didn't need to pay. I wrote my name and taxi ID on a paper and told them if they feeling generous that they could pay down at the office. They both seemed like good guys, but I do not anticipate getting that $27.