2/28/23
Newsletter #261
The Crack of Dawn
Meanwhile, back at Southfield Cab in the late 1970s, all my buddies quit, but I stuck it out. During this time we went to Tennessee and shot Evil Dead. When we returned to Michigan I went back to driving a cab.
Proving what a completely different world it was then, this is how the police dealt with drunk drivers: no drunk test, no ticket, no jail – they called you a cab. Basically, the cops just handed their problem off to a cab driver. One night I picked up a drunk, white, middle-aged man in a suit and tie, standing beside his brand new gold Mercedes-Benz. He had been pulled over on the Southfield side of Eight Mile Rd. As we all now know, on the other side of Eight Mile is Detroit. The cops would simply have you lock your car and leave it wherever it was. Eventually, it would get towed away. So, this drunk dude asked me, “Are they going to tow my car?” I said, “If you’re lucky.” He was from out of town, and asked, “What do you mean?” I said, “You’re leaving a brand new gold Mercedes on the side of Eight Mile Road all night? You only hope it gets towed to a nice safe impound lot.”
The worst runs you could possibly get were, “Providence emergency.” Providence Hospital is a big hospital in Southfield. If the emergency room was calling for a cab, that meant they had a patient with no one to pick them up. One time they wheeled out a black man in his mid-30s who resembled Smokin’ Joe Frazier, except that he had no legs. He had prosthetic legs. He was also shit-ass drunk, highly agitated and unruly. A doctor and a nurse hoisted him from the wheelchair into the cab and gave me some money. They said that he had been kicked off a Greyhound bus for being drunk and disorderly. The cops took him to the emergency room, and the emergency room wanted him the hell out of there. The doctors and nurses had chipped in for his cab fare.
He told me to take him to the Detroit bus station downtown. He then explained that he had been on the bus headed to Grand Rapids, but they had thrown him off and left him on the side of the road – a guy with no legs. He then went into a drunken mantra, repeating, “They offed my buddy . . . they offed my buddy . . .” I asked, “Who offed your buddy?” He said, “The VA hospital,” then he looked all around and said, “Where are my canes?” I said, “You didn’t have any canes when you got in.” Smokin’ Joe freaked out, “I can’t walk without my canes! I gotta have my canes!”
We finally arrived at the severely rundown main Detroit bus station. There was a line of Detroit cabs in front, as well as a colorful variety of late-night riff-raff, including a “Pimp” right out of central casting, wearing a full-length black leather coat, a wide-brimmed black leather hat, and plenty of gold bling. I double parked, blocking in a Detroit cab, which, under normal circumstances, would have been a hanging offense. I ran around to the passenger door and helped the now wailing and moaning fellow out of the car. Since he had prosthetic legs, and no crutches, I had to support his full weight, and he was big guy. Immediately, without hesitation, the pimp ran over to help.
The pimp and I carried Smokin’ Joe into the bus station. He was back to yelling, “They offed my buddy! Motherfuckers offed my buddy!” We got him to the ticket window where he presented the clerk a pink receipt, and said, “I’m going to Grand Rapids.” The clerk said, “That’s not a ticket, that’s a receipt for a ticket.” The legless guy began screaming bloody murder, so the clerk simply slammed the wooden door of the booth shut, closing that ticket line.
Meanwhile, bored-looking Detroit cops began slowly wandering up from every direction. Smokin’ Joe went completely nuts, screaming, “Leave me alone!” and swinging his arms and fists around wildly, pushing both me and the pimp away from him. Well, he had fake legs and no canes, so he went right over on his face. The pimp skedaddled back toward the front door, but stayed inside and kept watching. I just stood there, suddenly surrounded by six Detroit cops, white and black, all with their weapons drawn and pointing down at the poor motherfucker on the floor. He then began yelling, “Go ahead, shoot me!” A white cop asked rather matter-of-factly, “How many bullets would you like?” Joe said, “I want ‘em all! Gimme all six!”
Then all the cops looked at me. “Who are you?” they asked. I said, “The cab driver.” They asked, “Did you get paid?” I said, “Yes.” They said, “Then get the fuck outta here.”
On the way out I passed the pimp. We exchanged a look that said, “There but for the grace of God go we,” and we both shrugged and sighed.
Day-O. Day-ay-O. Daylight comes and we wanna go home.