As the cab pulls up, I am feeling harried and rushed. My arms are filled with supplies and notes and equipment, and it's looking like rain. My destination is about a dozen blocks away, so this'll be quick. I sort of fling myself into the backseat with a grunt.
You ever have those times where you say something, but for some reason your voice has found its way into a new octave? You know those times. I have them more frequently than I'd like. "LaSalle and Madison, please," I squeak like a seven-year-old girl.
I don't have too much time to worry about my voice issues, because I suddenly realize that I am in the single nicest cab of all time. It has slightly tinted windows, tricked out black leather trim, wooden paneling, a DVD player/flat screen embedded in the seat back, and the air conditioning is, well, fucking stellar. I immediately wish my destination were much further away, like Calgary.
I ease back into my plush seat and off we go. And as we pull into the main stream of Superior Street traffic, I realize that there is music in this cab. Loud, loud music. And it is ABBA. It is the end of "I Have A Dream."
I believe in angels,
Something good in everything I see...
Last chorus already - pity. But, whatever radio station this is, I bet something good is coming right up! We turn south on Wells as ABBA fades out. Then, I hear the distinctive, unmistakable muffled click on the speakers that says one thing and one thing only: MIXTAPE. Mixtape probably made on a BOOM BOX, circa 1984.
I lean forward and, sure enough, there is a cassette deck in the dash, and a little cassette ass in there. The cab of the 21st century is playing a cassette mixtape! Before I can ponder this any further, the next tune kicks in, and I am afraid it is the "I Have A Love/One Hand, One Heart" medley, as performed by Barbara Streisand and Johnny Mathis. Did I mention it's loud?
And thank GOD it is loud, because as Babs starts singing, my cab driver, a middle-aged giant, starts to groan. No, he starts to moan, and at a truly impressive volume. "Unnnnnnnggggggh."
I'm not sure what's going on. "Unnnnnnnnghhhhhhh. Unnnnghhhhhhhhh." I start to panic a little. Is he sick? Is he hurt? Or is he just... moany?
"Unnnnnnnnnghhhhhh..... needs me tooooooooo-unnnnghhhh." Oh... OH! He's, um... you know, singing. Sort of. He quiets up for the Mathis sections, but as soon as that Streisand voice hits, he is on fire. "Unnnnnnnnghhhhhhhhh! Mmmmmmmmmmuuunnnnnnnnngh, I loooooove hiimmmmmmmmmnghhhhhhhh."
We pull up to the corner of Madison and LaSalle as I hand over my cash money and hop out of the taxi. He pulls off and I think aloud how that must be the weirdest cab ride of all time.
Bit of advice: never utter something like that out loud. The Fates don't like it.
I leave the building on LaSalle about an hour later and hail a cab to take me back to my office just north of the Loop. A taxi sees me from afar and swings across three crowded lanes to get to me. Always a great sign. I climb in and throw out the address. Off we go.
As the cab pulls away, the young, lanky driver takes off his sunglasses and reaches down to grab his rather large case for them. Only, no. It's not a case. Nope. What is that? He takes the bulky object and puts it over his head, at which point I realize that he is putting on goggles.
He's traded his sunglasses for goggles. Not lab goggles. Not swimming goggles. No, these are more like old-fashioned aviator goggles. You know, the Red Barron, that sort of thing - maybe mixed with a little Greedo from Star Wars. The are really long, and this guy has to turn his head way to the side to have any peripheral vision. Spectacular. I want to say something, but I don't know what to say. I want to ask something... but what? Perhaps I should just throw myself from the moving vehicle.
Up LaSalle Street we zoom. We stop at the red light at Lake Street, and I slink down in my seat as neighboring drivers glance our way and do ridiculous double-takes. My driver looks left and right with huge sweeping motions, smiling at everyone around us. And it's from my slouched position that I am able to really get a sense of my surroundings. The glass partition in this cab is uncharacteristically closed, as are both back windows. It's feeling stuffy so I lower mine most of the way.
Then, just before the light changes, the driver does something else. He takes hold of what looks to be a fabric headband that has been around his neck and pulls the front up, over his chin and past his mouth. He places it squarely on his nose, covering both nostrils, so that his face looks like it's in some kind of traction.
The light changes, and he floors it.
Now, if you think this is a little weird... perhaps even borderline scary... then you are absolutely correct. I check the door. Unlocked. I recheck my window. All the way down. And right then and there I promise myself that if that window starts to close, or if any colored gas (a la Batman) starts to seep in through the A/C vent, I am out of this car no matter how fast we're going.
And yet, I'm not really that scared. For some reason, I'm more certain that this guy is just a freak wearing crazy bomber goggles and a headband around his face. I just wish he wasn't driving me around the city, that's all.
The rest of the trip is uneventful. As we pull up, I'm forced to use that little lucite money tray we all wonder about but never actually use. The driver takes my money, and I scramble out the door. He removes his goggles and homemade air filter as he speeds away. I decide that trying to figure out what that was all about is not worth it. I will leave that to you.
I turn and go inside, unable to get "Take a Chance on Me" out of my head.
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