The Bell Telephone ladies were fun that night, I hung around for a second load and got three characters going to Duquesne Heights. They laughed and joked and included me in the fun. Not all of the night shift telephone operators Pittsburgh Yellow Cab took home were this entertaining. Usually the chatty ones tipped you something, too. They didn't have to, 15 percent was added into the flat rate, but it was nice when they did. It was one of those newly minted warm spring nights, still a touch of chill in the air and patches of snow and ice in the shadows, maybe it was Tuesday. That part's just a guess. This was twenty-five years ago.
I suppose it was probably one in the morning when I dropped the last passenger off. Duquesne Heights is the hilltop working class neighborhood just downstream from Mt. Washington, the better known historic and restaurant district. I was on some narrow little street, practically vertical, lined with old, solid, close together little houses, but no driveways, no alleys. This neighborhood was built to take advantage of the passenger inclines that used to run up the downtown side of the mountain. The original owners had neither horses nor automobiles.
I knew I was somewhere west of Grandview Avenue with its vast panorama of the three rivers meeting in the big bowl containing the West End, North Side, Hill District, Oakland, South Side, Downtown, and, far to the East, the Penn Hills. But I didn't know exactly where I was. The maps didn't always help at this point. They often showed streets jumping across gaps where there was no bridge, streets that were really old streetcar rights of way, streets that turned out to be city steps. So I kept going straight, up the hill. I wasn't concerned. At least none of my passengers had been carrying a vacuum cleaner.
One night the summer before, the last night of the month and a full moon. Early in the evening, a bit after dinner, a guy calls for a cab and he wants to stick a few things in my trunk and back seat, some boxes, a suitcase or two, couple of shopping bags, and a canister vacuum cleaner. Sure, why not, I'll at least get the 50 cent baggage surcharge. Cab rides
cost 50 cents extra back then, on top of the meter, if the driver needed to get out and help with bags. That was in our union contract.
This was no big deal, people would transport stuff in our old Checkers all the time. The next ride took me back downtown from the West End. I was sent to an apartment, out came a wild-haired character, chattering away,
jacket and tie in hand, wanted to sit up front. He was going downtown to Heinz Hall, the orchestra hall. He never stopped talking, made constant observations on anything and everything around us. I thought he was a few fries short of a happy meal, but he was ok. He also kept alluding to old money stuff and dropping Pittsburgh's wealthier family names. He hadn't put on his tie by the time we got downtown. I assumed he wanted the side entrance, but no, he wanted out in the limo zone. He tossed me a wad of bills, real nice tip, and jumped out into the crowd of top-hatted and jeweled concert-goers, who immediately surrounded him, pounding him on the back, shaking his hand, genuinely happy to see him. Life is full of useful lessons.
I picked up a downtown fare going to Oakland, ended up in Shadyside again, took another call. This time the guy coming out of the apartment building was carrying 2 or 3 shirts on hangers . . . and an upright vacuum cleaner. He's moving, not far. Must be a minimalist. Now I'm in East Liberty, one of those mixed housing, urban renewal areas. Another radio call, up a dark street into a bit of a bad spot. A very young, slender, black woman comes to my window and hands me an infant wrapped in a blanket. "Hold my baby, I'm going back in for his things. If I'm not right back,
call the police." She disappears inside before I can say anything. The baby is sleeping. I lock my doors, kill the lights, and watch. She comes back very quickly with a few parcels, we pull away without incident. I hate incidents.
Finally that night, late, I get a radio call and the dispatcher asks if I'm willing to help load furniture. Someone's moving. Sure, why not, I pull up and it turns out to be a retiring cab driver who I vaguely remember seeing around the garage. He and his wife are moving to Florida and they've offered all their extra stuff to these nice young church people who
proceed to fill up my cab with it. I have to tie the trunk lid partly-shut. They want to stick a couch on the roof, I refuse, it gets left at the curb. There's lamps, toasters, small tables, winter clothes, boxes of dishes, and, of course, another vacuum cleaner.
The kids, five or six of them maybe, clamber in around their stuff, they're all skinny and very clean cut. Squeezed in next to me is a very pretty young girl. Very pretty, very big breasts, very big breasts pressed up against my big strong cab driver right arm. She's rubbing against me, appears to be coming on to me, I'm shoved up against my door. It's not
far, some back street in Oakland. "Have you ever heard of Reverend Moon and the Unification Church?" she asks brightly. Yes I have, actually, and the big free vegetarian dinner suddenly sounds like less of good thing. But maybe I can sit next to this nice young lady?
But, shudder, no. I didn't take that fork in the road. Instead, a few months later, I drove off a cliff. Probably a better deal.
Backed off, actually. I got to the head of the street in Duquesne Heights to find it dead ending with a right turn into a dirt lane. Nice view of the Ohio River valley to the East. Grandview Avenue somewhere below. I pulled part way into the lane, blocked by a pile of gravel. Pulled in, then backed slowly out with the wheel cranked hard over. Suddenly the back of the cab jerked a bit and quickly rolled back. I jammed on the brakes as the frame went clunk on the gravel. Putting it in gear did nothing, the wheels were spinning. I opened my door, gingerly looked down, saw dirt. Whew. But my back wheels were out in space. It was a great spot for the cab radio to transmit, I got the company tow truck up there pretty fast. The driver, an elderly black gentleman, growled at me as he dragged the cab back from the precipice: "Son, let me tell you something. Don't you ever, ever, ever . . . back up."
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"What's all this about sexy potatoes?"
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Data entry by Judy Bemis
Hard copy provided by Geri Sullivan
Data entry by Judy Bemis
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