you all to drive safely." More sarcasm in tone, but obviously not intention. "Remember, an accident can and will ruin your day."
When the training session ended, I departed as quickly as possible, but upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, my sensitive ears heard Nicole speak to the quickly emptied room, to no one in particular, thinking no one could hear her: "Where'd he disappear to so quickly?"
Three nights later, I sat waiting for my on-the-road trainer, in what they call "the driver's room," a cozy chamber full of chipped formica tables with a pair of adding machines on each and dented steel chairs in the vicinity of each table. The walls, once white, were a dingy gray. A stack of lockers stood against one wall, on top of which was an amazing collection of coffee cups, glasses, silverware and seat cushions. A small refrigerator and microwave oven were stacked in a corner next to a coffeemaker. Newspapers were strewn everywhere.
A pair of drivers, both heavy-set, sat at a table, balancing their waybills. They ignored me as I sat, idly thumbing through my training notebook, my trainer late. Finally, a tall, gangly fellow walked in whom I recognized; it was Kern from the Hiring Committee.
"The Count!" he exclaimed. "The Count. I get to train the Count. Hey, Bob, John, you gotta meet this guy. He's the Count."
They turned and stared at me, disinterest quite visible in their eyes. "Why do you call him 'the Count,' Kern?" one asked as he folded his waybill and slipped it inside aManila envelope along with charge slips, call slips and cash.
There are no shadows. Vampires must hide in plain sight.
"Why do you think they call me the Count?" I replied, speaking in my best Bela Lugosi voice, staring at the driver with faux menace. Kern laughed loudly.
"Yeah, when we asked him the movie star question, this guy answered, Frank Langella. What'd you say, Count, that he brought 'unprecedented sensitive sensuality' to the role of Dracula? The committee got a good laugh outta that."
Wonderful. Still a mere trainee, and I already had a diminutive variation of my name. However, despite the vulgarity, it seemed in my best interest to let them have their amusement.
"That so?" John or Bob asked.
"That is correct," I said. "Actually, my name is Al. Al Farkus."
"I'm Bob, this is John." I shook hands with both.
"Whatever Kern tells you," John said, "do the opposite. If you want to know how to do things right, just ask me."
"Don't listen to them, Count," Kern said with a smile. He brushed his long, thinning hair out of his eyes. "Get trained by me, you're learning from the best."
Bob and John howled with laughter. "You so good, Kern, why you still driving nights?" Bob asked, heavy sarcasm in his voice.
"I make money at night," Kern replied. "Don't need to get spoon-fed to make my money, not like you day-jerks."
"You make your money competing with rookies," John said. "You wouldn't make dick on days, competing with real cabbies."
A few more barbs were passed back and forth, then Kern finally decided to commence my training.
"I've already punched in," Kern began, "for both of us." He swept his long arms in a slow circle. "This is the driver's room. Our home. But this isn't like inTaxi, the TV show. You shouldn't be spending much time here. Drivers who spend too much time in this room aren't making money. You make money only one way, being in your cab, ready to take a call."
Kern gave me a short tour of the driver's room, pointing out the bulletin boards. One bore announcements of committee meetings and meeting minutes, another displayed general information about the cooperative, as well as a lurid photograph of a crumpled cab with the heading, "Accidents will ruin your day."
"This is Democracy Wall," Kern said, pointing to a third bulletin board full of typed and hand-written letters. "You got a beef with anyone or anything, feel free to put it here."
I attempted to read one of the missives, something about drivers who leave their cabs unattended by the gas pump, blocking access for anyone wishing to refuel their vehicle. The author seemed rather miffed though it was hard to tell, the childish scrawl barely legible.
Kern pulled me by the arm and dragged me toward a steel cabinet. "In here's all the different forms you'll need. Waybills, charge slips, leave of absence request forms, vehicle maintenance request forms." He made a big show of taking a deep breath. "And