being considered for a call and you know other cabs are being considered for the same call, pick up the pace a bit. Don't drive like a total maniac. Don't do anything illegal, like run red lights, or go the wrong way on a one way street, or drive onState Street , but pick it up because you know the other cabs will. Capeesh?"
"Yes, I understand. Killer instinct. I think I know what that is."
"I don't know about that. God, you're so fucking genteel, Count. You need to drive with more joy, more passion. Maybe some music might help. This cab got FM?"
"Yes, but there is nothing palatable to listen to at this hour."
Kern turned on the radio. "We'll see about that. Ah, here we go." He began humming along with the hideous, high-pitched screeching wail blasting from the radio. Why could he not listen when I had said there was nothing palatable on the airwaves? No classical, no jazz, just that wretched rock and roll, that children's music born from twelve-bar blues with three-chord progressions - possibly the lowest form of music ever known to humanity. Or even worse was country, which I found just too pathetic for words and sadly enough seemed to be growing in popularity. Was the collective IQ of this nation dropping lower than it already was?
"The Allman Brothers," Kern gushed. "'Jessica.' Man, the best cruising music ever. These guys are speed, man, just pure, ethereal speed. And that's what killed them, too. Duane - fucking god on the slide - drove his motorcycle into a peach truck after 'Eat A Peach' came out. Barry Oakley drove his motorcycle into oblivion exactly a year later, in almost the exact same place."
"Ah, but their music lives on."
"Damn right."
I was being sarcastic, but Kern was too daft to notice.
"So, what do we do now?" he asked. The board was clear.
"Find the nearest stand? We are merely a few blocks away from the Concourse Hotel. Is that not a good stand at this time of night?"
"It is, but I've got something else in mind. Let's go to the airport."
His manner was quite puzzling. "Just simply drive to the airport?" What was the term? Dead-head? Is it not a waste of fuel to drive clear to the other side of town for the mere possibility of loading a fare? Somehow, it seemed that Kern was not instructing me in the same kind of cooperativemanner as when he had officially trained me.
"Sure, Count. Board's pretty quiet right now. It's about nine, there's a few planes due to land any time now. Sometimes, the airport can really make you a lot of money. Didn't you check out the airport schedule?"
I nodded, but honestly, the airport simply did not seem as high a priority as other aspects of the job that needed to be mastered, such as, as the Americans say, knowing my ass from my elbow.
"It's a hot time. Let's go. And pick up the pace a little bit. You can drive faster than the speed limit. Time is money. Let's go. Don't want all the fares to be gone by the time we get there."
The cab lurched forward as I depressed the accelerator, paying close heed to not exceed 35 miles per hour, which was ten over the legal limit. Kern would have me risk this job just to live up to what he thinks a cab driver should be? No gentleman he.
"The airport's made me a lot of money over the years," he babbled. "Not without paying my dues. Had to learn. You betcha. That comes from sitting for a couple hours before loading someone going to the rent-a-car stand. Then, you go back and wait another couple hours, or just give up the ghost and leave. But then the time comes when you pull up and get a split-load, and it's all worthwhile."
"Split-load?"
"Yeah, didn't I tell you about split-loading, Count? At the airport, the bus stations. Man, it's the Holy Grail. It's better than sex! You load up your cab, charge people individually at a discounted rate, turn in what's on the meter and the rest goes in your pocket. It's fucking legaland doesn't violate any work-rules, as long as you follow proper pricing procedures and as long as everyone consents to sharing."
After crossing theYaharaRiver , which marks the end of the Isthmus, the road veered sharply north before splitting and turning intoPackers Avenue , so named because it is where Oscar Mayer is located. The noxious stench