the Towers, a private, upscale dormitory, populated mainly by children of affluent East Coast families. TheGinza , a Japanese restaurant, very popular with Towers residents, was a mere stone's throw from West Towne Mall, which was where my previous call had taken me.
The women were waiting out front, loudly proclaiming their surprise at the quickness of my arrival as they got into the cab. Once the ride commenced, they ignored me. Their perfume stank like insect repellent, they chewed and cracked their gum loudly and scarcely a moment passed when all four women did not speak simultaneously in awfulLong Island accents. Their conversation was the pinnacle of inanity. Still, they tipped me two dollars, and just before they left the cab, I got my next assignment, the Cab Gods seeing fit to send more manna from the heavens to improve my disposition. I began to wonder what form of sacrifice our patron deities would find most preferable. Perhaps, a pedestrian. Or maybe someone on a bicycle. Or, best of all, maybe one of those infernal motor scooters.
The next call was a mere four blocks away, at Genna's Lounge, a dark bar warmed by a preponderance of brightly lacquered mahogany. My passenger emerged as soon as I pulled up, having been watching through the large picture window facingUniversity Avenue . He said he was going to the Crystal Corner Bar, on the near east side, right onWilliamson Street . The fellow said nothing else until he broke his silence with a loud shriek when we were on East Johnson.
"Geez!" the passenger shouted from the back seat. "That guy did a Juan Peron. Did you see that?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Juan Peron, guy who used to be president ofArgentina . The driver did a Juan Peron. You see, there's this road somewhere inLatin America . At a certain point, the road forks. Well, one day, Fidel Castro is riding down that road. The car comes to the fork, and the driver doesn't know what to do. 'Fidel, Fidel,' the driver says, 'we are coming to a fork in the road. What do I do? Turn right or turn left?' Fidel says, 'To the left, comrade. Always go to the left.' Later, Samoza is on the road. The chauffeur says, 'General, the road ahead is forking. Do I turn right or left?' Samoza says, 'Go to the right. Always go to the right.'"
"Willy and Rogers," Dexter's voice interrupted. More bounty, it seemed.
I lifted the microphone from its cradle, sorry to have to interrupt this fellow's story. "Excuse me, sir," I said, then keyed the mike when Dexter called my number. "Pat and John to the Crystal Corner."
"Count, fifteen thirty-four Willy. You'll be picking up an eight-year-old boy, taking him to nine-ten Spruce. It's a six-dollar flat, cash up front."
"Ten-four," I replied.
"Sounds strange," my passenger interjected. "Isn't it kinda late for a kid that young?"
My thoughts exactly. "It is. His parents are divorced. The lad's mother lives onSpruce Street . I am picking the boy up at his aunt's house. His mother was no doubt entertaining gentleman friends this evening."
"Hmm," the passenger said sadly. "Some people I just don't get. They have kids, they oughta take a little more responsibility."
"You are correct. But you were telling me a joke. Will you continue or just leave me hanging on a precipice of suspense?"
The fellow laughed. "Okay. Anyway, so later this same day, Juan Peron is riding down that road. They reach the fork, and the chauffeur stops the limo. 'Mister President,' the driver says, 'we have reached a fork in the road. What do we do?' Peron is silent. 'Mister President?' the driver asks again. 'What should I do? Should I turn right or left?' Peron thinks about it some more, then finally says, 'signal that you are going to make a left hand turn, then turn sharply to the right.'"
I chuckled loudly. "So, that is a 'Juan Peron.' I will have to remember that." Indeed. Many other drivers tell jokes to their passengers, and apparently, it grants them better tips.
"Glad you liked it. I heard that from Steve Stern when I took his intro toLatin America class."
Shortly, we arrived at the destination, and a smile had fought its way back to my face. "All right," the passenger said. "Paul Black and the Flip Kings are playing a special show tonight. That boy can play slide guitar like no one. Opened for Stevie Ray Vaughn and nearly blew him away."