This past weekend I had another close encounter with a cab driver, a situation that was exacerbated by my level of drunkenness. This brings the noteworthy stories that involve drunkenly dealing with a chicagoland cab driver to three. I would like to share these stories with you now.
DISCLAIMER: It is part of offical ginandtacos.com policy to not make this webpage into a livejournally diary of personal stories (current music – jade tree comp), but it is our policy to show the highs and, as will be apparent soon, lows of excessive gin and taco consumption. I hope you understand.
Jamaican Love Advice, February 2002.
Fellow ginandtacoer Erik Martin (who will be writing again shortly after his release from the Betty Ford clinic next week) and myself were drinking around the southwest burbs of Chicago. We had just seen an afternoon movie, whose name escapes me, and we wanted to spend the rest of the day bendering it up around the area.
The level of abuse was quite extensive. It can only be explained by a picture of a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts* and a bottle of the then-legal ephedra supplement Yellowjackets ("Feel the Sting!").
* To give an idea of how the night went, at the second-to-last bar, I said "when we get home we should eat all those Krispy Kreme donuts." To which Erik's face turned into a look of shock and he responded, "But Mike, we've already ate all those donuts." This should also give you an idea of how my next morning went, which was not well.
We started at the highly-recommended, willing-to-put-up-with-a-lot Berwyn locale The James Joyce. After getting too drunk to drive, we called a certain man named Andrew, who, god bless him, left his Mom's birthday party early to pick us up from across town. Except he then forfeited his role as designated driver, because shortly after he arrived we had him full of so much whiskey that he couldn't drive (or hold a shot glass, of which he broke one). We needed to get a taxi.
What we got was a large, Jamaican man with a thick accent, who really enjoyed talking with us. As I was going through a bit of a relationship struggle at that point, I asked him for his advice on the situation. After mumbling out the quick facts, he cut me off by asking:
Cab Driver: Does she fuck you good, man?
Me: Ummm, sure.
Cab Driver: If she fucks you good, you make her your wife. You keep many girlfriends on the side.
We really had no idea of how to react to that, except to demand he take a picture with us so we would remember the exchange in the morning. That picture looks like this:
It's funny, because from a thousand different cultural texts ranging from "Sex in the City" to every "romantic comedy" staple throughout the decades, there's this real assumption of "the wise old cab driver who gives Important Romantic Advice that saves the day." He probably thought he was acting out this role as he was talking to us.
But he wasn't. The advice – stay in a bad relationship and make it better by cheating a lot – is the exact worst advice you could ever give a human being. But he didn't think so. And in a way, that makes me very happy.