|Not quite as fun as Cash Cab, but only just by a little|
If you’ve been reading, you know SF cabs can get crazy. You know they can be impossible to get. I know that too… But even I can be surprised every once in a while.
It all started with a date with the nerdiest almost-pharmacist known to man. We spent the whole time talking about appropriate dosages of Tylenol and how bodies react to medicine. If you think ‘omg worst date ever,’ then you don’t know me at all. The hypochondriac in me hung on his every word.
No sparks, but this dude is going to be my best friend, trust.
As we walked to the closest cab stand, we passed a twenty something fire eater. When I said HOLY COW in amazement that SF could still surprise me, she shook her bucket/hat at me.
“I gave her money mostly because of her rad sequined jacket,” I told my new best friend. He thought I was joking. I wasn’t.
… That has nothing to do with the cab ride, but SF has fire-eaters in awesome outfits in SOMA. I thought you’d like to know that.
Finally my cab arrives. The driver looks like Denis Leary, but with his hair gelled back. We listen to commercials while I contemplate the fact that a practicing PCP would have to read 600 studies *per day* in order to keep up to date on medical research and advances.
The driver turns to an R&B station. Tony! Toni! Toné! ‘s song “Anniversary” comes on. I start to hum along until I consider that the driver’s turned to this station on purpose. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. I fall silent.
(Noting my silence perhaps?) The driver starts playing with his docked phone. It’s an android and we’re at a red light, so I don’t mind. He goes to the music app. Presses play after a few seconds of searching.
Nicki Minaj’s voice comes blaring through the speakers. I’m about to be incensed at this latest attempt to placate the Black passenger, until I hear it: the happy sigh.
Driver starts rapping along with Nicki in hushed tones. I’m floored. He’s snapping his fingers off beat. He’s bobbing his head vigorously, then comes to, sets his shoulders and stills.
“What have we got next?” he mutters to himself. No more awful Nicki, I pray.
Prayers go unanswered, and with a gentle “woop!” from the driver, Super Bass is infecting me all over again. Dammit.
I notice an emblem on the back of his shirt. The color-play between the foggy SF night and the bright downtown lights have me uncertain for a moment: RL? Is that a tan Ralph Lauren shirt with RL on the back?
As we turned the corner toward my home, the fog dissipated, and the lights calmed. The emblem on the back of the shirt said “RW.”
My 50-something, Denis Leary-looking cabbie was playing Nicki, Rihanna and rocking a rockawear button up. Something is wrong with SF. And nights like tonight are when I appreciate it the most.