Tales from the OKC, Part 3

Taxi cabs are quite the American phenomenon. We have had entire television shows devoted to them, along with movies. We have certain stereotypes about the kinds of people who drive taxis. And we associate them with certain parts of the country.

For instance, when someone mentions a taxi ride, our minds might first think of hopping into a bright yellow boat of a granny car on a street corner in New York City, only to find that the driver does not speak English and may not understand where he is supposed to be taking us as he provides a death-defying experience, changing lanes without notice, speeding through every intersection, and cursing in foreign languages. Or we might think of the theme song from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

Either way, I have returned from the OKC with tales of taxi cabs.

Keep in mind that we rode in at least ten different cabs over the course of one weekend, so this is a mere sampling of our experiences.

Let us begin with a woman who will be called Deborah. (Not to protect her identity, but rather because I can't remember her name.)

Deborah was taking us from the hotel to Bricktown. We were still pursuing a suitcase, entertainment, and nourishment, so Bricktown was supposedly the place to be. Frat Boy Mike decided to ask her about the various eateries in the area. (He later explained that he thought she may be a reliable source; after all, her size indicated that she found food somewhere, and one would hope that she found the food enjoyable.)

Rushing through her response to FBM's question, she took it upon herself to recommend some alternate activities. As seductively as she could, she said, "You could take a ride down the canal. [Awkward pause.]"

Deborah was not the only cab driver to mistake us for a couple though.

Creepy Cal dropped us off in Bricktown the next night. "So, you taking this lovely lady out to dinner?" [Again, his name has been changed--in part because I never learned it and in part because I think this one suits him.]

"Yes, sir."

"She's a cutie. You know, there just aren't too many good women left out there. I married a good woman once. Then, two years later, I found out she was the devil and we got divorced."

"Yeah, well, you oughta see this one in the morning."

"Sir, I'd consider that a privilege."

"I'm sure you would."

I was dying. I felt dirty and I hadn't even done anything. The thought of Creepy Cal with his sweaty cab smell waking up next to me. . . ugh. . . no really. You didn't see this guy.

Ugh.

Trivia of the day: What is worse than a creepy cab driver though?

Here are your options:
(A) A deadly cab driver,
(B) A foreign cab driver,
(C) A cab driver who lacks a sense of direction, or
(D) All of the above rolled into one man who could make an atheist pray within two minutes of starting the engine.

As you may have predicted based upon the general theme of ghettoness and terror that surrounded our trip to the OKC, the answer is D, All of the above. We shall refer to this one as "Osama Bin Roadrage." We were headed back to the hotel from the mall, and this guy (1) didn't know how to get there, and (2) didn't know how to drive.

He was weaving in and out of traffic, going anywhere from 50 to 65mph on a street with a 35mph speed limit. No joke, this guy practically ran a truck off the road. You see, the truck's driver made the mistake of driving as though a sane person was behind the wheel. Big no-no.

Osama got pissed, starting cursing in such a way that we could not understand a word of it, and tried to tailgate/pass the truck at the same time. FBM and I just kind of gripped the doors and seats, exchanging glances. We couldn't say anything for fear of pissing Osama off even more. What if the crazy-ass little man decided to run into a telephone pole just to spite us? It would be almost like a suicide bombing . . . kind of . . . shut up.

The friendliest cab driver? The one who tried to get us to sign up for his work-at-home-on-the-internet-and-get-rich-quick scheme. *Nods.*

People amaze me.

Perhaps I should just drop out of school, go buy myself a big yellow car, move to OKC, and join the surprisingly strange group of people who work for the cab company. Perhaps then I would seem normal. It might work. After all, I was once told I was too sane to be a psychologist.