Working For A Living
The most remarkable aspect of my first night driving cab was that the weather was downright balmy for early December, death to a business dependent on inclement weather. However, this was a determination made only in retrospect, the basis for normal weather not within my lexicon, though it did indeed become quite aesthetically pleasing when the first snowflakes began to fall.
But for that first night, it proved quite the inauspicious beginning. No matter, had Kern not said to take it slow in the beginning?
He also had said, "We'll be watching you."
I shall never forget my first cab, though, with luck, maybe the memory will fade over the next several centuries. She was not a pretty sight, the exterior covered with dents and mottled with rust - the phone answerer who had given me the keys described the cab as, "rusty but trusty." Indeed! The upholstery was torn and stained, and the driver's seat bore a huge indentation from too many obese drivers. As I settled behind the wheel, a spring pressed into my buttock. I sank down a few inches, making it difficult to see over the cab's hood. Though the night was warm, it took several tries to successfully start the vehicle before it finally whimpered to life, belching a cloud of black smoke. And the cab did not ride any better than it looked. The acceleration was sluggish, and the shock absorbers were virtually non-existent, causing me to wonder if human drivers of this cab would pass blood when urinating.
What had Kern said? All cabs are good cabs? But some cabsare better than others, and over time I did get to drive much nicer vehicles than this. Unfortunately, rookie drivers often find themselves driving the worst cabs in the fleet, partially because, when they select, they lack the knowledge of what cabs to seek and what cabs to avoid. Also, rookie drivers often end up driving what no one else will drive, not wanting to appear too choosy, thus giving themselves the reputation of a prima donna.
Nor shall I ever forget my first call. The cab had been inspected inside and out, all variety of lights checked, mirrors adjusted, windows washed, windshield wiper fluid reservoir filled, charge slips all in good supply, seat belt clasped in place, the microphone in hand and there were calls on the board. I hit the bid button and waited for the dispatcher to respond.
"Fifty," the dispatcher said after what felt like an incredibly long time.
And now for my very first bid. I trembled with excitement. "Back lot."
"Head up, fifty," the dispatcher replied. Either the business was uptown or the dispatcher suggested an improvement of my existential outlook.
"Ten-four," I replied, then shifted into gear and moved with controlled alacrity toward the calls. The dispatcher called off the board, and again I hit the bid button.
"Fifty," he said after calling a few other cab numbers.
I keyed the microphone and spoke, watching for the next intersection. "East Washingtonand ... Patterson."
"Fifty, reading the streets signs, theParadise ."
"Say again?" That was what Kern had said I should say if I did not understand a dispatcher's transmission.
"TheParadise Lounge."
"Where and what is that?"
"Mister Farkus, theParadise is a bar. Just off the Square, at Carroll andMain . Do you copy, Mister Farkus?"
"Ten-four," I said, momentarily annoyed that he had seen fit to use my name twice in one transmission and was using a rather impudent tone. Are these people so insecure that they feel the need to humiliate their betters whenever they get the chance?
Still, excitement filled me because this was my first call on my first scheduled shift, my first chance to actively participate in the rebuilding of my fortune. My first chance to relearn how to fend for myself. Kevin, the operations manager, was kind enough to honor my request to work during the best money-making shifts, while allowing for my "special needs," providing a schedule of 6 PM to 4 AM, Tuesday through Thursday, and what they call "circle shifts", 8 PM to 6 AM, Friday and Saturday.
Having consulted my street directory, I proceeded toward where my call should have been only to find impediment in an angry red sign reading "DO NOT ENTER" at the intersection of Main and Carroll. After circling the Capitol Square again, I found the other end of this block and yet another truculent sign bearing an arrow pointing to the right with a line through it, the lettering underneath reading, "Except bikes, buses, cars and police-authorized vehicles."
The traffic light at my intersection turned green, but I did not move. What in the name of all the false gods of heaven was meant by that sign?
The light turned red, then when it turned green once again, I threw caution to the wind and made the turn, noticing a restaurant, Crandall's, a bar, with big letters just above the front door, The Shamrock, a glass door, with steps leading upward, The Rising Sun, which I suspected might be some sort of house of ill-repute. Next to that establishment was a plain wooden door, which bore no lettering that I could see, and the door after that was another bar, with a large, green neon sign in the front picture window. Clancy's. I promptly hit my HiQ.
"Where is theParadise ?"
"Carroll andMain ." The dispatcher responded to other questions before even waiting to hear my acknowledgment. I hit the HiQ again.
"Yes, Mister Farkus. What can I do for you?"
"I am at Carroll and Main, right around the corner from theInn on the Park. Where exactly is theParadise ?"
"Right in front of your nose, fifty. The door immediately west of the Rising Sun. And, Mister Farkus, try to make your transmission more concise."
"Ten-four." Had I not been reasonably concise? This dispatcher seemed not a nice fellow, but I shoved that thought to the back of my mind, then backed up a few feet and parked, the Rising Sun directly to my left. Just west was that plain, wooden door, with no window, no neon, no brightly painted signs. My gaze moved upward. Three-quarters to the top of the two-story tan brick building hung a plain black and white sign, so dingy that the lettering seemed to blend in with the background. "ParadiseLounge." Thiswas the correct place.
The fine art of loading calls. That is what Kern called it. He said we go inside bars and restaurants to "dig out passengers."
No one waited in front of the bar. No one emerged. After about a minute, I went inside. The bar was dark as a cave, the wood paneling absorbing almost all the light. The air reeked of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Though the darkness was certainly comforting, the bar itself was a bustling beehive of humanity, and that is something that has always seemed queer about these mortals - their incessant need to crowd amongst each other and then perhaps complain about how the bar is so crowded, causing them to depart to yet another crowded bar.
"Someone call for a cab?" I quietly asked the bartender.
He was a cadaverous fellow with deeply-set eyes and greasy hair. It almost made me wonder if he perhaps was the one who had dined on the college student who had so kindly provided me with sustenance less than two weeks ago. "Yeah. Granny! Cab's here."
"Granny" looked up from her perch at the end of the bar, a drink in front of her.
"I am right outside, ma'am." She nodded at me, and I turned to leave. Shortly, she emerged, her clothes hanging loosely over an emaciated body. When she neared the cab, I got out and opened the back door for her. She smiled at the gesture. Do cab drivers not exercise common courtesy, let alone chivalry? A lady is a lady after all!
"Good evening. Where may I take you?"
"Twenty-five forty-six East Johnson."
Ah, that would be east of the Capitol, presumably 25 blocks east. And Johnson runs parallel toEast Washington , to the north, if mnemonic-enhanced memory was to be considered correct.
"Do you have a favorite route?" I asked. Then, remembering Kern's advice, I added, "you are my very first passenger."
"Ohhh, well, I'm just kitty-corner from Steven's Restaurant. Know where that is?"
"My apologies, ma'am, I do not."
"Well, just take the outer loop around toEast Washington , go to sixth and hang a left. Uh, yeah, it's after six, so you can do that. Hang a left on sixth, turn right on Johnson, and I'm right at the end of the block. On the left hand side."
"Right away, ma'am."
Kern'swords - be nice, and make conversation - echoed inside my skull. "I trust you have had an enjoyable evening?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah. Not bad. Just a couple cocktails. Been going to theParadise near a quarter century. Used to go there after work when I worked at Rennie's. Remember Rennie's?"
"No, I am new to town."
"Oh. Rennebohm's used to have drug stores all over town. Now they're all Walgreen's. That statue on top of the Capitol? Joke used to be that was Mrs. Rennebohm pointing to where the next store would be. Had one right on the Square, at the top ofState Street . Me and the other girls, we'd work the lunch counter, knock off about three or four, then go to theParadise for cocktails. They closed the last Rennies 'bout five years ago."
"Did you seek employment elsewhere?"
"Naw, I was already over sixty. Figured I'd retire. It's okay, but I miss the girls, and I miss theParadise . Don't get downtown much, living on theEast Side , 'sides, can't afford going out for cocktails any more than one or two times a month."
The numbered streets marked our penetration intoMadison 'sEast Side . First, Second and so on, until the sign with the left turn arrow with a line through it markedSixth Street . I cursed in a long dead language, then at the last moment saw the fine print, "4PM to 6PM ," and Granny was absolutely correct: it was after six.
"That is three dollars and fifty cents," I said, once parked in Granny's driveway.
She handed me a five-dollar bill. I laid the crumpled note on my thigh, then handed her a dollar, but she stopped me before I could dig out the remaining 50 cents change.
"You're a very nice young man," she said, handing me back the dollar, reaching for the door handle.
I jumped out of the cab and opened the door for her and watched her until she was safely inside her house, then turned the volume up on the radio and listened.
Feel free to work at your own pace, at least in the beginning.
In order to pay Granny the proper attention, I had lowered the radio's volume, relegating the dispatcher's crackling transmissions to mere background noise.
"West near the U Hospital. West on the Lakeshore.Frances and U. Friendly Corners. Union Corners."
When in doubt, bid.
"Shifty," the dispatcher said. "Shifty, your bid." His voice had grown quite impatient. "Mister Farkus, do you care to bid, or are you just hitting your bid button to exercise your index finger?"
Shifty - he was using slang of an unfamiliar nature and then berating me for not understanding. What a disagreeable fellow! I looked up at the street signs. "Johnson and North."
"Anybody beat North and John for the Town Dump?" A moment later, "Fifty, get the Town Dump for Evan."
"Excuse me?" I asked, feeling puzzled. The Town Dump? Who would be there at this time of night? A city sanitation specialist?
"The Town Pump, Mister Farkus. It's a bar. At Union Corners."
"Where exactly?"
The dispatcher sighed. "Union Corners is the intersection of East Wash,Milwaukee and North, so called because it's one block west ofUnion Street and because the Union House bar is right there. The Town Pump is at the northeast corner. Do you copy, Mister Farkus?"
"Ten-four." I opened the map to determine the precise location.
"Update your radio, Mister Farkus," the dispatcher said, moments after his previous transmission. Hastily, I punched the acknowledge button, then consulted the radio zone map, just to make sure to update into the proper geographic zone. That completed, I proceeded onward to my next call and proudly managed to find the Town Pump on the first attempt.
The sight of a large yellow vehicle with a light on top prompted no movement from the patrons of this particular establishment. After the requisite minute, I went inside, only to quickly discover why the dispatcher had called this charming little bistro "the Town Dump."
The white walls had long gone yellow from the cigarette smoke and were dotted with the crushed remains of insects. The stench of stale and fresh vomit hung luridly in the air. The barrel-chested bartender wore a large, black patch that covered nearly half of his pockmarked face.
"Somebody call for a cab," I said, lowering my tone a couple octaves and adding a pinch of gravel to my voice. The patrons, an odoriferous collection of scraggly beards and unwashed clothes, turned and stared. My nostrils pinched shut, trying to beat back the assault of unappetizing throats covered with sour-tasting flesh, yet this saloon bore a fond familiarity, it being the kind of place common in the forgotten areas of bigger cities, often near the docks, where one can take sustenance with utmost prudence.
An old man staggered forward. He was sinewy, his face weather-beaten, like he had slept 40 years in a sand storm. "Yeah, I'm comin'," he growled.
"See ya, Evan," the bartender said, showing teeth that, much to my surprise, were intact andnot rotted. "You take good care of Evan, ya hear?" I nodded, then held the door for my passenger.
"Where may I take you?" I asked once inside the cab.
"Paddy's Pub. At theEast Side Shop."
"Do you have a favorite route?"
"Well, back up a few feet ontoNorth Street , then turn left at the light."
"I am afraid I cannot do that legally, sir." Or at all. A line of cars sat at the intersection, just around the corner from the bar, making that prescribed maneuver impossible.
"Thenjust go around the goddamned block.I don't give a fuck." Quickly agitated, he spoke not with flow, but with single, clipped sentences, the beginning of each one punctuated by a sound not unlike a freshly spun top, with several grains of sand imbedded within the works.
"Right away, sir."
"Overhere to your right." We had traveled a mere quarter-mile east of Union Corners. "Rightin here.Right over there."
The fare was $1.75. He handed me a pair of sweaty, crumpled dollar bills.
"Keepthe fucking change.You probably need it more than I do."
"Thank you, sir." Yes, indeed. Thank you very much. Time to call my broker and order ten-thousand shares of my favorite blue-chip stock.
With a Neaderthal-like grunt, he was out of the cab and very quickly inside Paddy's Pub. I updated the radio and made the proper notations on my waybill, then consulted the list of official cab stands and was in for a pleasant surprise; the East Side Shop was an official stand. I hit my stand button, plucked Seutonius from the dashboard and resumed my reread ofThe Twelve Caesars while waiting for my next call. After all, Kern did say the cab stands were there to keep drivers from wasting too much petrol by driving aimlessly all over the city in search of fares.
According to my book, upon hearing that the Roman Senate had declared him a public enemy and that soldiers were near, Nero had decided to take his own life. He pressed a dagger to his throat, but could not complete the task that he knew would preserve the little that remained of his honor. A slave was about to help Nero come to an honorable end when the dispatcher interrupted.
Thirty minutes and 40 pages had passed. "Fifty, where are you?" The sweet-as-vinegar voice of the previous dispatcher had been replaced by the excited, high-pitched yodel belonging to none other than Dexter. I had met him during my training. As I was told, he was the full time graveyard dispatcher and had served in that capacity for quite a number of years. Or as he had said, "When the company moved into this building, I came with the place."
Dexter was a tall mass of protruding bones. His face was ruddy to the point of being lurid, and his most prominent Adam's apple would rapidly bob up and down when excited. I'd been told Dexter's knowledge of the city was downright arcane.
"East Side Shop," I replied.
"Well, you been sitting there awhile, fifty. The business is uptown. Do you wanna come up for a call or sit and wait for your inheritance?"
"All calls are good calls, are they not?"
Dexter laughed. "Fifty, come up to the Willy Bear."
"Where is that?"
"It's the old 'Jack of Diamonds.' At Few and Willy. Twelve-ten Willy."
"Ten-four." There was noWilly Street in the directory, but I presumed - correctly - that "Willy" was slang for Williamson, which runs northeast from East Wilson and South Blair to theYaharaRiver , making it another one of the four thoroughfares that cover the length of the Isthmus. And if I did have a problem finding the Willy Bear, at least this new voice over the radio would provide instructions without editorial comment; while the previous dispatcher croaked like an angry toad, Dexter chirped like a happy cricket.
After consulting the map, the Willy Bear proved quite easy to find. And the passenger was waiting outside the bar! And she moved quickly to the cab! And, when the fare ran $2.50, she handed me a five-dollar bill and told me to keep the change!
Ah, sweet mystery of life, at last I have found you.
The evening's commerce eventually settled into a mildly lucrative rhythm, providing a tolerably balanced mixture of satisfaction and confusion. All in all, the shift proved uneventful, the meter totaling $74.00, with another $15.00 in tips. No millionaire gave me a hundred-dollar bill for a five-dollar fare and said keep the change; however, no one saw fit to vomit in my cab.
As I would discover, most of our business centered around the downtown/campus area, though a few longer, cross-town fares managed to present themselves, providing a greater meter, though leaving me far away from the downtown. At least, all the peripheral areas are only a few miles from the downtown, a situation more preferable than, let us say,Paris , where a ride to the city's edge might be lucrative, but the return to the Champs-Elys¨¦es would take an eternity.
As Kern had suggested, I did work at my own pace, running a call, then proceeding to the nearest cab stand to be optimally prepared to receive the next assignment. After all, if, as Kern had said, time is money and a vampire has nothing but time, then would I not be a rich man indeed?
Perhaps, not today or tomorrow, but my situation allowed for a high degree of patience, thanks to the fact that my rent and auto insurance for the next year had been paid in advance. Heat and electricity bills would still come due every month, but surely the figures would be nominal. Food, of course, was free and, as observed thus far, plentiful. As the Americans say, most of my earnings this first year would be gravy.
Such was my evaluation of this maiden voyage on the good ship Co-op Cab as this first shift neared conclusion. And then the opportunity to run one more call presented itself, thus ending the shift on a positive note.
"Fifty," Dexter said, "get the Irish Pub at three-seventeen State, just east of Gorham. That's the old Merlyn's. For Sheena, the bartender. Comes east toward your office."
"Ten-four," I replied. Dexter had quickly gotten accustomed to my lack of geographic proclivity, but was nothing less than cooperative and helpful, freely giving instructions, thus allowing me to more easily unearth the locations of all the bars where he had dispatched calls. Motherless spawn of Satan! How many bars were there in this city?
Again, his instructions proved useful, allowing the greatest ease seeking my quarry, and Sheena was watching through the front window, keys in hand, immediately able to secure the bar as soon as I pulled up.
"Eight-sixteen Spaight," she said, adding, "please."
"Right away. Do you have a favorite route?"
"Sure. Just turn here on Johnson. Take it to Patterson, turn right and take it right to Spaight." Her soft contralto seemed to smile. Lilac perfume tickled my nose, but underneath that artificial scent lay the true richness of her flesh. I opened my nostrils, letting her bouquet wash over my inner being. Deep inside me, something stirred, something to subdue because yes, there was a purpose here - to make money.
"I trust you have had a nice evening?" I asked.
"Yeah. Busy as hell. I'm beat. Can't wait to crawl into bed. I feel like I just wanna sleep forever."
"I understand. It has been an interesting night for me as well."
"Were you guys busy?"
"To tell the truth, I am not certain. This was my first night driving a taxi."
"Ohhh. How'd it go?"
"Not too badly. I am new to this town and do not have the easiest time finding where my calls are, but I am not entirely displeased."
Sheena laughed lightly, like soft rain. "I've thought about driving cab. Sometimes, when I'm getting real sick of bartending, I think about it. One advantage I could see is while you might have an asshole in your cab for only five or ten minutes, I might have that asshole in my bar the whole damn night."
I laughed. "Do you see any sort of similarity between these two vocations?"
"A bit. You guys help us out a lot. When someone's been getting in our hair, we can just call a cab, and you make 'em disappear." She snapped her fingers. "Like, poof! Gone. And a lotta bartenders take cabs a lot. I mean, I have a car, but I don't feel like driving after hustling drinks for eight hours. Besides, I feel a lot safer having you come right to the door. I'd just as soon not walk in the dark to where my car is parked."
"Do you see many cab drivers on the other side of the bar when you are at work?"
"Hell yeah. You guys are great customers. Always tip well. Goes hand in hand. Cabbies tip bartenders well. Bartenders tip cabbies well."
The turn onto Spaight revealed a sudden, breathtaking view. Ahead, layLakeMonona , its blackness flickering brightly under a gibbous moon, the downtownMadison skyline defining the northern shore.
The fare was two seventy-five. I flicked on the interior light and turned to collect the fare from Sheena, noticing her pleasingly rounded figure, her warm smile and her eyes, which were the color of nurturing earth.
She handed me a five-dollar bill and told me to keep the change. I watched her glide to her house, watched her open the door and step safely inside. Watched her disappear up the stairs. Watched as an upstairs light flicked on then off. Watched as she disrobed in the darkness, then disappeared, presumably into the sweet embrace of her bed, which she had said beckoned her so invitingly. Briefly, I considered parking the cab, but decided just to proceed back to the office.
"First night, huh, Al?" Dexter asked when I stepped into the dispatch office after refueling and parking my cab. He took my cab key, hung it on the appropriate hook and handed me my call slips.
"Yes, it was. Was my performance satisfactory?"
Dexter smiled and gave me a slightly quizzical look. "Not from around here, are you?"
"I have not been long living inMadison ."
"Didn't think so." He took a deep drag from a cigarette. The expelled smoke enveloped the small dispatch office in a blue haze. "Well, you're not the best rookie I've ever seen, but you're not the worst. You'll do fine. Once you get to know where things are. Just remember, if you're having a problem finding something, feel free to ask. I'd always prefer that you ask instead of spending a half-hour driving in circles."
"I appreciate it. I much prefer your attitude to that of your predecessor. He was most uncooperative."
Dexter pinched his face in disgust. "Fucking twerp! Guy's a jerk. Gets a couple dispatch shifts, and he thinks he's God's fucking gift. Hell, he's only worked here a couple years. I remember when he started. Couldn't find his own cock in the dark to save his life. Go ahead and ask him whatever questions you need answered. If he keeps acting like a cocksucker, complain to Kevin or Maureen. They'll set him straight."
"Thank you."
"De nada."
Thus, with satisfaction, that first shift ended. On the way home, driving onWilliamson Street , I suddenly recognized that Spaight was two blocks away, and Sheena's scent seemed to fill my nostrils once again.
Drive onward, fool. Yes, my pleasure was there for the taking, but I chose not to do so, common sense wisely governing my actions. Taking is most often what we do, simply because it is usually awkward to ask. However, accepting what is given is always superior to merely taking, though this lesson was one learned dear.
What remained of that first two-week pay period proceeded much in the same manner as that very first shift, with various peaks and valleys relative to the first night's revenue. The compensation was not great, but I despaired not, feeling relatively satisfied with my progress.
It was with great anticipation that I collected my first paycheck. Heavens! When had I last earned apaycheck ?
The amount of money was not large, but when would it ever be, compared with those astronomical sums of which I had been previously accustomed? Considering it was a first paycheck, in an occupation that requires experience and geographic proclivity, I found myself not displeased by the amount of money which could be deposited at my leisure in an automatic teller machine - a Tymemachine that bore the inscription, "Tyme is Money," thus sparing me the trouble of finding a bank that remains open after dark.
My enthusiasm was dashed by a memorandum attached to the paycheck:
To: Al Farkus
From: Maureen Hellenbrand, General Manager
Re: Payroll fortification
I wish to call your attention to the fact that your paycheck has been fortified to raise your hourly wage to federally mandated minimum wage. As I'm sure you know, cab drivers are paid commission. However, according to federal law, all drivers must earn no less than minimum wage. Therefore, due to your low earnings for this pay period, your paycheck has been fortified.
This being your first pay period, it is understandable that your earnings might be low. I do want to let you know that if this situation persists, you may be required to undergo more training, and if you still are unable to significantly raise your revenue, you may find your probation extended. If your paychecks consistently need to be fortified, you may not pass probation.
Feel free to seek help if you have questions about any of the procedures or techniques necessary to do your job adequately. And also, feel free to see me with any questions or concerns regarding the above described situation.
We hired you because we believed you could do the job. Hopefully, you will prove that our faith in your abilities was not misguided. Good luck.
Damn the earth under my feet! Federally mandated minimum wage? What in the name of the false gods was that? The notion of a minimum wage seemed inconceivable. The last time my actions had earned money was when the sale of a Gaugin provided a net profit of almost four million dollars. How could I be concerned with pebbles when I had been accustomed to lifting boulders?
I was so stunned that Kern's approach escaped my attention.
"Hey, Count." He slapped the paper as I read it. "A fortune, ain't it? Don't spend it all in one place."
Quickly, the piece of paper was folded and secreted within the back pocket of my blue denim trousers. Yes, I had resorted to wearing such attire. It seemed that to blend in, it would be prudent to dress as these slovenly young people do.
"Perhaps not a fortune." That was all I could bear to say; there would be no force in Hades that would open myself to any abuse from the likes of this fellow. Hastily, I turned on my heel and strode to my cab.
And it was not a bad shift, having booked $80 with $15 in tips. At shift's end, Nicole sat across from me, struggling to get the numbers on her waybill to balance. She looked up at me, eyes shimmering.
My stomach sank. I do not want this. I do not need this. I do not want to even think about anything to do with this.
She smiled warmly, her perfect white teeth almost sparkling. "Al, how's it going. Haven't seen you since training."
"Busy," was my terse reply.
"You have a nice shift? Damn!" She looked down at the tangled mess of charge slips and slapped the adding machine.
"It was adequate. Yourself?" Though not really interested, it seemed the polite thing to ask.
"Not too bad." She rummaged through the crumpled piles of currency. How can people be so sloppy with their money? My cash always was always very neatly folded and sorted by denomination. "Not bad for a Tuesday."
Suddenly, Iwas curious. "How much did you book, if you do not mind me asking?"
She shrugged. "I don't mind. Like I said, it was okay. Coulda been better, coulda been worse. Not quite one-twenty, but the other night I pulled in one-sixty, with nearly forty on the side."
One-fifteen had been my best effort thus far.
Suddenly, warning bells started ringing inside my skull. My revenueshould have been higher. Somehow, there was a flaw in my work, though the thought still rankled me about the concept of minimum wage, as if just under is inadequate, while just over would be perfectly fine. How simplistically arbitrary!
Maybe Kern was to blame. Maybe he did a poor job in training me. "Nicole," I asked, "out of curiosity, who was it who trained you?"
"Kern." She nodded. "He was very thorough. I'm happy I got him. I've heard bad things about one or two of the other trainers, but I think Kern did a good job. Why?"
"No reason." Yes, yet another lie, but I did not want to discuss my failings with these children. My waybill was complete, and all I desired was to get home, listen to some Rossini and try to determine if this scrabbling for spare change was really what was most desirable at this time and under these circumstances.
As I rose to depart, Nicole's gaze locked upon me. "I was wondering...." She folded her waybill and tucked it into an envelope. "Doing anything? Wanna go get a drink or something?"
A drink. What irony. "I am sorry, but I think not." Too harsh. She looked hurt. "Please forgive me." I softened my voice. "I am just preoccupied, but I do not think I would be interested in a drink at this time."
She shrugged, her self-esteem still seemingly intact. "Okay, maybe some other time." Nicole smiled warmly, obviously taking seriously the notion of "some other time." Being polite can be such a burden.