the cabbie's life "legs like angie dickinson"
I’m going to get in a wreck if I don’t keep my eyes off these nubile drinking-age Cal Poly coeds parading up and down the main drag. Tonight, because it’s Farmer’s Market, the main drag was closed off earlier and the bars are packed and despite the cold weather these girls dress unlike girls dressed in any previous generation—skirts short and tight, shorts short and tight, blouses skimpy and exposing much cleavage; enough to make a senior citizen like myself weak at the knees.
At about ten I drove four of them to current hotspot, MOTHER’S, and as they giggled and made senseless small talk, the redhead in the shotgun seat with wonderful thighs and cleavage flirted with me…”Were you a hottie when you were young, Mr. Cab Driver?”
“Maybe.”
She pursed her lips at me. “I...like…you.”
“Sure you do.” Then: “Look, Red, tell me, how come you girls run around in skimpy outfits with no jackets when it’s forty out?”
“Because we LOSE them!” squeals a girl in back. “We dance, and we party, and…”
“It gets HOT in those bars.”
“So,” I said. “Tie ‘em around your waists.”
A chorus of groans. “No way. You kidd-ing?”
“So out. Ugh.”
When I dropped them off at MOTHER’S, where a band played, there was a line. The shotgun dish paid and tipped very well and then chucked me under her chin, delivering her most winsome smile.
“Happy hunting,” I said.
“Uh-uh. WE’RE the hunted.”
********
Later on, well after midnight, I pull into Bull’s Tavern, where the kids like to get down and dirty in a looser jukebox environment. An Emily has called a cab. A big crowd congregates outside—smokers, cell phone yappers, hanger-outers. It’s very loud. Amid the crowd, I spot a pair of legs and thighs that have me near to gasping. These legs are long, slender, shapely, and sleekly tanned, just muscular enough, thighs bare, her splendid middle-quarters encased in hip-and-crotch-hugging spandex black shorts. She might as well being wearing a bikini bottom.
Above the crotch huggers is a brown, sinewy belly. Several kids are hitting on her when a chunky blond steps out of the frenzied mob of hard-breathing Toms and signals for me. I wave back. She seems flustered as she steps into the mob and pulls the girl with the legs toward my cab as the Toms groan and hoot. She is loaded, giggling, near to staggering. The blond pushes her into the back seat and then sits beside her and behind the shotgun seat.
I turn around to get a good look at the one with the legs as the blond gives me an address in a neighborhood of apartment buildings occupied by students. The girl with the legs watches me stare at those legs.
“Hi,” she says. “How’s yer night goin’?”
“Just fine. Listen,” I say. “You ever see Angie Dickenson in the movie, RIO BRAVO?”
“Unh-uh.” She’s vague, glassy-eyed.
“Well, Angie Dickenson, in that movie, had the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen on a woman. So honey, I gotta tell you, you’ve got the most beautiful legs I’ve seen since Angie Dickenson in ‘Rio Bravo.’”
“Well thank you honey yerself.” She sits up, grinning at me through the rear-view mirror. I keep an eye on her as we move out. We go a block before I remember to click the meter on. There’s a slow way to where we’re going, and I take it. I’m thinking about the time in May of 1961, when the LA Angel baseball team asked me to work out before a game with the Yankees. I was 17, a prospect then, got to hobnob with the professionals, but the highlight of the evening, along with watching legendary Mickey Mantle hit batting practice, was trotting off the field and spotting Angie Dickenson, who was evidently dating one of the Angel players, sitting in the box seat closest to the dugout. She caught me staring at her and issued me this very pleasing, suggestive smile, and as I stepped into the dugout not 5 feet from her she continued smiling at me and I blushed, was too paralyzed with awe to say a damn thing, though I remained in the dugout and continued to pop up to peer at her as she conversed with nearby adorers.
Now, as I continue to keep an eye on the doll in the back seat, her grin drips with ardor as a pair of sneakers tickle my ears. She’s leaning back luxuriously as her calves move and brush up against my ears.
“Emily! Stop it!” cries the blond.
Emily’s calves are like satin. Gradually her legs, like snakes, slither up and wrap themselves around my neck. I’m having trouble steering the cab as she squeezes those thighs with athletic force around my neck. Her sneakers dangle before me, somewhat blocking my view as I drive 10 miles an hour down an obscure side street.
“You like my legs, honey?” Emily coos.
“Yes I do, Emily. I love your beautiful legs.”
“Emily, stop it!”
“Oh relax, Jen! We’re just havin’ fun, aren’t we, honey?” She increases the force with which she squeezes her thighs around my neck.
“Yes we are, Emily.”
“Aren’t they smooth, honey?”
“Very smooth.”
“You think my legs are as beautiful as …what’s her name, Angie…?”
“More beautiful. I’m sixty two years old and you have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen, Emily.”
By now she’s practically sitting on top of me, like she wants to ride me, when the blond begins pulling her off of me. Emily giggles and continues to sort of straddle my head and neck, and I feel I should grab an ankle or shin to hold her here, and I do, and it becomes a bit of a tug-of-war with me and the blond and Emily, who finally slides off me and ends up in the blonds’ lap. As they get sorted out, the blond yells at me:
“I know what you’re up to, you dirty old man, taking this dark street! You get us home right now!”
We are almost there. It’s only half a half mile ride, but a good ride. I pull up to their apartment and Emily is again trying to get her legs hoisted around my shoulders as the blond pulls her out of the cab, dragging her splendid bottom over the back seat and up onto the street as I pop out and over to offer my help. Emily, now out of the blonds’ grip, comes over and falls against me and we hug. I’m trying to clamp a kiss on her when the blond, now furious, pulls and drags her away and shouts, “YOU OUGHTA BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF, ASSHOLE!”
She tosses some singles at me and literally tows Emily up a stairway leading to their apartment, Emily turning to grin at me all the way up. I pick up the singles and add them to my wad and get into the cab and the phone rings, the dispatcher sending me to MOTHER’S. When I get there, among the late mob outside, the redhead whom I picked up earlier is with her same 3 pals and flags me down. They hustle inside, the redhead shotgun. “It’s our friend!” she announces, grinning at me. “Thank God you came, we were freezin’.” She chucks me under the chin. “So how’s your night been?”
“Better than good. Almost great,” I tell her.
From the back seat a chorus of voices cuts off the redhead: “”We’re goin’ to Jamaica! Can you take us to Jamaica? Ha ha ha!”
“Yeah, Jamaica…here we come!”
“We want real men. These college nerds are such…”
“Dweebs.”
“Yeah! Dweebs!”
“Beggars,” I tell them.
“Beggars! Right on, Mr. cab driver!”
“Begging dweebs!”
This kind of chatter continues until I drop them off at a house in a 1960s neighborhood a couple miles from campus. They throw money at me—alms for the poor. The redhead chucks me under the chin. “Too bad you’re not a young gun,” she says. “Cuz you’d be mine.”
They parade out, wiggling their fingers and fannies at me. I watch them into their house. Something is not right. I do not realize WHAT is not right until I get to the airport for the late flights and am shivering in the cold when I stand with the graveyard cabbie and discover my fleece hooded sweatshirt is missing from my shotgun seat. It was a prized purchase I’d paid ten dollars for at a thrift store specifically for nights like this, when the temperature dives to the 30s.
Now I remember—the voluptuous redhead who chucked me under the chin was shaking her fanny at me like a stripper and blowing me kisses as she wrapped my hooded sweatshirt around her neck as if it was a mink stole.
Ha ha ha. I sit in my cab with the engine running and the heat on.
At about ten I drove four of them to current hotspot, MOTHER’S, and as they giggled and made senseless small talk, the redhead in the shotgun seat with wonderful thighs and cleavage flirted with me…”Were you a hottie when you were young, Mr. Cab Driver?”
“Maybe.”
She pursed her lips at me. “I...like…you.”
“Sure you do.” Then: “Look, Red, tell me, how come you girls run around in skimpy outfits with no jackets when it’s forty out?”
“Because we LOSE them!” squeals a girl in back. “We dance, and we party, and…”
“It gets HOT in those bars.”
“So,” I said. “Tie ‘em around your waists.”
A chorus of groans. “No way. You kidd-ing?”
“So out. Ugh.”
When I dropped them off at MOTHER’S, where a band played, there was a line. The shotgun dish paid and tipped very well and then chucked me under her chin, delivering her most winsome smile.
“Happy hunting,” I said.
“Uh-uh. WE’RE the hunted.”
********
Later on, well after midnight, I pull into Bull’s Tavern, where the kids like to get down and dirty in a looser jukebox environment. An Emily has called a cab. A big crowd congregates outside—smokers, cell phone yappers, hanger-outers. It’s very loud. Amid the crowd, I spot a pair of legs and thighs that have me near to gasping. These legs are long, slender, shapely, and sleekly tanned, just muscular enough, thighs bare, her splendid middle-quarters encased in hip-and-crotch-hugging spandex black shorts. She might as well being wearing a bikini bottom.
Above the crotch huggers is a brown, sinewy belly. Several kids are hitting on her when a chunky blond steps out of the frenzied mob of hard-breathing Toms and signals for me. I wave back. She seems flustered as she steps into the mob and pulls the girl with the legs toward my cab as the Toms groan and hoot. She is loaded, giggling, near to staggering. The blond pushes her into the back seat and then sits beside her and behind the shotgun seat.
I turn around to get a good look at the one with the legs as the blond gives me an address in a neighborhood of apartment buildings occupied by students. The girl with the legs watches me stare at those legs.
“Hi,” she says. “How’s yer night goin’?”
“Just fine. Listen,” I say. “You ever see Angie Dickenson in the movie, RIO BRAVO?”
“Unh-uh.” She’s vague, glassy-eyed.
“Well, Angie Dickenson, in that movie, had the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen on a woman. So honey, I gotta tell you, you’ve got the most beautiful legs I’ve seen since Angie Dickenson in ‘Rio Bravo.’”
“Well thank you honey yerself.” She sits up, grinning at me through the rear-view mirror. I keep an eye on her as we move out. We go a block before I remember to click the meter on. There’s a slow way to where we’re going, and I take it. I’m thinking about the time in May of 1961, when the LA Angel baseball team asked me to work out before a game with the Yankees. I was 17, a prospect then, got to hobnob with the professionals, but the highlight of the evening, along with watching legendary Mickey Mantle hit batting practice, was trotting off the field and spotting Angie Dickenson, who was evidently dating one of the Angel players, sitting in the box seat closest to the dugout. She caught me staring at her and issued me this very pleasing, suggestive smile, and as I stepped into the dugout not 5 feet from her she continued smiling at me and I blushed, was too paralyzed with awe to say a damn thing, though I remained in the dugout and continued to pop up to peer at her as she conversed with nearby adorers.
Now, as I continue to keep an eye on the doll in the back seat, her grin drips with ardor as a pair of sneakers tickle my ears. She’s leaning back luxuriously as her calves move and brush up against my ears.
“Emily! Stop it!” cries the blond.
Emily’s calves are like satin. Gradually her legs, like snakes, slither up and wrap themselves around my neck. I’m having trouble steering the cab as she squeezes those thighs with athletic force around my neck. Her sneakers dangle before me, somewhat blocking my view as I drive 10 miles an hour down an obscure side street.
“You like my legs, honey?” Emily coos.
“Yes I do, Emily. I love your beautiful legs.”
“Emily, stop it!”
“Oh relax, Jen! We’re just havin’ fun, aren’t we, honey?” She increases the force with which she squeezes her thighs around my neck.
“Yes we are, Emily.”
“Aren’t they smooth, honey?”
“Very smooth.”
“You think my legs are as beautiful as …what’s her name, Angie…?”
“More beautiful. I’m sixty two years old and you have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen, Emily.”
By now she’s practically sitting on top of me, like she wants to ride me, when the blond begins pulling her off of me. Emily giggles and continues to sort of straddle my head and neck, and I feel I should grab an ankle or shin to hold her here, and I do, and it becomes a bit of a tug-of-war with me and the blond and Emily, who finally slides off me and ends up in the blonds’ lap. As they get sorted out, the blond yells at me:
“I know what you’re up to, you dirty old man, taking this dark street! You get us home right now!”
We are almost there. It’s only half a half mile ride, but a good ride. I pull up to their apartment and Emily is again trying to get her legs hoisted around my shoulders as the blond pulls her out of the cab, dragging her splendid bottom over the back seat and up onto the street as I pop out and over to offer my help. Emily, now out of the blonds’ grip, comes over and falls against me and we hug. I’m trying to clamp a kiss on her when the blond, now furious, pulls and drags her away and shouts, “YOU OUGHTA BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF, ASSHOLE!”
She tosses some singles at me and literally tows Emily up a stairway leading to their apartment, Emily turning to grin at me all the way up. I pick up the singles and add them to my wad and get into the cab and the phone rings, the dispatcher sending me to MOTHER’S. When I get there, among the late mob outside, the redhead whom I picked up earlier is with her same 3 pals and flags me down. They hustle inside, the redhead shotgun. “It’s our friend!” she announces, grinning at me. “Thank God you came, we were freezin’.” She chucks me under the chin. “So how’s your night been?”
“Better than good. Almost great,” I tell her.
From the back seat a chorus of voices cuts off the redhead: “”We’re goin’ to Jamaica! Can you take us to Jamaica? Ha ha ha!”
“Yeah, Jamaica…here we come!”
“We want real men. These college nerds are such…”
“Dweebs.”
“Yeah! Dweebs!”
“Beggars,” I tell them.
“Beggars! Right on, Mr. cab driver!”
“Begging dweebs!”
This kind of chatter continues until I drop them off at a house in a 1960s neighborhood a couple miles from campus. They throw money at me—alms for the poor. The redhead chucks me under the chin. “Too bad you’re not a young gun,” she says. “Cuz you’d be mine.”
They parade out, wiggling their fingers and fannies at me. I watch them into their house. Something is not right. I do not realize WHAT is not right until I get to the airport for the late flights and am shivering in the cold when I stand with the graveyard cabbie and discover my fleece hooded sweatshirt is missing from my shotgun seat. It was a prized purchase I’d paid ten dollars for at a thrift store specifically for nights like this, when the temperature dives to the 30s.
Now I remember—the voluptuous redhead who chucked me under the chin was shaking her fanny at me like a stripper and blowing me kisses as she wrapped my hooded sweatshirt around her neck as if it was a mink stole.
Ha ha ha. I sit in my cab with the engine running and the heat on.
