THE CABBIE'S LIFE "ODE TO TOBIAS WOLFF"
Around 7:30 on a Tuesday evening two girls came out of a bluesy downtown coffee house habituated by the very small set of Bohemian types in San Luis Obispo. Dressed in jeans, sweaters and sneakers, they were headed to the Performing Arts Center on the Cal Poly campus where humorist/essayist David Sedaris was performing.
“Sedaris is supposed to be a modern-day Mark Twain,” I said, as they settled in back. “He writes a lot for the New Yorker. Are you English majors?”
“Absolutely,” they said in unison, proudly.
“Are you interested in writing?”
“Absolutely.” They informed me they were in a writing class. I asked did they study and write short stories. They said they were just starting out on the short story. So I asked if they’d read Raymond Carver. They’d heard all about him, but had not yet read him. I could not believe this.
“Raymond Carver is the American Chekhov,” I told them. “He’s passed away, you know. He was a very good friend of Tobias Wolff. Surely you’ve heard of Tobias Wolff?”
No, they had not. I explained that with Raymond Carver gone, Tobias Wolff could be our greatest living short story writer,
“Really?”
“Yes. Who the hell teaches you? Every short story Wolff writes is a lesson, a moral, and a disturbing truth alien to most of us, unless you decide to really put on your thinking cap and enter into the darkness of our situations, and our souls.”
“My God, are YOU a writer?”
“Maybe.”
I dropped them off at the Performing Arts Center, which was mobbed, and urged them to secure a book of short stories by Wolff—THE NIGHT IN QUESTION. They thanked me and said they enjoyed talking about writers because they loved writing and hoped I picked them up another time in my cab.
******
Things were slow after I dropped off the two students, so I drove to the Wells Fargo bank downtown, which provided decent lighting to read, and worked a crossword puzzle from the LA Times and read the New Yorker. Across the street at the 7/11 a gaggle of kids imitating freaks and the homeless, hauling around mangy dogs, hung out in the shadows, their body English and movements indicating life was a drag, perhaps a joke, as were the squares and stiffs coming and going in this predominately white, affluent and conservative town known for its safe streets, great shopping and ideal climate.
I grew bored and decided to cruise the main drag, Higuera Street, and much to my surprise was flagged down from the sidewalk by Jason, a chef at a new local bistro that was busy every night, drawing San Luis Obispo’s high-end gourmands by storm. I usually picked Jason up around one o’ clock in nearby bars when he was very drunk, and drove him to an apartment complex a couple miles away, where he lived with two other cooks. But tonight was different.
“It’s my first night off in two months,” he told me, settling in the front seat. “I’ve worked six, seven days a week, thirteen hours a day, for five months, I’m exhausted. Man, I finally got laid last night. This forty-six year old woman. I’m thirty. I was so horny, we did it six times! So what happens? This thirty two year old, a stone fox, wants me tonight. I’m supposed to meet her at a motel here in town. But man, my libido is way down.” He yawned mountainously, laying his head back on the seat. “Damn, bro’, why does it always come in bunches? When I’m on a drought, the women smell it on me, and run from me like I’m a disease. But when I’m getting it, they’re all over me. What am I supposed to do, bro’? I need your advice?”
“Get it while you can, even if it kills you, Jason. Believe me, I’ve been where you are.”
“Pull over at the 7/11, please. I’m gonna find me a good porno magazine. Maybe that’ll help.”
I did so. On Jason’s way in, a couple of the homeless simulators hit him up, and he gave them cash. Coming out, another kid hit him up, and he got cash, too. Then Jason settled beside me.
“I need to go home and take a shower,” he announced. I started out in that direction. “So bro’, what am I gonna do about this stone fox who wants to rock and roll?”
“Well, a thirty two year old woman is at the very peak of her sexual drive. A horny thirty two year old has no business with anybody but a twenty year old, preferably a GI who hasn’t been laid in months.”
“This woman, she’s got fire in her eyes, she could kill me. Pull over at that liquor store. I’m gonna get me some tequila. You want anything?”
“Nah, Jason, I’m fine.”
“A sandwich or something?”
“I’m fine. But thanks anyway.”
He went in and returned with a fifth of tequila in a brown bag, sipping from it, a troubled man with big problems. Then he handed me a hundred dollar bill and told me to keep the change after I dropped him off for good, though he wasn’t sure where and when that would be. I dropped him off at his apartment and waited for him in my cab, wondering what kind of advice I could give him, for he along with several unstable cooks, students and various misfits felt for some reason I was a fountain of wisdom when it came to affairs of the heart, among other things, much as it had been for me when I tended bar for over 20 years.
Over the years, after the sexual frenzy wore out, I felt what most men needed was a companionable woman to go to a movie with, share a quiet dinner, just hang together and do nothing. It had always seemed, as an American male, I was early on indoctrinated into this frenzied obsession to get laid as much as possible, like my compatriots haunting body exchange bars. It was all crazy. Sometimes long periods of celibacy were more peaceful, though waking up in the morning alone could be a misery. Was there ever a balance? Currently I had a sedate, stable relationship with a woman whose major complaint was that I didn’t love here near as much as I did my Labrador dog.
Anyway, when Jason was back in my cab yawning and nipping from his bottle as we headed across town to motel row, he said, “Man, I am beat. That woman had me up all night. She had some good cocaine. I got no sleep. Then I worked the books and prepped all morning and had a meeting with my staff, and then I started boozing. This woman, she wants me bad. So I got tequila, I got the porno magazine, I got plenty of cash, but I got the libido of a ninety year old…” He nipped. “How about that porno shop in Atascadero? Maybe I can give this woman some action with a sex toy until my libido comes back.”
“That’s a round trip of nearly a hundred bucks, Jason. You’ll have to dish out another big bill for that, and those state-of-the-art sex toys are at least fifty bucks.”
“I don’t care, man. Right now, if I go with that woman, she might kill me. My dick’s all chewed up from that forty six year old, I’m in pain, bro’” He gazed at me with his bloodshot eyes, a desperate man. “Bro’, if I can’t perform, she’ll get rid of me, and this is a chick I wanna hold onto for the long haul. I like her.”
“Well, as a last resort, why don’t you try talking to her. I know a motel room isn’t the ideal place for it, but why don’t you try and get to know this woman as a real, live human, and maybe let her get to know you the same way. Level with her. Tell her the truth of your predicament. Maybe she’ll have mercy and you can build a nice relationship instead of a one-night stand.”
“Pull over at that gas station, please,” Jason said, looking more confused than ever. We were near the end of motel row on Monterey Street. “I’ve got to eat something. This tequila’s going straight to my head. I haven’t eaten all day, except a bag of Fritos. I won’t be able to do anything if I don’t get some food in me.”
“Right. Fuel for the grind.”
Jason seemed to be delaying the tryst in the gas station mini-mart. He browsed through some magazines, talked a little to the young gal behind the counter, purchased a 6 pack of beer, one of those giant hot dogs and nachos with cheese that somehow smelled like petroleum. He finally brought all these purchases to the cab.
He asked me what kind of motel he should go to. A fancy one, like the Holiday Inn? I shook my head. He mentioned a couple cheap ones. I discouraged both. I recommended a motel that was not too expensive, and had decent amenities. It was a place I might take a girl. He accepted my expert advice. I took him to the motel.
So Jason toted his porno magazine, a 6 pack of Lite Beer, bottle of tequila, cell phone, gizzard-curdling grub, and stood outside the motel office looking like a lost soul while I counted my tip--$75.60. He was still standing outside the office, cell phone at his ear, when I drove off.
******
I was reading outside the Wells Fargo when my phone rang and the dispatcher sent me across town to the Performing Arts Center on campus. When I arrived there a mob was spilling out of the plush auditorium. I spotted the two English major girls looking around, on cell phones. I beeped my horn and they saw me and came right over and got in.
“It’s YOU!” they cheered in unison.
“So how was David Sedaris?”
“Fab-u-lous! And guess what?” said the chunkier of the two, who sat up and leaned over the seat to tell me the good news. “David Sedaris was talking about how he gets depressed once in a while, and even considers suicide, and he said one of the reasons he’ll never commit suicide is because he might miss out on the next short story by Tobias Wolff! He loves Tobias Wolff. He must be really good.”
“So now you gotta read him, honey. You got two people recommending him—David Sedaris, world famous author and lecturer, and your local cabbie.
“Sedaris is supposed to be a modern-day Mark Twain,” I said, as they settled in back. “He writes a lot for the New Yorker. Are you English majors?”
“Absolutely,” they said in unison, proudly.
“Are you interested in writing?”
“Absolutely.” They informed me they were in a writing class. I asked did they study and write short stories. They said they were just starting out on the short story. So I asked if they’d read Raymond Carver. They’d heard all about him, but had not yet read him. I could not believe this.
“Raymond Carver is the American Chekhov,” I told them. “He’s passed away, you know. He was a very good friend of Tobias Wolff. Surely you’ve heard of Tobias Wolff?”
No, they had not. I explained that with Raymond Carver gone, Tobias Wolff could be our greatest living short story writer,
“Really?”
“Yes. Who the hell teaches you? Every short story Wolff writes is a lesson, a moral, and a disturbing truth alien to most of us, unless you decide to really put on your thinking cap and enter into the darkness of our situations, and our souls.”
“My God, are YOU a writer?”
“Maybe.”
I dropped them off at the Performing Arts Center, which was mobbed, and urged them to secure a book of short stories by Wolff—THE NIGHT IN QUESTION. They thanked me and said they enjoyed talking about writers because they loved writing and hoped I picked them up another time in my cab.
******
Things were slow after I dropped off the two students, so I drove to the Wells Fargo bank downtown, which provided decent lighting to read, and worked a crossword puzzle from the LA Times and read the New Yorker. Across the street at the 7/11 a gaggle of kids imitating freaks and the homeless, hauling around mangy dogs, hung out in the shadows, their body English and movements indicating life was a drag, perhaps a joke, as were the squares and stiffs coming and going in this predominately white, affluent and conservative town known for its safe streets, great shopping and ideal climate.
I grew bored and decided to cruise the main drag, Higuera Street, and much to my surprise was flagged down from the sidewalk by Jason, a chef at a new local bistro that was busy every night, drawing San Luis Obispo’s high-end gourmands by storm. I usually picked Jason up around one o’ clock in nearby bars when he was very drunk, and drove him to an apartment complex a couple miles away, where he lived with two other cooks. But tonight was different.
“It’s my first night off in two months,” he told me, settling in the front seat. “I’ve worked six, seven days a week, thirteen hours a day, for five months, I’m exhausted. Man, I finally got laid last night. This forty-six year old woman. I’m thirty. I was so horny, we did it six times! So what happens? This thirty two year old, a stone fox, wants me tonight. I’m supposed to meet her at a motel here in town. But man, my libido is way down.” He yawned mountainously, laying his head back on the seat. “Damn, bro’, why does it always come in bunches? When I’m on a drought, the women smell it on me, and run from me like I’m a disease. But when I’m getting it, they’re all over me. What am I supposed to do, bro’? I need your advice?”
“Get it while you can, even if it kills you, Jason. Believe me, I’ve been where you are.”
“Pull over at the 7/11, please. I’m gonna find me a good porno magazine. Maybe that’ll help.”
I did so. On Jason’s way in, a couple of the homeless simulators hit him up, and he gave them cash. Coming out, another kid hit him up, and he got cash, too. Then Jason settled beside me.
“I need to go home and take a shower,” he announced. I started out in that direction. “So bro’, what am I gonna do about this stone fox who wants to rock and roll?”
“Well, a thirty two year old woman is at the very peak of her sexual drive. A horny thirty two year old has no business with anybody but a twenty year old, preferably a GI who hasn’t been laid in months.”
“This woman, she’s got fire in her eyes, she could kill me. Pull over at that liquor store. I’m gonna get me some tequila. You want anything?”
“Nah, Jason, I’m fine.”
“A sandwich or something?”
“I’m fine. But thanks anyway.”
He went in and returned with a fifth of tequila in a brown bag, sipping from it, a troubled man with big problems. Then he handed me a hundred dollar bill and told me to keep the change after I dropped him off for good, though he wasn’t sure where and when that would be. I dropped him off at his apartment and waited for him in my cab, wondering what kind of advice I could give him, for he along with several unstable cooks, students and various misfits felt for some reason I was a fountain of wisdom when it came to affairs of the heart, among other things, much as it had been for me when I tended bar for over 20 years.
Over the years, after the sexual frenzy wore out, I felt what most men needed was a companionable woman to go to a movie with, share a quiet dinner, just hang together and do nothing. It had always seemed, as an American male, I was early on indoctrinated into this frenzied obsession to get laid as much as possible, like my compatriots haunting body exchange bars. It was all crazy. Sometimes long periods of celibacy were more peaceful, though waking up in the morning alone could be a misery. Was there ever a balance? Currently I had a sedate, stable relationship with a woman whose major complaint was that I didn’t love here near as much as I did my Labrador dog.
Anyway, when Jason was back in my cab yawning and nipping from his bottle as we headed across town to motel row, he said, “Man, I am beat. That woman had me up all night. She had some good cocaine. I got no sleep. Then I worked the books and prepped all morning and had a meeting with my staff, and then I started boozing. This woman, she wants me bad. So I got tequila, I got the porno magazine, I got plenty of cash, but I got the libido of a ninety year old…” He nipped. “How about that porno shop in Atascadero? Maybe I can give this woman some action with a sex toy until my libido comes back.”
“That’s a round trip of nearly a hundred bucks, Jason. You’ll have to dish out another big bill for that, and those state-of-the-art sex toys are at least fifty bucks.”
“I don’t care, man. Right now, if I go with that woman, she might kill me. My dick’s all chewed up from that forty six year old, I’m in pain, bro’” He gazed at me with his bloodshot eyes, a desperate man. “Bro’, if I can’t perform, she’ll get rid of me, and this is a chick I wanna hold onto for the long haul. I like her.”
“Well, as a last resort, why don’t you try talking to her. I know a motel room isn’t the ideal place for it, but why don’t you try and get to know this woman as a real, live human, and maybe let her get to know you the same way. Level with her. Tell her the truth of your predicament. Maybe she’ll have mercy and you can build a nice relationship instead of a one-night stand.”
“Pull over at that gas station, please,” Jason said, looking more confused than ever. We were near the end of motel row on Monterey Street. “I’ve got to eat something. This tequila’s going straight to my head. I haven’t eaten all day, except a bag of Fritos. I won’t be able to do anything if I don’t get some food in me.”
“Right. Fuel for the grind.”
Jason seemed to be delaying the tryst in the gas station mini-mart. He browsed through some magazines, talked a little to the young gal behind the counter, purchased a 6 pack of beer, one of those giant hot dogs and nachos with cheese that somehow smelled like petroleum. He finally brought all these purchases to the cab.
He asked me what kind of motel he should go to. A fancy one, like the Holiday Inn? I shook my head. He mentioned a couple cheap ones. I discouraged both. I recommended a motel that was not too expensive, and had decent amenities. It was a place I might take a girl. He accepted my expert advice. I took him to the motel.
So Jason toted his porno magazine, a 6 pack of Lite Beer, bottle of tequila, cell phone, gizzard-curdling grub, and stood outside the motel office looking like a lost soul while I counted my tip--$75.60. He was still standing outside the office, cell phone at his ear, when I drove off.
******
I was reading outside the Wells Fargo when my phone rang and the dispatcher sent me across town to the Performing Arts Center on campus. When I arrived there a mob was spilling out of the plush auditorium. I spotted the two English major girls looking around, on cell phones. I beeped my horn and they saw me and came right over and got in.
“It’s YOU!” they cheered in unison.
“So how was David Sedaris?”
“Fab-u-lous! And guess what?” said the chunkier of the two, who sat up and leaned over the seat to tell me the good news. “David Sedaris was talking about how he gets depressed once in a while, and even considers suicide, and he said one of the reasons he’ll never commit suicide is because he might miss out on the next short story by Tobias Wolff! He loves Tobias Wolff. He must be really good.”
“So now you gotta read him, honey. You got two people recommending him—David Sedaris, world famous author and lecturer, and your local cabbie.
