DRIVING A HACK IN A TOURIST TOWN
copyright 2000 R.D.Black
all rights reserved

Delilah

early evening rush
dispatched to her apartment
she was common blond attractive
and fashionable
in a fascist sort of way

she gave me an address
up on the west side
out by the university
old homes on tree lined streets
breed dogs with stupid eyes

when we got there
a man came out
holding a baby in his arms
he paid her ride with a credit card
and I was gone
forgotten

late afternoon rush the next day
I was dispatched to her apartment again
when she came downstairs
she's with a guy
not the same guy
where I dropped her off last night

as they approach
she noticed me
he went around the back of the car
and opened the right rear door for her
she stopped by my window
she whispered quickly, hotly
"You've never seen me before."

I already knew that
"No." I said to her.

the demons in that special hell where writers go
woke up Machiavelli after a late lunch nap
to tell him how skillfully and eagerly
I fall into a conspiracy

she moved with a breathtaking audacity
to throw him off
as to why she was not in the car and standing
by my window
"I can't find my lighter," she told him
going through her pockets
'So what? We'll get another lighter." He said.
"No. I have to have that one, it's special." She said,
and went back inside the building
she went all the way to the fourteenth
floor to keep the game scoring

He got in the backseat. "Women," he said,
"they're a pain in the ass."

"Yeah," I said, "but what are we gonna do?"
buddy, I thought
you sorry assed paper man
you don't know the half of it

day shift

not much
the quiet agony of those going to work
cell phone status
businessmen on Chinese lunches
cell phone status
fashion shoppers
cell phone status
idiots in big pants
cell phone status
passed over brown nosers
bringing coffee to the office
and
the dull
in geranium microwave

riding down the east side

riding down the east side
flash blush dawn
dialectics of the abstract
bled out from the night before
pools in shadows under the soul

house café on the corner
Brazil Samba in the rich coffee
the street hangs in cold comfort
she calls a hello from a doorway
a pale, petite Magdalene in a doorway
her last smile left in the rear view
mirror of a car

drivers

you go to work
and still know
who you are
what you want
when you get home
you leave the job
on its four wheels
takes care of itself
no worries
no making coffee
for the boss
no teamwork speeches
no boring meetings
called by somebody
so they can watch
themselves shine
either you drive
or you don't
you can do it
or you don't
you belong to
yourself
the city's yours
you own it
you know it better
then anybody
even better then the cops
even better then the criminals
the booze cans
for the juice crowd
after hour joints
for the unfinished
the pretentious nightclubs
for the social parasites
the dim bars
for the lonely
the drug corners
for the dying on their feet
a social barometer of human destinies
on wheels

drivers
the ones who paint
the ones with doctorates
the ones with dying mothers
the ones with family
they never talk about
the ones with crack habits
the ones with families
in Palestine
the loners
the writers, the poets
the inventers
the social misfit
the ones with homicide
sleeping in their brains
the ones with suicide
trembling at their finger tips
the ones who never laugh
the ones who laugh too much

drivers
a past made up
of failed revolutions
and good intentions
and gone woman
and sometimes you find a woman
who's interested
and you wonder why
you wonder what is
wrong with her today?

drivers
nails of independence
in the powdered skin
of the social fabric
stylish philosophers of the rage
of that slow sparked fuse
smoldering in the belly
of the world

careers
when I stopped
at a red light
she got into the car
without being invited
it was a cold Lutheran night
on the game
she was cold
she said she wanted to
'warm up a little'
as I drove
around the block
a couple of times

she had class
she didn't ask for money
just a cigarette
she said
she'd been standing
out there for hours
and nothing doing
she said
she could be stark naked
with a hundred dollar bill
in her teeth
and no one would stop for her
she said the pigs
were going for the young girls
who were so desperate for a fix
they were turning tricks
for ten dollars

Leigh didn't turn for ten dollars
she was thirty-five
still looked good
she knew the game
and all its angles

I asked her what she did
before she got into the business
she said:
"I use to be an accountant.
You can see that natural progression
from that to this. Can't you?"

and you know something
I did

Ste. Sharon of the Stones

there's no one left
in those burned out
villages in her soul
she rides the rails
always going down
the mountain

mute ghosts
blood on her hands
the taste of iron
in her mouth
as she licks
the wound clean

halfway houses
halfway in the middle
of two nowheres
the circle never ending
the wounds never healing
her eyes never seeing
her ears never hearing
sounds or sorrows

and somewhere in all this
she fascinates me
when she tells me
she is afraid of death

driving hack in a tourist town

I was not feeling well
I was driving a hack part time
regular twelve-hour shifts
on Sundays I put in twenty-one hours
behind the wheel
by that time, I was demented
I saw phantoms flagging me down
heard beautiful women offer to take me home
heard myself refusing them
and knew there was something wrong with me

the passengers never knew
they were driving with a demon
I talked a lot
told jokes and stories
to keep their spirits up
I never take anything to stay awake
I don't have to
I have a sort of nuclear energy
when I burn out
there will be a bright orange flash
then nothing
the passengers did not know
that at any minute
I might get a mental phone call
from Don Quoxtie
and have to answer out loud
the passengers did not know
I could take off my shoes and socks
on a hot day
and put my shoes back on
going fifty miles an hour
down a city street
without breaking stride

driving to survive
all my shoes have holes in them
I'm masturbating into the void
waiting for what I don't know
that is the essence of the void
like waiting on death row
you know you're going to die
you just don't know when
there's never enough of anything
except vicious independence and uncertainty
eat enough of that diet and you get thin
driving hack in a tourist town
all the real jobs left years ago
the elected proles say with pride
'this is a service industry town'
in the dictionary two of the definitions
for service are 'servitude and slavery'
when people ask me what I do
I tell them I am a slave

the entire city is geared and gauged
to make sure people
who come here and use the city like a whore
for their entertainment
are having a good time
while they have their asses kissed
it is not even so called 'blue blood' ass anymore
Mr. and Mrs. Front porch from anywhere
can afford to take a cruise today
holidays have become democratic
cities have turned into entertainment complexes

people come here from everywhere in the world
because it is pretty to look at
mountains, water, trees, bushes.
people arrive excited by the scenery
already the next day
they're looking in the parking lot
to make sure their car's still there
it is the same thing they do at home

everywhere they go mountains, ocean
but you can't eat mountains
you can't sleep with them
unless you're very sick
and they don't tell jokes
to alleviate the boredom
all the beaches here are man made
fake beaches and fake sand
the whole town's an imitation
of somewhere else
it's the monkey child
of the marketing civilization

so around I go
we go
day or night, night or day
they roll over each other
like drunken lovers
from the bed to the floor
words run naked in my mind
I try to catch them
and put clothes on them
so, I can talk to people
who bore the hell out of themselves

they are in and out
fast the way I like it
the businessmen yattering
on their cell phones on the way
in from the airport
ordering their secretaries to
do this that and the other thing quickly
they sound as if they're lives
are one big adventure
making money in the markets
any idiot can make money
just take a look around you

old ladies with their blue hair
and unfortunate perfumes
adorable how they're still in their pitching
the looks and ambiance
young junkie prostitutes
with their damaged bodies
and all those eyes that look alike
in those merry go rounds of faces
the young hip-hop night clubbers
who think they're real cool
and can't even get a woman's phone number
they want the radio turned up
they want to go fast in the car
they need something
to make them feel better
after their dismal performances in the club
but they will be all right
they're learning about pre-planned failures

I take them all to their homes
and appointments
another twenty-one hours in the books
money jingling in my pocket
you see I told you
any idiot can make money

I walk back up the hill
in the breathless quiet of morning
thinking things aren't so bad
tough, but what isn't
walking on the edge of myself
fingering the money in my pocket
as it rubs and smiles with promises
at times like this
I can't help feeling
that maybe
I can
beat this game

orphans

the clubs and bars
have closed
the customers move off
stunned and stumbling
music still in their ears
becomes universal with messages
speaks of madness
brought on by bad chemicals
and natural potions in the heart
damaged nervous systems
hissing like chameleons
they dance in silence

mystics spread themselves
ears to the sidewalks
listening to the advance of the future
pants rolled to their knees
mumbling prophesies
unheeded by the crowds
passing over them
sailing onto shores
of sequels and reruns
with themselves
as the stars
playing the lead roles

all the bad boys
lounge on their boot heels
the loose change
of their eyes
following the moving miracle
of women
scented with perfumes and desires
going to the welcome embrace
of someone else

madmen with slack jaws
stare at pythons
drinking water from the gutters
lazily digesting hoards
of rats in their guts
pets gone beyond the control
of their masters
even kings take directions
from receptionists

gurus sit on the belly
of the world
dressed in their underware
explaining cosmic gospel to the self

stalking midnight dogs
are loose in the shadows
following on foot steps
echoing back on themselves
in the dark passages
lit only by the rescue of taxis

he climbs into the backseat
hanging in the air
the bodies of seductions and desire
he starts telling me in broken English
of his escape from some South American
tribal conflict
his family dispersed
village burned to the ground
how happy he is to be here
this is a great country

in the headlights
I see
the urgent semaphore
of people wanting me to
land on their decks
and take them home
I don't stop
they are on their own

Vodka

the night down
in the books
a bonus meeting
dawn over the wall
drinking vodka
with Christine
of the brown curls
eyes like a almond doll
a body as thin as excuses

the bottle of vodka
we're drinking from
says it is 'invisible vodka'
it is not invisible
I can see it

what kind of conspiracy
is being hatched
in those box glass
towers down town?
by those loafer wearing
Thai food take out
credit card charging
cell phone smiling
snake oil sales people?

the vodka is not invisible
I can see it
rippling and foaming
in the bottle
they are trying to get me
to deny my senses

the only time a man
denies his senses
back porches his instincts
is when he's in love

I ask Christen
if I'm in love
she says
she can't see it

young doormen

young doormen
the prima donnas
of the so called
service industry

the old doormen
know what it's all about
they know that life
is a series of stolen moments
of pleasure
punctuated with the terror
of ex wives

the young doormen
lord it over valets
and third world housekeepers
glad for the three dollars an hour

pompous in their jumped up
military uniforms
and the white gloves
of SS murders
the young doormen
even think they lord
it over the cab drivers
they don't

these young doormen
base their uniformed puffed up
self-importance
on this lickspittle foundation:
they are some
of the few people in the world
to get instant gratification
in the lava flow of a tip
right after they kiss
a stranger's ass

drug dealer

on the corner
in his corporate logo
baggy clothes
baggy clothes to hide
his goods
to hide his weapon
corporate logo
shows he's cool

in the shadows
secretive deals
whispers caught
on the breath of the wind
so much undercover nonsense
when even the devil
so they say
can't fool a dog

animal kingdom

they move like crows
looking along the ground
hunting, pecking, begging
tasting with their eyes
for value

they are not as plump
and sleek
as the crows
they are pale, thin
bones in rage
sockless in shoes
asking for bread

knowing what's coming
they are not crows
they are
what is left
of human beings
after living has left them
but life still remains

brothers

I was sitting in my cab
in front of the hotel
roasting in that tin car
under a tin roof of summer

I could see into
the cool fairyland of the hotel lobby
women in their shorts
and mid drift t-shirts
men in their baggy shorts
and round full bellies
when you're in the one meal a day
have to pay rent mold
it is easy to feel disgust
for those with time to kill
having fun
paying two hundred dollars a night
for a place to sleep

there were three nicely tanned
young women
smoking cigarettes outside the lobby
and a beggar looking for butts
in the ash trays

a hog from hell
was breathing on the city
his breath was hot
and gray and stank
even the mountains cried
from their blue heavens

finally
this guy comes out carrying
three heavy bags
I could tell by the strain
on his neck and the sag in his body
the bags were too heavy for him
he looked over at the women
smoking cigarettes
as he pulled the load
I thought he is probably one of these
poor bastards
who think women
still admire strength
in a man

I got out of the car
to give him a hand with the bags
"they're heavy," he said.

"Saw right," I said.
"I can handle anything.
I have been married twice."

he smiled
he understood

night shift

queens in silk panties
not looking for anything
people dressed in clothes
that are new here
but two years out of style
back east
the damned twinkling with diamonds
and stock options
customers in the canyons of heart burn
the waiter left untipped
the waitress on the bathroom floor
making a surprise delivery
Frankenstein gets in the car
wants to know where his shoes are
I tell him a dungaree diva
I let out two blocks
up the street had them on
a half naked woman
with breasts like Aggripina
says she wants to throw herself
off the bridge
but the water's too filthy
she settles for a cigarette
some bad songs on the radio
and a ride home
where she plans an interrupted suicide
for the bastard
a guy in the left rear seat
a girl in the right rear seat
vomiting out the windows
as I hit sixty mph going up the street
and nothing gets on the car
suburban punks without pistols
or sex lives
in pants so big
they can't find their own asses

two am
she pays with a decent tip
she has an imperitous look
in her jeweled eyes

"I'll wait until you're inside
before I go." I said

she was half in half out of the car
"Really." She said. "That's old fashioned
making sure I'm safe."

"No. That's style." I said

"Do you open doors for women too?"

"Sometimes."

"Does this work?"

"What?" I said.

"This." She said.

"Sometimes."
I watched her until she was safe in the lobby
she smiled and waved at me
my fingers played a mambo on the steering wheel
Don Juan stole flowers from someone's backyard

the radio crackled:
"Car 22, you working or not?"

"Go ahead." I said.

Samantha

the hours go by
they squeeze the life out of me
like Willie Loman said:
'a man is not a piece of fruit.'
no, he's not
but he can be squeezed
until he's dry
he can shrivel
into the dust of what he would be

he can hold your arm
as you stick the thin steel lance
into your vein
the cool damp dread of your skin
the companion of death
whispers in your ear
he can look away
so you two can be alone together
in the twisted junkyard
of the morning

driving a hack in a tourist town
poems by R.D.Black
for Debbles, thank-you