Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Seventy-five

I'm not sure if it was me or the hiring process of the cab companies, but yet another interesting character became a part of my life on the last day of the year.

"Mother fucker, asshole jerk" were the words spoken as I entered the cab.

"Excuse me?"

"Where to, sir?" He changed his tone.

"1616 N. Lake Shore ... please."

Then without provocation, the driver slapped the right side of his neck, causing his stringy, combed-over hair and oversized glasses to make a major shift. He then exploded with, "You dumb fucking asshole, what did I tell you?" And we were on our merry way.

Naturally I wasn't in any fear of having a conversation with this driver; it was enough for me to keep up with the one he was having with himself. As Lee June, which his taxi permit card read, kept slapping himself, which at times, if the slap was significant enough, caused him to swerve the car, I began to feel a bit sorry for him. I wondered if he had medication to help, I wondered if he'd been like this as a kid, and if so, what a cruel joke. I wondered what his life was like. Was he lonely, did he have any friends, family—I was about to make conversation with him, engage him in some friendly banter on this holiday, when combined with a sneeze, he hit himself so hard on the neck, his head snapped forward and hit the steering wheel, and he lost consciousness.

I freaked. Although he appeared to be unconscious, and slumped over the steering wheel, that didn't prevent his foot from being weighted on the gas pedal. In other words, the cab kept moving. It swerved one way and then another, depending on the makeup of the road. We traveled east on Irving Park Road toward the Lake Shore Drive on-ramp. Traffic started to heavy up.

There were several things not going in our favor. Slick, icy December roads, dark December nights, holiday crowds of cars and people, and I couldn't get to the front to help Lee June because there was a thick bullet-fucking-proof plastic apparatus between him and me, with an opening big enough for a three-year-old-girl to squeeze through it. Nonetheless, I gave it a shot.

We veered slowly toward the passenger's side of the street. Cars behind honked impatiently. I struggled to fit my head, shoulders, and arms through at the same time, but couldn't. I yelled at the top of my lungs for Lee June to snap out of it. Nothing. I tried different body parts through the window. My right arm, my left arm. I stuck my head through to see if my teeth would reach. I couldn't gain leverage—his seat was pulled too close to the wheel. I finally stuck my right foot and leg though the opening in attempt to dislodge him from the wheel—Then I had another thought. So with my right foot making connection with Lee June, I managed to plant it between his shoulder blades. The problem was the tux shoe, because of its slick sole, kept sliding off of his velour shirt.

There was just no time to get my foot back through the window, take the shoe off, and stick it all through again, and expect to get out of the way of the cars now stopping at a red light in front of us, so I used his shoulder in an attempt to wedge the shoe off. My foot felt swollen—all the blood from my yelling and panicking must've all gone to my foot, because I was having the hardest time dislodging the damn shoe. It got to the point that I was so frustrated, and I yanked so hard on his shoulder, that not only did I dislodge my shoe, which ended up on the dashboard by the way, but I inadvertently dislodged Lee June from the steering wheel, causing him to fall backward against the thick bullet-fucking-proof plastic. I guess he hit his head so hard, he snapped out of whatever state of being he was in, because before I knew it, he was hands-on-wheel, and coming to a complete stop at the stoplight.

So the only thing left to do, really, was explain why my leg was through the window, and my shoe on his dashboard.

First came the slap to the neck, then the ..."Suck me, you lowly bitch fuck. Eat my fucking ass," and Lee June was back.

I slowly, and as nonchalantly as I could, pulled my foot back through the window. I had every intention of giving Lee June an explanation, when he reached for the shoe on the dash board, looked it over, and spoke.

"Excuse me, sir. It seems as though someone has misplaced their shoe. Would you like it? It looks too big for me."

Apparently, no explanation was needed.