I’m determined to get a ride out of the Great American Music Hall after the Murder City Devils show. Or watch the last rocker wander off into the Tenderloin night.
I’ve been waiting for almost fifteen minutes when my door opens and a guy shoves a girl roughly into the backseat.
“I swear to god, Jill!” the guy says. “I can’t take you anywhere!”
“I don’t understand why you’re making a big deal out of this?”
He recounts the incident for her: They were in the mosh pit when some girl told Jill her boyfriend grabbed her ass. Knowing this to be a lie, Jill slapped the girl. A row ensued, and the band stopped playing. Just as the lead singer had smoothed things over, Jill ran up to the girl and socked her in the eye.
“I knocked that bitch the hell out!” Jill laughs.
“You just don’t get it! I’m sick of you getting into fights!”
“Is that why you never fuck me anymore?”
“What are you talking about?”
As things get more personal, I cringe internally. Still, this couple’s squabble isn’t as bad as the that time I drove a couple all the way to Milpitas as they broke up in my backseat. I was pushing the cab as fast as it would go down 880 before the guy started crying. And then we hit traffic.
This guy, on the other hand, is definitely the aggressor. I want to tell him to chill out so badly. Dude, go home and make love to your girlfriend like you used to, back when you got off on her beating up other girls.