After dropping a fare in the Richmond District late one night, I head toward Haight Street. With low expectations and the 7-Noriega in front of me, I cruise past Milk Bar, Murio’s and The Alembic. At Cole, I manage to overtake the bus.
Outside of Club Deluxe a short, elderly woman sidesteps a group of smoking hepcats and hisses, “Cabbie!”
I hit the brakes.
She approaches my window with a crumpled $20 bill and mumbles, “Downtown.”
“Sure. Get in,” I say, cringing as the bus barrels down on me and she’s slowly climbing into the back of my cab. When she shuts the door it doesn’t close all the way. I take off anyway.
“Where downtown are you going?” I ask.
She responds in an unintelligible garble.
“Where?”
She mumbles something several times before I finally realize she’s saying, “Walgreens.”
“Which one?” I inquire.
“Downtown.”
“But there are so many.”
“Downtown!”
“OK.” I take a left at Ashbury.
Read the rest here.
[photo by Christian Lewis]
I Drive S.F. 