It’s late. Wednesday night. I’m making one last round through the Tenderloin before taking the bridge home to Oakland.
While driving past the usual clusterfuck of SUVs, towncars and taxis double-parked in front of the New Century, two women flag me on the corner of Geary.
Despite the weather, they’re scantily clad. And what clothes they are wearing only seem to emphasize their Rubenesque figures. With them is a tall gentleman who looks like he stumbled out of a sales conference. He seems to be shielding his eyes from the glow of the streetlight.
As the women slink into the backseat, the guy gets up front, much to their dismay.
“Come sit back here with us?” they whine.
“I’m all right,” he replies in an English accent.
I try to show him how to adjust the seat, since it’s pushed all the way forward, but he ignores me and remains scrunched up with his knees against the dash.
“Acer Hotel, driver,” says the woman on my right.
“Where?” I ask.
“The Acer. It’s in Union Square.”
“O’Farrell and Mason,” the woman behind me clarifies.
“You don’t know the Acer?” the first lady asks. “How long you been driving taxi?”
“Couple years,” I say.
“Don’t worry, baby, you’ll get the hang of it eventually.”
Read the rest here.
[photo by Trevor Johnson]