“Well, there’s no point is crying over spilt cocaine,” I say with a nervous chuckle, even though no one else in the taxi seems to share my humor at the situation.
The guy up front looks at me aghast while the two in back unleash a salvo of invectives as they make a futile attempt to scrape up the loose powder.
This is obviously not the time for jokes.
Apologizing, I hit the dome light and look in the back. There’s white powder all over their pants, the seat around them, their shoes and the floorboard.
Uhhh… “That’s not good.”
Just moments before the three guys got into my taxi in a celebratory mood. They even asked permission before snorting their drugs, which was thoughtful, since most passengers never inquire if I have a policy on consuming illegal substances before doing blow in my backseat. At least once or twice a night I have to brush cocaine residue off the leather interior…
A few rides later, I comment on the previous coke explosion to another set of happy passengers.
“I really hope this isn’t going to influence the drug test I have to take next week,” I add, jokingly. “It would just be my luck that some of the airborne molecules permeated my mucus membranes.”
“Even if you did a Tony Montana pile of cocaine, it would be out of your system completely within 72 hours,” the girl behind me says with authority. “Sooner, depending on your metabolism.”
That’s right. The only drug that stays in your urine for any significant period of time is marijuana, which the San Francisco Municipal Transportation Agency allows an exemption for, as long as you have a medical recommendation.
The whole drug test thing is completely absurd, another example of how The City holds taxi drivers to a higher standard than our ride-hail counterparts. Not to mention the cost of getting the marijuana recommendation and the $120.50 for the A-Card, as well as the time and energy running around taking care of these errands. And for what? To prove that we’re more professional than Uber and Lyft drivers?
That would be great if it actually mattered to the general public. But it doesn’t. Most people just want to tap a button in their phones and have a car show up. They could care less whether the driver was a drug fiend on PCP, a former or prospective terrorist or a law-abiding citizen.
The whole process is so infuriating, I feel like getting high just to deal …
As the night progresses, I fantasize about sabotaging my UA and testing positive for every drug on the list by going on a drug-collecting crusade that would impress Hunter S. Thompson.
Coke and ecstasy are easy to acquire at most bars in the Mission or on Polk Street … I could stop by Pill Hill and pick up some heroin … Swing by the Plaza for a little crack … I must know a meth head or two … PCP though … Since it gained peak popularity with criminals in ’70s cop shows like “Kojak” and “Baretta,” is angel dust even readily available?
“I’m sure we could do some online research and cook some up,” Mr. Judy suggests, when I broach the subject with him.
As he starts listing the kitchen utensils he’ll probably need to concoct some homemade PCP in his friend’s kitchen, I quickly change the subject …
Three days after peeing in a cup, I’m pulled over in front of Beck’s Motor Lodge answering a phone call from Wisconsin.
A grim voice on the line tells me, “I need to speak with you about the results of your recent urine analysis …”
As if my thoughts were enough to pollute my sample, I get a little nervous. “OK,” I mumble after an audible gulp.
“You tested positive for marijuana,” the doctor says. “Can you tell me why there was marijuana in your system?”
Uhhh … “Because I smoked it.”
“When was the last time you consumed marijuana?”
I did study really hard for the test … “A few days before. I don’t do it all the time or anything,” I lie.
“It seems the SFMTA has a unique policy that treats a positive result for marijuana if you have a doctor’s permission. Do you have that documentation?”
Of course.
After emailing a scan of my recommendation from the 420 Doc in Berkeley, my only obstacle to driving a taxi for another year is heading down to One South Van Ness and forking over the $120.50 fee to the SFMTA.
I feel so special.
[photo by Christian Lewis]
I Drive S.F. 