During last call on Friday nights, I usually wait out the shit show in some dark recess of The City. A few weeks ago, though, trying to escape the sloshed fields of the Mission, I was driving past the Armory Club when a guy jumped in front of my cab.
“Will you take five of us?” he asks.
While it’s not exactly legal to transport more people than there are seatbelts, what are laws in San Francisco anymore but mere suggestions?
As three women and one dude pile into the backseat, laughing and grunting as they position themselves in a tight mass, the first guy holds the door open like he’s directing traffic, then jumps in the front seat.
“83 Elaine Ave.,” he says. “We’re going to my place. I have plenty of booze, so we can keep this party going. Right?”
Everyone cheers.
“Where?” I ask.
“Mill Valley,” he tells me.
“To the bridge!” the guy in back yells. “Take us to the bridge!”
Read the rest here.
[photo by Christian Lewis]
I Drive S.F. 