My column this week is about a “fight” outside a bar in the Mission, told from the perspectives of both participants and witnesses, all of whom were passengers in my taxi. Rashomon on wheels.
On the corner of 16th and Valencia, two guys jump in my taxi going to Molotov’s.
As I take 15th Street to Church Street, one asks the other, “Hey, did you hear about that fight outside Delirium tonight?”
“Yeah. Cops showed up and everything.”
“What’s with all the violence in the Mission lately?” his friend wonders.
“These tech bros are out of control,” the first one says. “They make all this money, but it’s not enough to get them laid so they start fights.”
A short while later, I drop at the 500 Club and pull over on 17th to count my money. Out of the darkness, a guy wobbles toward my cab and climbs into my backseat.
“Do you know where the Orange Village Hostel is?” Young and somewhat bedraggled, he struggles with the door. His right arm is injured, forcing him to reach over with his left.
“What happened to you?” I ask, heading to Union Square.
He snorts. “I was attacked by a bunch of assholes from Chicago.”
“Where were you?” I inquire, thinking about the fight outside Delirium earlier.
“Don’t know. Don’t care. The cops were at least able to see both sides. Even if they were from Chicago, too.”
“I may need to go to the hospital,” he says casually. “But I have to stop by my hotel first. My phone’s dead.”
I offer him a charger.
“It won’t get enough of a charge!” he shouts and then howls in pain.
I look over my shoulder. “Dude! Your arm is completely bent in the wrong direction. You seriously need a doctor.”
“I know that, son!” He barks.
“Look, I know this must seem sensational to you, but this isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Whatever.” Just another night driving taxi on the mean streets of San Francisco…