Taxicab confession

I have a problem.

No shit, Hedy.

Right. Fine. I have many problems.

But to be a little more specific, my current Major Problem involves cabs. Yes, cabs.

I am addicted to taxicabs.

It’s coming up on a year that I’ve been at the Wondrous Melty Chocolate Chip Job in the Egregiously Far and Inconvenient River North neighborhood of Chicago. And while I'm still rockin' the aforementioned cookie sheet, anything I found remotely interesting or convenient about public transportation is gone-daddy-gone.

So I’ve been sneaking cab rides. Lots of cab rides.

It goes something like this:

“I really need to get to the office-home-doctor-lunch-seminar-dinner-store-dry cleaner so I’ll just grab a cab. It’s faster.”
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“You’re taking cabs?” asks Jim. “That’s where all your money is going? I thought you had a crack habit.”

“Crack is probably cheaper. And think of how much fun I’d be if I lost all my teeth.”
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Here’s the upside to this unsavory addiction: I have tons of cab driver stories. I meet guys – they’re all guys – from all over. Mostly from Pakistan for some reason. But also Nigeria. Afghanistan. Turkey. Syria. And one remarkably bad driver from China.

Anyhow.

Last night I got a dead ringer for Hannibal Lecter. I never caught his country of origin and here’s why:

Do do do di do
Do do do da do

Do do do di do
Do do do da do

Shortly after climbing in and saying my standard “HihowareyouUnionStationplease” his phone starts ringing.

Do do do di do
Do do do da do

Do do do di do
Do do do da do

And ringing.

Do do do di do
Do do do da do

Do do do di do
Do do do da do

And ringing.

Not irritating. Just a sing-songy sort of soft ring floating back from the depths of the front seat.

After about the fourth call, I say “Somebody really needs you.”

“This is Secretary of Interior,” says Hannibal, glancing back in the mirror. “You know who this is?”

“Your wife?”

“Yes, she thinks I am with someone else when I don’t answer,” he explained. “She doesn’t like it.”

Call me twisted but I look straight into his bright blue Hannibal-esque eyes and say: “Well, you are with someone else right now, aren’t you?”

Which earns me a great big belly laugh and this: “Next time she call, how about you pick up? Okay? We see what happens.”

Then we both giggle maniacally like serial killers on crack.

This poor guy gets at least 20 calls in between my office and the train station. The phone rings the entire trip. We feel what could only be described as Wife Rage oozing from his phone.

“Why don’t you just pick it up?” I ask. “It’s okay.”

“No, it is my policy,” he explains. “I do not talk on my phone when I am working. When I am driving. My wife, she knows this.”
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But Hedy, what if it was a wife-related emergency?

Right.

What if?

I'd believe that IF he hadn't said the thing about how “She thinks I am with someone else when I don’t answer” and “She doesn’t like it.”

If by some dark miracle it actually was an emergency, this bitch has been calling wolf for so long the poor guy wouldn't believe it anyhow.
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By the end of the ride, I really really really want to pick up that phone.

Here’s what I want to say:

“Honey, I’ve been there. I’ve been you. Desperately dialing my guy and getting No Answer until poor little Hedy is ready to go kersplody all over the phone. It’s time. Time to let it go. He’s cute. But he’s not cheating on you. He loves you. You’re the one he comes home to every night. You are the best thing that ever happened to him. Start acting like it. You may not be the one he thinks about every time he jacks off in the shower, but if you’re keeping him happy in the sack he won’t be doing that so much. Sure, he had some fun before he met you. That's a good thing. All that fun helped him figure out what he likes and he likes YOU. If you don’t trust him by now you really need to look at yourself for the reason why because he’s never given you a really good reason to doubt him. Fine, you may not trust other women, but you can definitely trust him. TRUST HIM. He’s working. He’s fixing a furnace. He’s in a meeting with a client. Or he’s driving some cab-addicted chubby chick to the train station. But he’s thinking about you the whole time and wishing you’d just chill the fuck out and let him do his job. His job is important. Not as important as you and the kids, but it’s important. So take a deep breath, put the phone down and let him do it. Thank you.

By the way your husband is really hot. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Okay maybe not that last part. But you get it.

Meanwhile, back at Hannibal’s phone. Still ringing.

We arrive. I've got my cab ride fix, so I stop twitching and pay.

“Thankyouverymuchhaveagreatnight,” I say.

“Okay, we gonna fight now. Bye.”

Seriously. If I’m Hannibal Lecter’s wife, I’m not calling him with Wife Rage while he’s working.

Because my sorry ass just might end up on a plate with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.
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I am listening to: Do do do di do
I am reading: A proposal for Restaurant.com
And I am: Finally feeling all writey again