Unsung Heroes of the Night

Originally published September 2004

As the summer draws to a close, I’m taking a step back from my usual rant because I think it’s high time we thanked the unsung heroes of the night. The men and women who have bailed us all out of situations we don’t care to—or can’t—remember. I’d gladly shake your hands and thank each of you in person, but the bottom line is I don’t think I could pick any one of you out of a line-up. This one’s for the cab drivers of the world.

You who listen to us babble and ramble incoherently in a language that 6 or 7 drinks ago might have passed for English.

You who night after night run the risk of someone’s dinner making a cameo in the back of your cab.

You who fearlessly allow roving bands of pledges into your backseat without a moment’s hesitation; knowing that your upholstery may never recover.

You who no matter the traffic conditions can find a place to pull over in a split second should an urgent plea voice itself from the backseat.

You who feign interest in our troubles and woes as we transfer our therapy sessions from the bartender’s face to the back of your head. We know you don’t care about the complete jerk who came in with us and went home with some tramp. And God knows we know you don’t care about the bitch that let us buy her drinks all night and then left with some pretty-boy meathead. Although we’re certain you can sympathize.

You who pretend not to notice as we maul each other in the backseat like rabid dogs, breaking apart only long enough to introduce ourselves.

You who can translate “doyouwannaknowwhyi’msohammered” from one word into a sentence.

You who turn the other cheek as we stumble, bereft of balance and depth perception, from your cab to the awaiting asphalt; then graciously ask if we’re okay—a question whose answer was painfully obvious when we called your dispatcher.

You who continue to drive even though we have no idea where we live or how to get there, and probably won’t for the next few hours.

You who recognize that there’s nothing wrong with making a last-second u-turn to satisfy a wee-hour doughnut craving.

You who trust that we have the cash to take care of you at the end of the line, and gracefully accept the twisted and crumpled bills we offer up from beyond the depths of our purses and pockets.

You who know that when we slur, with all the conviction we can muster, “I’d’ve fought ‘em all—and won. I mean to tell you their mother’s would’ve wept when they saw what I’d done to ‘em…” that we have never been more full of sh!t in our lives. And we appreciate you keeping the “you couldn’t kick your own ass right now” thought to yourselves.

You who put up with the squealing and giggling of 19-year-old girls bombed for the first time on Melon Ball Shooters.

You who put up with the squealing and giggling of 29-year-old women bombed, again, on Martinis and Mai Tais.

You who politely look the other direction in the grocery store and hold your snickering until we are well out of earshot.

You who are forced nightly to answer an endless parade of asinine questions like, “Do you remember that episode of Taxi when Alex went with Jim to get his driver’s license…?”  Conversations that always manage to stampede steadily downhill to topics like “Has anyone ever had sex back here?”

You whose fail-safe hangover cures always fall on deaf ears.

And you who would curse a blue streak and throw us out into traffic if not for the fact that you’ve probably been there once or twice yourselves, I thank you.

I look forward to the next time I don’t remember seeing you.

And finally, on a personal note: I’d like to thank one particular garbage truck driver who offered door to door service bright and early one morning, and in doing so gave me one of the funniest stories I’ve ever had the pleasure of retelling.