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Sharks

Kirk Alex

(excerpted from Blood, Sweat and Chump Change ––
Taxi Tales & Vignettes by the author)

I return to the hotel.
An hour or so later
the doorman makes it a
point to walk over
to the cab stand
where I’m first up.

“I’ve got an airport coming up,”
he says.
I nod, say: “Okay.”
I’m not exactly sure what he’s
getting at. Well, let’s say I know
what he wants, but I’d rather hear him
say it.

“I’ve got a trip to LAX coming out
in a couple of minutes,” he
says.
“What’re you after? You want a tip,
is that it?”
“Well, yeah,” he says, almost
sheepishly. “You haven’t worked here before,
have you?”
“Not for a while,” I tell him.
This small talk is pure shit.
“How much do you want? A
couple of bucks?”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
“No problem.”

He walks back to his post in front
of the Westwood Marquis.

Sharks. A town of Sharks. Coming at you
from all sides.
They never did this here
before.
I don’t say that I don’t get it
or don’t understand—because
I do.
It still doesn’t change the fact
that it’s pretty pathetic.

From top on down—
they all feed
off the guy
on the bottom rung.

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