fall on my butt, and I didn’t have a heart attack or collapse before I hit Second Avenue, either, but it was close. I was still panting when I staggered up to the lobby at Bell-town Terrace. Jerome opened the door to let me in.
“Hey, man,” he said. “What’s with you? You been running that four-minute mile again?”
“More like ten,” I gasped. “But I need a car or a cab. With either four-wheel drive and snow tires or chains, I don’t care which. And I need it now.”
“A good doorman is like a Boy Scout. We’re always prepared,” he said with a grin. “I have a friend who drives a cab, and he and I have an arrangement. He came to work today with his cab all decked out in chains. I’ve got his cell number right here, and I’ve been calling him all day long whenever any of my people need help. I’ll give him a call.”
“Please,” I said. “I don’t know how long I’m going to need him, but tell him I’ll make it worth his while.”
“He’s been pretty busy today,” Jerome said. “As you can well imagine. So why don’t you go upstairs and wait. I’ll call you just as soon as Mohammad Ibrahim shows up.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll do that.”
While I was upstairs waiting for the cab, I switched on the TV. On KOMO a special early edition of the evening news was dishing out wall-to-wall weather. “The Counterbalance on Queen Anne Avenue is closed to all vehicular traffic, while kids, taking advantage of their snow day, turn it into a place for sledding. Reporter Megan Forester has a live report.”
Years ago, Seattle used to have a working trolley system, not just the current tourist-attraction-type outfit that runs back and forth along the waterfront without really making much of a contribution to mass transportation. Like similar trolleys in San Francisco, the old system required a counterbalance in order for cars to make it up and down the steepest part of Queen Anne Hill. The working trolleys are long gone, but on Queen Anne the word “counterbalance” persists, and it is, as the name implies, very steep. Letting kids use it for sledding seemed like a recipe for disaster. I was surprised the city hadn’t put a stop to it based solely on liability concerns.
Kamikaze sledders weren’t my problem. Queen Anne Hill was. If the main drag up and down the hill was closed, Mohammad Ibrahim might have a tough time getting me anywhere near Ron and Amy’s place. When Jerome called upstairs to tell me the cab had arrived, I rode down in the elevator expecting that the driver would be a newly arrived immigrant from some Middle Eastern country and that communication might be difficult.
It turned out Mr. Ibrahim wasn’t exactly a newly landed immigrant. He had been driving cabs in Seattle for some time, but he hadn’t gotten around to changing the name on his driver’s license photo ID, where he was still listed as James L. Jackson, and the old country he hailed from was actually west Texas.
“You tell me where y’all want to go,” he said in a thick Texas drawl, “and I’ll be getting you there.”
I expected he’d drive like a madman. He didn’t. Instead of tackling Queen Anne Hill straight on, he took a circuitous route that eased us up the flanks of the hill, the same way a highway zigzags back and forth climbing a mountain. When we reached Ron and Amy’s street, however, we weren’t the first to arrive. Not everybody in local television land was focused on the weather. Two television cam-vans were parked out front.
“Park here,” I told Mr. Ibrahim. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to wait here with the meter running.” I reached into my wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “This isn’t on the meter, by the way,” I added. “And there’s more where that came from if you’re still here when I get back.”
“Where y’all gonna be?” he asked.
“That house up there,” I said, pointing.
“The one with all the cameras outside?”
I didn’t
“Hey, man,” he said. “What’s with you? You been running that four-minute mile again?”
“More like ten,” I gasped. “But I need a car or a cab. With either four-wheel drive and snow tires or chains, I don’t care which. And I need it now.”
“A good doorman is like a Boy Scout. We’re always prepared,” he said with a grin. “I have a friend who drives a cab, and he and I have an arrangement. He came to work today with his cab all decked out in chains. I’ve got his cell number right here, and I’ve been calling him all day long whenever any of my people need help. I’ll give him a call.”
“Please,” I said. “I don’t know how long I’m going to need him, but tell him I’ll make it worth his while.”
“He’s been pretty busy today,” Jerome said. “As you can well imagine. So why don’t you go upstairs and wait. I’ll call you just as soon as Mohammad Ibrahim shows up.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll do that.”
While I was upstairs waiting for the cab, I switched on the TV. On KOMO a special early edition of the evening news was dishing out wall-to-wall weather. “The Counterbalance on Queen Anne Avenue is closed to all vehicular traffic, while kids, taking advantage of their snow day, turn it into a place for sledding. Reporter Megan Forester has a live report.”
Years ago, Seattle used to have a working trolley system, not just the current tourist-attraction-type outfit that runs back and forth along the waterfront without really making much of a contribution to mass transportation. Like similar trolleys in San Francisco, the old system required a counterbalance in order for cars to make it up and down the steepest part of Queen Anne Hill. The working trolleys are long gone, but on Queen Anne the word “counterbalance” persists, and it is, as the name implies, very steep. Letting kids use it for sledding seemed like a recipe for disaster. I was surprised the city hadn’t put a stop to it based solely on liability concerns.
Kamikaze sledders weren’t my problem. Queen Anne Hill was. If the main drag up and down the hill was closed, Mohammad Ibrahim might have a tough time getting me anywhere near Ron and Amy’s place. When Jerome called upstairs to tell me the cab had arrived, I rode down in the elevator expecting that the driver would be a newly arrived immigrant from some Middle Eastern country and that communication might be difficult.
It turned out Mr. Ibrahim wasn’t exactly a newly landed immigrant. He had been driving cabs in Seattle for some time, but he hadn’t gotten around to changing the name on his driver’s license photo ID, where he was still listed as James L. Jackson, and the old country he hailed from was actually west Texas.
“You tell me where y’all want to go,” he said in a thick Texas drawl, “and I’ll be getting you there.”
I expected he’d drive like a madman. He didn’t. Instead of tackling Queen Anne Hill straight on, he took a circuitous route that eased us up the flanks of the hill, the same way a highway zigzags back and forth climbing a mountain. When we reached Ron and Amy’s street, however, we weren’t the first to arrive. Not everybody in local television land was focused on the weather. Two television cam-vans were parked out front.
“Park here,” I told Mr. Ibrahim. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to wait here with the meter running.” I reached into my wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “This isn’t on the meter, by the way,” I added. “And there’s more where that came from if you’re still here when I get back.”
“Where y’all gonna be?” he asked.
“That house up there,” I said, pointing.
“The one with all the cameras outside?”
I didn’t
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