Nobody's gonna really care."
"Or find yourself a nice dark alley," Foster advised.
"Now don't give him any ideas." Hagarty said. "We've got enough work already."
Any driver who refuses a fare on grounds of NOT KNOWING where passenger's destination is, in addition to being charged with refusal of service under S28-28 Mcc and this rule, shall be retested. Failure to pass the written test shall result in recommendation for revocation.
City of Chicago, Department of Consumer Services, Public Vehicle Operations Division
It was one in the morning when I headed east towards the lakefront. Relita was a whore. Didn't that just figure?
I laughed at my own disappointment. What had I expected to find in an alley in the middle of the night, a choir girl?
On Sheffield Avenue, a cab light was flashing. People were milling about under a nightclub canopy. The ladies were in long dresses; the men in suits and ties. One cab was loading up and three empty cabs waited, blocking half the street.
I was going around the whole mess when an older guy stepped out from the crowd and pointed straight at me. I stopped and waved him over. The waiting cabs started honking their horns, the drivers yelling out the windows, but the guy didn't pay any attention. He shook a few hands, hugged a woman and walked right past the cabs and opened my door.
"Madison Street," he said, sliding in.
"Long street," I said as I started away. "Where to?"
"I'm not exactly sure," he said. "But I'll let you know when we get there."
"Gotta know where I'm going, pal." Rule number one.
He was a rugged looking guy, fifty or sixty, with thinning grey hair and a slender white scar that ran straight down from one baggy eye. He caught my eye in the mirror, then a ten dollar bill came sailing over the back of my seat. "Humor me a little, okay?"
"Sure," I said, and I tucked the ten away. "But it really is a long street. Can you at least give me a hint?"
"Why don't we start at the beginning," he said.
The guy didn't say a word all the way down Lake Shore to Randolph Street. I turned left on Michigan, then made the next right. "Madison Street," I said.
"It's nice to get a white guy for a change," he said as we went under the elevated tracks.
We went through the Loop and across the river and then the highway. "Where'd they all go?" he asked a couple of blocks later. There were blocks of nothing but empty lots. Then several blocks where a few buildings had survived. Then more empty lots. "Christ, this used to be wall-to-wall winos," he said. "In the summer they'd be sittin' all up and down the sidewalk. I mean, there wouldn't be one empty spot. They'd be passing bottles of cheap wine back and forth. The smell was really something."
"Those were the days," I said. And I remembered that sickening smell, being trapped on a Madison bus on a hot summer afternoon trying not to breathe.
But the flop houses and the bars, the missions and soup kitchens, pawnshops and liquor stores, the little hole-in-the-wall joints, and the winos who had patronized them all, had been gone for years. One lonely day-labor house was the only hint that--not too many years ago--the largest Skid Row in the country had been right here.
"Probably all dead," he said.
"More than likely," I agreed. Dead and buried in Potter's Field, one on top of another in a long trench, cheap pine boxes, no marker, no mourners, the We Haul Anything Cartage Company instead of a hearse. Where have all the winos gone?
The surviving buildings were mostly dark brick and covered with old, rusted burglar gates. There were a couple of restaurant supply houses that looked like they'd
been there before Skid Row. They'd waited out the bad times and now the rebirth of the Near West Side was approaching.
There was one new building right on Madison and a couple of remodeled storefronts. But for the most part the signs of the future were hidden away on the side streets, where several brand new office buildings stood. They were
"Or find yourself a nice dark alley," Foster advised.
"Now don't give him any ideas." Hagarty said. "We've got enough work already."
Any driver who refuses a fare on grounds of NOT KNOWING where passenger's destination is, in addition to being charged with refusal of service under S28-28 Mcc and this rule, shall be retested. Failure to pass the written test shall result in recommendation for revocation.
City of Chicago, Department of Consumer Services, Public Vehicle Operations Division
It was one in the morning when I headed east towards the lakefront. Relita was a whore. Didn't that just figure?
I laughed at my own disappointment. What had I expected to find in an alley in the middle of the night, a choir girl?
On Sheffield Avenue, a cab light was flashing. People were milling about under a nightclub canopy. The ladies were in long dresses; the men in suits and ties. One cab was loading up and three empty cabs waited, blocking half the street.
I was going around the whole mess when an older guy stepped out from the crowd and pointed straight at me. I stopped and waved him over. The waiting cabs started honking their horns, the drivers yelling out the windows, but the guy didn't pay any attention. He shook a few hands, hugged a woman and walked right past the cabs and opened my door.
"Madison Street," he said, sliding in.
"Long street," I said as I started away. "Where to?"
"I'm not exactly sure," he said. "But I'll let you know when we get there."
"Gotta know where I'm going, pal." Rule number one.
He was a rugged looking guy, fifty or sixty, with thinning grey hair and a slender white scar that ran straight down from one baggy eye. He caught my eye in the mirror, then a ten dollar bill came sailing over the back of my seat. "Humor me a little, okay?"
"Sure," I said, and I tucked the ten away. "But it really is a long street. Can you at least give me a hint?"
"Why don't we start at the beginning," he said.
The guy didn't say a word all the way down Lake Shore to Randolph Street. I turned left on Michigan, then made the next right. "Madison Street," I said.
"It's nice to get a white guy for a change," he said as we went under the elevated tracks.
We went through the Loop and across the river and then the highway. "Where'd they all go?" he asked a couple of blocks later. There were blocks of nothing but empty lots. Then several blocks where a few buildings had survived. Then more empty lots. "Christ, this used to be wall-to-wall winos," he said. "In the summer they'd be sittin' all up and down the sidewalk. I mean, there wouldn't be one empty spot. They'd be passing bottles of cheap wine back and forth. The smell was really something."
"Those were the days," I said. And I remembered that sickening smell, being trapped on a Madison bus on a hot summer afternoon trying not to breathe.
But the flop houses and the bars, the missions and soup kitchens, pawnshops and liquor stores, the little hole-in-the-wall joints, and the winos who had patronized them all, had been gone for years. One lonely day-labor house was the only hint that--not too many years ago--the largest Skid Row in the country had been right here.
"Probably all dead," he said.
"More than likely," I agreed. Dead and buried in Potter's Field, one on top of another in a long trench, cheap pine boxes, no marker, no mourners, the We Haul Anything Cartage Company instead of a hearse. Where have all the winos gone?
The surviving buildings were mostly dark brick and covered with old, rusted burglar gates. There were a couple of restaurant supply houses that looked like they'd
been there before Skid Row. They'd waited out the bad times and now the rebirth of the Near West Side was approaching.
There was one new building right on Madison and a couple of remodeled storefronts. But for the most part the signs of the future were hidden away on the side streets, where several brand new office buildings stood. They were
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