Recession Taxi

The USS Windstar at the fleet master's special garage.

The Windstar was in a death spiral.

There was coughing at red lights, worrisome revving in transit, occasional engine whine and a furiously blinking warning light. But a passenger was about to get in and there was a lease payment to make. I reached the fleet master, as always, on his cell phone. The fleet master always answers his cell phone.

Yes John!

I’m about to head over with your money, I tell him. But there’s a problem.

He listens to my situation–and in what passes for compassion from the fleet master–orders me to grab a pen and take down an address.

You must take to shop right away, he orders me. You must go now. You tell them I send you. Do not drive too fast.

But what about the lease, I ask. I won’t be able to get to the office in time to cash out my receipts.

You leave money at garage.

Uh, ok.

I show up about an hour later.

But the fleet master’s special garage doesn’t look so special. Hell, it doesn’t look like a garage, at least from the front. It’s a no frills, antiseptic, walk up office a few miles from O’Hare. There’s a pretty young Russian woman at the front desk, a few chairs, some magazines, a water dispenser and a TV bolted to the wall.

I tell her who has sent me.

The garage is around back, she tells me.

I drive to the end of the block, make a right and then another right into the alley. White taxis sit parked on either side of a tall garage door. I pull the Windstar to a stop inside and get out. A crew of powerfully built, middle-aged Russian men in blue jumpsuits is lugging heavy auto parts and tools back and forth across the garage floor. Nearly all of them work with cigarettes permanently dangling from their lips. It’s a sight to behold. Work and smoke. Smoke and work. A feat of physics that makes you want to rip open a pack of Pall Malls, grab yourself a tire iron and join in the fun.

About fifteen minutes go by before anyone even acknowledges my presence. A guy in blue work pants and a white button down mechanic’s shirt, sleeves rolled up high, nods. He’s got a penetrating stare and is a dead ringer for the 1980s, KGB-era Vladimir Putin. I tell him why I’ve come and who has sent me. He gestures to another guy, the head of the garage apparently, a tall, lean muscular fellow in blue jeans, boots, and a black t-shirt. While they confer, I look around. There are taxis, limos and other vehicles in various states of repair. It looks like I’ll be here all afternoon. But when someone finally takes my keys, it appears my job has been put on the fast track. In a matter of minutes, the Windstar is in a service bay, airborne. I call the fleet master to ask where he wants me to leave his lease money.

I’m coming there, he says. I cash your credit card receipts!

I’m sitting on a stool, adding up the numbers on my phone, when the fleet master shows up.

John!

We shake hands as always. Then, acting very much like it’s his garage, the fleet master leads me to the air-conditioned waiting room.

If you cash out at taxi company, he says, they take 12% off top. You can submit in envelope, they send you a check and take 5%. I will do for you right now and take 10%. (said with smile) He explains this as if I have a choice, knowing full well that, at least for today, I don’t.

I added it up already, I tell him. It’s $449.20. He smiles, takes the receipts from me, and immediately begins his own calculation. Minus his 10%, the total is $404.28.

I stuff the receipts in an envelope and fish through my wallet for an additional forty-six bucks to make lease. Someone comes out and says the Windstar is fixed. What was wrong with her? I realize I have no idea.

Meanwhile, the fleet master, as he is inclined to do, has mysteriously disappeared. I call his cell phone. He appears out back in the alley, from where I don’t know. I hand him the envelope, wish him a happy weekend and watch him disappear back into the garage.