Recession Taxi

Each day, upon taking command of the Windstar, I punch in a code to let my boss, the computer (Hal), know I’m ready to work. Almost always, the following response comes back over the radio: 875, 10-8! But this morning, I get the command that all drivers dread: 875, 10x! I’d been 10x’d. Shut down. Locked out. Grounded by air traffic control. The reason? A tiny patch (and I mean tiny) of rusting real estate near the Windstar’s left back fender. I have an immediate sense of where this is headed.

I call the Fleet Master.

Yes John, he answers as always.

I explain the problem.

Go to the garage, he tells me. Call me when you are there.

The Fleet Master’s Special Garage is busier than on my first visit .

Nearly every service bay has a taxi in it and cars are lined up outside the entrance to the garage, waiting to get in.

I call the Fleet Master back.

Ok, he is going to fix it now, he reassures me. Everything is going to be fine!

I decide to wait inside the garage for a while to take in the scene.

A tired-looking chauffeur, his tie loosened and hanging down below his collar, waits for his vehicle a few feet away. As on my earlier visit, cigarette-smoking mechanics in blue jumpsuits scurry this way and that. One of the guys wears a dark vest over his one-piecer with some sort of law enforcement badge on the breast. I later notice this man operating a blowtorch. The garage manager, in his dark blue dungarees, dark shirt and leather shoes, looks more like a lounge manager than the ring leader of this group. He doesn’t wear a belt and seems to continuously shift between pulling up his pants and manipulating the cigarettes he chain smokes. He’s more volatile today than the first time I visited, occasionally berating his mechanics in Russian.

The actual physical space is a mixture of order and chaos. Along one wall, for example, sit neat, orderly stacks of car batteries and tire rims. But a stones throw away is a mountain of discarded exhaust pipes and rusting decrepit engine parts. Overall, the place has the feel of an operation determined to do the bare minimum–and no more–to keep cabs on the road.

The repair seems to be taking longer than I expected, so I head for the waiting room.

It’s one of those waiting rooms where Regis and Kelly is always playing on the TV at an offensively high volume. A woman sits behind the reception desk. She’s Russian, with model-quality looks and a stern demeanor.

After about twenty minutes, a guy I’ve never seen before comes through the door from the garage. He wears stylish sunglasses, jeans, a designer jacket and fancy leather shoes. 875 he says to me. He’s the Fleet Master’s nephew. He orders me to follow him. He leads me outside to the Windstar, which, unsurprisingly, has been sitting there the whole time, untouched.

It’s a mad house here today, says the Fleet Nephew. We’re going to send you to another body shop. He hands me a sheet of paper with an address on it. They’re expecting you.

I get in the Windstar, drive away, and ten minutes later, pull into a small body shop.

Yeah, where’s the rust, asks a young guy with tatto0es on his forearms, as I get out of the van. I show him and he pulls the Windstar into the entryway of the garage. Ten minutes later, it’s ready. It’s not the highest quality work I’ve seen. Basically, it looks like the guy painted over the rust with watercolors. It’ll pass, he assures me.
I drive the short distance to taxi dispatch and pull in around 1PM. An inspector comes out and stands in front of the left fender. After a long pause, he looks at me. Does this look fixed to you, he asks. No, I say. This is no good. You tell the Fleet Master he needs to take care of this.