Recession Taxi

Another day, another misadventure with the Fleet Master.

I’m sitting in the post this morning, at the train station, when a cop walks up. He’s a big, burly officer, one of those “I’m in charge, you are not!” guys.

Do you have a chauffeur’s license for this town, he asks.

No.

I tell him what taxi dispatch told me, when I did my training:

You gotta get a license for one of the towns you’ll be working in. But don’t worry about the other town. Technically, you need one, but the police there haven’t been checking and may not even be issuing new licenses right now.

Whoever told you that is wrong, the cop says. Also, the town inspection sticker on this vehicle is expired!

Drivers license please.

The cop disappears into his patrol car, then returns a moment later.

I’m going to waive the license, he tells me. He tells me to go to straight to the police department, pick up the paperwork, fill it out and return it. He then hands me a ticket for the lapsed inspection sticker. Give it to the owner, he tells me. Tell him he has to get a new sticker.

Great. Now I’m stuck between the Fleet Master and the cops. The longer I drive the USS Windstar 875, the more I realize that I’m a pawn in some kind of racket involving an army of decaying taxis, a web of mediocre gas stations, body shops and garages and a bunch of mysterious Russian guys driving around in luxury sedans, wads of cash in hand, giving orders by cell phone.

I show up at the police station, where a kindly looking female officer in a dark blue uniform sits behind the two-way glass.

Can I help you?

I’d like to get the paperwork for a chauffeur’s license.

I don’t believe we’re issuing any more licenses this year. I think we start taking new applications in January. She hands me a business card with a number to call. I hand her the citation for the lapsed sticker.

You need one of these, she tells me, and fishes a purple sticker from a pile. But you need a chauffeur’s license to get one.

Wonderful.

I can’t drive the Windstar without the sticker, but I can’t get the sticker without a chauffeur’s license, a license the city isn’t issuing until January.

Hello.

Hello John.

I explain the situation to the Fleet Master.

I want you to take down this address. It’s a Shell Station. Go there. You pay them $50. They will inspect and give you sticker.

I show up, hand over the keys and wait. Twenty minutes later, the inspection is finished. Tell the owner he needs to get these things fixed, a station attendant tells me, handing me a receipt. It reads:

Front Brakes

Right Front Wheel Baring

Right Rear Tire

Unbelievable.

Hello John. You go to the shop. They are expecting you.

As I drive down the expressway toward the Fleet Master’s Special Garage, I can’t help but wonder: why didn’t they fix these things when I first went there, more than two weeks ago? What will they miss or ignore this time? I’m up a creek. Every Friday, I pay the Fleet Master $450 for use of a vehicle that is falling apart. There must be some room for negotiation, right? A new vehicle? A lower lease payment? Pro rating?

I arrive at the garage and immediately head for the waiting room. A few minutes later, the Fleet Master appears in an expensive brown coat and wrap-around sunglasses. He walks toward me with his hand extended.

Hello John. I’ve ordered the parts. They’re fixing now.

As I run negotiation scenarios through my head, another fleet owner, a tall guy with a booming voice, comes through the door, smoking a long white cigarette. He carries a crumpled white envelope in his right hand, bulging with cash.

One of his drivers has been waiting to talk to him.

I have a problem with this car!

What is your problem with car?

The blower is not working.

How long you drive car?

Two years.

You use computer in the car and run down battery. That’s the problem.

We’re talking about different matter right now. When are you going to switch car?

I spend on this car 6000 dollar! You tell me to switch car?

Nearly shouting now, the fleet owner storms off into a back office.

So much for negotiation.