touch. I sat with my finger on the cradle, ready to hang up at the sound of my ex-wife's voice.
"Hello?" a voice answered the phone. It was a younger voice, a gentle voice.
I didn't say anything.
"Hello," the voice said again, and then I was sure.
"Cookie?"
"I'm sorry," she said pleasantly. "You must have the wrong number." Cookie was a nickname I'd given her when she was two. It didn't surprise me to find that my ex-wife no longer used it.
"Laura?"
"Who's calling please?"
"Laura, it's your dad," I said.
"Daddy?" she said, and all my troubles were gone.
"Oh, baby, you don't know how I've missed you."
"Oh, Daddy, where have you been?"
"Who is that?" a loud voice called from the background.
"Daddy?" the girl said again.
"Baby, I want you to know "
"Who is this?" A familiar voice shouted straight into my ear. How had I ever loved that voice? "Who is this?" she shouted again.
"Who do you think?"
"We have a legal agreement, Mister Miles," she shouted. "If you ever call here again "
"Mother!" my daughter shouted in the background.
"Get her out of here!" the shrill voice commanded, and then switched back to the phone. "You son of a bitch, I thought you were dead for sure."
"She's my daughter!"
"Haven't you caused enough pain?"
"I've got some money now," I said.
"It's a little late for your money," she said, and the line went dead.
Passengers shall only be solicited by a taxicab chauffeur while he is behind the wheel of his vehicle, and the chauffeur may only use the words: "Taxicab," Taxi" or "Cab."
City of Chicago, Department of Consumer Services, Public Vehicle Operations Division
The neighborhood kids woke me on their way home from school. I lay there in bed listening to their laughter and fighting, and fragments of the night flickered through my mind. Relita. The cops. The sweetness of my daughter's voice followed by the nightmare voice of my ex: I thought you were dead for sure. And now she knew I wasn't. Was that good or bad?
I looked out the window. Irv, my dayman, had quit early. The cab was parked at the curb.
I showered and shaved, and went out to another grey day.
My first load was a nurse on her way to Weiss Hospital. $2.80 on the meter; she gave me three and told me to keep the change.
I went south, heading for the business down in the Loop. Two short hops and I was on Michigan Avenue where a woman with a tiny shopping bag waved.
"Thank you so much," she said climbing in. "Union Station, the Adams entrance, please."
I worked my way through the Loop, through early rush hour traffic. Thousands of trench coats were heading the same direction we were, to the commuter railroad stations just west of the river.
There was $4.40 on the meter when I pulled up with a swarm of other cabs. The woman handed me five dollars. "Keep it," she said.
A young black guy hurried over and opened the passenger door. He was clean and healthy looking, wearing a navy pea coat and sporting a thin goatee.
The woman started out, then stopped. "Driver, I'm sorry. Could you let me have one quarter, please."
I handed her a quarter and she dropped it into the guy's waiting hand. "Thank you," he said, and he closed the door behind her and held the same hand out to me. "Help the poor?"
"Whose quarter you think that was?"
I started away but then the black guy slapped the side of the car. "Got one for you," he shouted.
"Do you go south?"
It was an older black woman. She was lugging an old suitcase, one that looked like an oversized doctor's bag.
I waved her towards the cab, and the guy grabbed her suitcase and started around for the trunk.
"Put it in here." I reached back and opened the door.
The woman slid into the back seat. The guy slid the suitcase in behind her. "Thank you so much," she said, and she handed him a dollar.
She gave me an address on South Aberdeen and I pulled away trying to calculate what the guy might make on a good day. If you could make a buck and a quarter every thirty seconds for an
"Hello?" a voice answered the phone. It was a younger voice, a gentle voice.
I didn't say anything.
"Hello," the voice said again, and then I was sure.
"Cookie?"
"I'm sorry," she said pleasantly. "You must have the wrong number." Cookie was a nickname I'd given her when she was two. It didn't surprise me to find that my ex-wife no longer used it.
"Laura?"
"Who's calling please?"
"Laura, it's your dad," I said.
"Daddy?" she said, and all my troubles were gone.
"Oh, baby, you don't know how I've missed you."
"Oh, Daddy, where have you been?"
"Who is that?" a loud voice called from the background.
"Daddy?" the girl said again.
"Baby, I want you to know "
"Who is this?" A familiar voice shouted straight into my ear. How had I ever loved that voice? "Who is this?" she shouted again.
"Who do you think?"
"We have a legal agreement, Mister Miles," she shouted. "If you ever call here again "
"Mother!" my daughter shouted in the background.
"Get her out of here!" the shrill voice commanded, and then switched back to the phone. "You son of a bitch, I thought you were dead for sure."
"She's my daughter!"
"Haven't you caused enough pain?"
"I've got some money now," I said.
"It's a little late for your money," she said, and the line went dead.
Passengers shall only be solicited by a taxicab chauffeur while he is behind the wheel of his vehicle, and the chauffeur may only use the words: "Taxicab," Taxi" or "Cab."
City of Chicago, Department of Consumer Services, Public Vehicle Operations Division
The neighborhood kids woke me on their way home from school. I lay there in bed listening to their laughter and fighting, and fragments of the night flickered through my mind. Relita. The cops. The sweetness of my daughter's voice followed by the nightmare voice of my ex: I thought you were dead for sure. And now she knew I wasn't. Was that good or bad?
I looked out the window. Irv, my dayman, had quit early. The cab was parked at the curb.
I showered and shaved, and went out to another grey day.
My first load was a nurse on her way to Weiss Hospital. $2.80 on the meter; she gave me three and told me to keep the change.
I went south, heading for the business down in the Loop. Two short hops and I was on Michigan Avenue where a woman with a tiny shopping bag waved.
"Thank you so much," she said climbing in. "Union Station, the Adams entrance, please."
I worked my way through the Loop, through early rush hour traffic. Thousands of trench coats were heading the same direction we were, to the commuter railroad stations just west of the river.
There was $4.40 on the meter when I pulled up with a swarm of other cabs. The woman handed me five dollars. "Keep it," she said.
A young black guy hurried over and opened the passenger door. He was clean and healthy looking, wearing a navy pea coat and sporting a thin goatee.
The woman started out, then stopped. "Driver, I'm sorry. Could you let me have one quarter, please."
I handed her a quarter and she dropped it into the guy's waiting hand. "Thank you," he said, and he closed the door behind her and held the same hand out to me. "Help the poor?"
"Whose quarter you think that was?"
I started away but then the black guy slapped the side of the car. "Got one for you," he shouted.
"Do you go south?"
It was an older black woman. She was lugging an old suitcase, one that looked like an oversized doctor's bag.
I waved her towards the cab, and the guy grabbed her suitcase and started around for the trunk.
"Put it in here." I reached back and opened the door.
The woman slid into the back seat. The guy slid the suitcase in behind her. "Thank you so much," she said, and she handed him a dollar.
She gave me an address on South Aberdeen and I pulled away trying to calculate what the guy might make on a good day. If you could make a buck and a quarter every thirty seconds for an
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