Page 10 - ARRS #582 - The Mystery of the Lost Wallet

Another Random Road Story #582

Part II – The Run.

Within minutes the darkly clad beefcake returned through the door,
bringing back momentarily the sea of piano music and restaurant noise. He
was leading a man over to the cab, a man in khaki cargo shorts and what
could best be described as a classy, but island-type, button down shirt.
Presumably this was going to be my fare. The man was average build, older
than me, had slightly unkempt sandy brown hair, glasses, and a careworn face
that resembled a cross between Howard Hessman and Tom Bodette. He was
unsteady on his feet, leaning unnaturally with each faltering step he took.
My mind’s internal threat assessment department kept the alert level low.
The man didn’t seem aggressive. And surely – coming out of the Velveteen –
he had money to cover his fare.
The doorman opened the cab’s rear passenger door and helped the man in.
“Okay, buddy, there ya go. Watch your head,” said the beefcake.
The obviously intoxicated man thudded heavily into the back seat, shaking
the whole car. With deliberate effort he dragged his second leg inside.
Beefcake made sure his former customer was securely inside the cab and
firmly closed the car’s door, again rocking the whole car. He then briskly
slapped the top of the car twice to signal me that his responsibility was done.
The man in the back seat had yet to say a word to me.
I looked into the rear-view mirror at the man, who seemed to be casually
examining his shoes.
“Hi. Where would you like to go tonight?”
His head snapped up, wiggling on its way. His alcohol-laden eyes met
mine in the mirror.
“Oh!! You’re a woman!” The man slurred at me with genuine surprise.
“Yep, I sure am,” I laughed at the familiar routine with older customers.
“Where would you like to go tonight?”
“Washington Hills. I want to go to Washington Hills.” His words slurred
together into one long string.
“Okay, any particular address?” I asked, amused by the whole thing.
“I’ll tell you how to get there.”
[RED FLAG: Never depart with a drunk without a clear destination.
Sometimes they fall asleep, or get lost, or go off the rails somehow.]
“Well, I’m supposed to get an address to write on my trip sheet.”
“43776 Montague” he said.
“43776…” I repeated back to him as I wrote it on my clipboard.
“MON—TA—G’YOOO!” he said. “Like SHAKE—spear!”
He loudly emphasized each syllable. His tone wasn’t angry or mean, just
very drunk.