2003-03-11 - 3:46 a.m.

So the Roommate and I wisely chose beating the cab rush over lingering at the People�s Republic, on Friday night, at 1:45 AM.

It was cold outside, and as we walked towards the cab corral, I regularly glanced behind, in case a free one approached, flagging any car with anything on its roof.

One slowed down, and we hustled towards it, but another dude made the snag approach. I flagged it down, but cabs are never worth the argument, so I shrugged my shoulders and gave the dude a kinda dirty look.

Turns out he was actually getting in his car. The cab started to drive away, and the dude yelled at it--HEY!!!--and pointed at us.

As I passed by the dude, he said sometimes you gotta have a loud mouf around hee-ah.

The Roommate climbed in--I saw gears turning--she said oh my god, we�ve had you before.

And it was true. Matthew picked us up in Davis during that blizzard a couple of weeks ago. The grey back of his head, and occasionally his tired eyes framed by thick glasses framed by his rear view mirror, told us his story--working and working and working, supporting his demanding girlfriend and what not. The Roommate and I were almost out of money that day, and hadn�t taken into consideration the possibility that sheets of snow could slow our commute and drive up the cost of being driven through sheets of snow. We asked Matthew to let us out when we were halfway home and outta money (tip included, mind you)--he wouldn�t hear of it. He turned off the meter and drove us the rest of the way.

Nice guy.

So, fresh outta the People�s Republic, we let Matthew know where we�re going, and he decides to dispense with small talk. We recognize him. We�ve already been initiated. Matthew instead tells us about his screenplay.

Now, I don�t want anybody out there to steal Matthew�s good ideas, so I�m not going to relay the story. I will say that it involves romance, babies, the Warwick nightclub fire, and a serial killer. How does it all end, you ask? You�ll have to wait for the movie.

Oh, and it�s part one of a trilogy. Oh, and there�s a second trilogy after that.

The Roommate did an awesome job of feigning enthusiasm, which was a big relief for me, �cause I just can�t do it--if I don�t actually come across as condescending, I feel like I am, which doesn�t help matters much.

As for me, I kinda bristled when he started describing the serial killer and seamlessly throwing in bits about his own experience in Viet Nam.

I don�t remember this abandoned warehouse being on the route home, I imagined my self oh-so-innocently sweating out, too late.

That�s funny, I�ve never been in a car where the passenger can�t unlock the doors from the inside. Do you smell chloroform?

But Matthew shoots straight down Prospect, a little shaky from his fourteen-hour-work-days, understandably shaky, given that he�s worked fourteen days in a row.

Every now and then, he adjusts the mirror to check our reaction--

Are you intrigued?

And I really like Matthew, too. You can pity someone (especially when you yourself demand a bit of pity) and still like that person.

We pull into Union, and we�re next to another cab. Matthew rolls his window down and has a little conversation with the cabbie on his right. I engage the passengers of that cab in a mock conversation (windows up), which all passengers consider amusing. I�ll always have my sense of humor.

I think that Matthew had his screenplay treatment timed to the length of our cab ride, but he didn�t factor in the Roommate�s enthusiasm--and questions, so he�s still trying to wrap up the first trilogy by the time we reach the Cosby Brownstone.

He turns off the meter, and finishes the rest of the story. I give him a good tip.

The Roommate gives me a what the hell was that? look as we exit the cab, but I�m more interested in the car barreling towards us, that�s still doing about 50, despite the fact that Matthew is still pulled over, and Jeezus, it ain�t slowing down.

The tires squeal a mere car-length away, and, five feet from the Roommate and me, it smashes into Matthew�s cab.

It�s a nice car, too, new-looking, black. A sedan. Could be a Toyota, could be a BMW--I don�t really know my cars. At any rate, it was something that the guy, trim dark hair, in shape, and dressed apropos for the clubs, my age or maybe a bit older, was probably still making payments on.

Driver and passenger-side air bags, I know that much is true.

I�ve never been in an accident that required an exchange of documents. I don�t know the proper protocol at all. The Roommate was first with the are you allright bit, which, were I alone, I would have taken way too long to think of.

Matthew got out holding his neck. I was relieved when he didn�t slam his door. I didn�t think he had the anger in him anyway, despite the serial killer fantasy.

Club Guy took a while to lift his head from his airbag pillow, but he seemed OK when he got out. A bit dazed.

Yeah, he responded, I�m OK. As long as YOU�RE allright, that�s what matters.

I looked over at Matthew, who was still clutching his neck. What about him?, I thought.

Club Guy took a look at the damage. It�s not that bad, he said. Let�s get this over with.

No--you don�t understand, said Matthew. This isn�t my car. This is my cab! This is where I work!

Club Guy took another look at his own mess. I saw his gears turn. Flee. Exchange papers. Talk a way out.

He kicked the damage--It�s not that bad.

I got kinda pissed at that. Club Guy was decent looking, most likely the product of somewhat well off parents, probably from Groton or Danvers, probably got help with his rent in his early 20�s, and with getting a kickass job in his mids.

Probably spent a summer following Phish.

With help, has probably gotten away with worse than the mess he just created all by himself.

Not that bad, mind you. Compared to kids his age. Compared to his hippie-dippie brother, who now resides in India.

Probably hates people who can�t pick themselves up by the bootstraps.

Complains in restaurants. Won�t date fat girls. Is proud of his enlightened view on homosexuality and the way he�s on a somewhat familiar level with the folks at Dunkie�s who serve him coffee every day. Has two dogs and a Playstation.

Borrows cigarettes. Doesn�t smoke.

Buys CDs based on what�s popular, misses Van Halen, purports to have been the only misunderstood kid in his high school--Radiohead�s creep was written about him. Refers to jazz legend Miles Davis as Miles.

Probably a Yankees fan, too, but I don�t want to stray into the realm of slander.

Anyway, something in docile �ol me kinda snapped, and I let him know.

Not that bad? I had to push my girlfriend out of the way!

I pointed at the cab, his tail lights are ON! It�s a straight road! You�re obviously WASTED! Not that bad? Both your airbags went off!

I�m not sure what else I said, but the Roommate has assured me that it was compelling, astute, and just.

Thing is, though, the four of us just kinda stood around for a minute or so. Seeing flee in Club Dude�s eyes, I felt for a pen I didn�t have, so I could copy a license plate number I couldn�t see. Thirty seconds later, filling out Matthew�s taxi accident form, I didn�t think hey, I have a pen now!.

I kept pointing at Matthew, eye contacting, even thumbs upping, reassuring.

The Roommate and I debated what to do, but the decision had been made--downstairs neighbor�s nose was pressed to her window screen:

The cops are on their way!

Looks like Club Guy ain�t getting outta this one.

I cheerfully sang back Thanks, Downstairs Neighbor. I feel bad about being mean--that unpleasant woman, woman of issues, did do the right thing.

Officer George Clinton, Somerville Police, was there an impressive thirty seconds later.

Tuy, tuy, tuy, tuy, tuy, he said to himself. Muder of Mahry, willya take a look at this one, why don�tcha? Whadda tink yer doin�, drivin� this car LOADED like ya are, sonny?

We gave Officer Clinton our side of the story, I thanked the cop for arriving so quickly, we said our goodnights to Matthew and glanced up at Downstairs Neighbor�s windowed silhouette, and then headed up.

And of course watched the rest from our heated, beerful corner of the world.

Cars passed the scene with mild interest. Cabs slowed down slowed down slowed down in a fraternal display of quasi-unity (or perhaps fear). I�m going with brotherhood, though, and it was nice to see it.

Downstairs Neighbor, who, after all, was involved (since she called the police) screamed out her window (despite her supposed love of quietude)

IDIOT DRUNK DRIVER! YOU SHOULD BE LOCKED UP FOR LIFE!

Officer George Clinton pointed at her window Tank you, ma�m. That�ll be enough, now.

Club Guy, halfheartedly asserting his sobriety, couldn�t make three steps down the median. He was arrested.

Watch your head, sonny.

What�ll happen to my car?

Yes, it was towed.

Officer George Clinton called the next day--left a message

Tank the both a ya for helpin� ous, but ye wroite like dackturs. You should bouy eachuther lahtery tickets--yoy were tat lookie.