Adrenaline Rush: An Update from the Cab

I am love love loving driving for Homobiles.  Learning the city by night, meeting all kinds of lovely beings, finding the 24 hour croissant shop, the perfect places to catch the sunrise, it's all been pretty amazing.  I started driving two weeks ago and already there are things that would have been headlines but are now, "oh yeah, that happened too."  Last night I put a dollar into a held-out cup and was greeted with "Nice panties." There was an incredibly drunk visiting sister bemoaning the fact that none of the gay boys at the bar wanted to kiss her, quite perceptive that one.  There were two cell phones left in my seat & reunited with owners,one via Twitter.  And I have plenty more stories to tell.  But there's only one I have to write, so I'm going to tell you that one.

 It has been on my mind lately that no one really knows where I am when I am out driving around the city.  Of course our dispatcher has a general sense of where I am & what I'm doing, and could help me out in some potentially hairy situations.  But I mean a little bigger than that, there is no one in my life who knows when I'm working or when to expect me home, no one to touch base with and say I'm safe after working as what a friend called, "the ferryman of San Francisco's queer nightlife, navigating those waters nightly."  And to be clear, I am a heads-up, paying attention, city-seasoned queer.  I lock my doors when I have the cab light on for paperwork, I keep my head up, I greet people so someone knows me the next time I swing through.  So when I tell you I got scared, really really scared, hear it through my voice as someone who does not scare easily, who trusts in my ability to handle many an intense situation and who does not live in a place of fear.

It was 3 am and the shift was about to change, leaving me the only Homobiles driver on the road for a few hours.  Also, I happened to be dispatching as well as driving for those hours, no one sitting in an office looking over my shoulder, just me, a couple of clipboards and the car.  And San Francisco is still so new for me, I don't recognize "bad neighborhoods," not a concept I put a lot of stock in but still, good to know when welcoming a stranger into your car in the middle of the night.  I didn't need to be told this place was troubled, my hackles went up as soon as I turned onto the block.  This place didn't feel good, that's a vast understatement, this block of houses felt bad, real bad.  It was late enough things were quiet but I had the sense there were folks around (there almost always are if you look closely enough, I'm finding).  The street had ended abruptly and dumped me in what was almost a cul de sac but I was pretty sure I could see an exit in front of me. But the lines of sight were all messed up and I had a little voice yelling at me the way you do when a character in a scary movie does something stupid.  So I locked the doors and texted my friend & fellow driver that something was setting my spidey sense off.  She was moving towards home in the East Bay but at least someone would know the address I was at if shit went down.

When I looked up to double-check the address I noticed the door.  It had very recently been taken the hell off its hinges, in the way that only cops or firefighters do.  It was battered & barely hung closed, someone had added big loops of spray paint to cover up the rawness exposed by the violent moment.  There was a mail slot in the door, the door to which hung bent and open. I was willing to give the client a chance.  We all have our moments and lord knows I could have walked out of a door that looked like that myself at various times in my life.  When a woman appeared who looked very much like a young baby dyke I let myself relax for a half a second, breathe.  But she was on her cell and didn't quite come all the way out of the house and I was on full alert, watching the door crack for signs that someone was waiting to come out unexpectedly. There was enough cash in the car after hours of driving that I was feeling very vulnerable to robbery, let alone the type of things people do to humans they don't consider human. Call this number and a homo shows up, even in San Francisco that can take some brave.

She came out, confirmed her name, slid into the back seat and said "he'll be right out." Oh, ok.  We often don't know how many people we are picking up.  She asked me a little about how Homobiles worked and I told her the same thing I tell everyone: we're a non-profit organization and all the drivers are volunteers committed to getting people home safely even if they can't pay, with a suggested donation of $1 a minute for the ride if you can afford it.  She was really relieved at the "no one turned away for lack of funds part" and said that was good, because the guy we were waiting for had just been released from jail & probably didn't have any money.  Ok then.  I'm on high alert but still nothing has happened to make me think that this is actually dangerous, not just a complicated night in someone's life where they reached out for some random help.  But I can feel the blood pumping in my ears.

And then he walks out the door, carrying what appears to be a dust buster it kind of looks like he just took off the wall and some other random stuff in his hands.  Behind him framed in the crooked door frame is a woman who would be listed in the movie credits as "Bad Landlord" or "Neighbor in Kimono."  She was on the phone with the girl already in my car at a distance of 6-7 feet away - what did they need to talk about that I could not hear?  Mitchell introduced himself, I gave the whole rap about Homobiles again as we pulled away, texting my friend to tell her it was ongoing and could she please stay in touch? At the end of the first block the girl said to stop here and got out of the car.  If I had to guess I think she was the queer cousin who knew about us as a way to get a free ride home and set it up herself afraid I wouldn't just take him.  He didn't read as gay at all.  But here he was, in my car, sitting directly behind me so I couldn't even look in his eyes.

So I started driving efficiently & swiftly towards the stated destination.  He had a lot of questions about Homobiles, which I answered, and he got really excited about it.  We were having a pretty cool conversation for two people who might otherwise never had a reason to talk to each other.  He told me about his band, about how he was supposed to go to Miami to perform in a show, then added he was a little scared cause he'd never been to Miami or really out of San Francisco much.  As this very easy and re-assuringly human conversation is happening he is messing with the odd assortment of things in his hands, then lays it all on the seat and starts taking off his belt - actually come to think of it he must have been putting it on post-police custody.  All I know is I heard a belt & a belt buckle and was sort of bracing for it to come over the seat and aim around my neck.  All as we are talking, talking.  I tell him there are multiple other drivers out tonight and we all keep in close touch, talk about where we're at.  (lies)  He says he'd like to drive for Homobiles, says he can "get us people" if I give him an hour.  I told him we're pretty booked tonight.  My blessed GPS is telling me we are closing in on his destination.  He starts telling me more about his band and then, out of nowhere, says "I've always wanted to sleep with a fat white girl."  This makes me laugh a lot, like a lot a lot, and then I don't want him to be insulted so I add "Mitchell, me too."  We pull up at the address and he gets out, then leans back in to hand me something.  It's his t-shirt, the one for his band, and he's literally giving me the shirt off his back as payment for the ride.  We smile at each other and I drive off, back towards SoMa, and the queer bars and the known un-safe, feeling the adrenaline release and this story start to compose itself in my head.