Each Monday night after my Second City class I grab a cab from the corner of North and Wells and brace myself for the elaborate explanation I have to offer up to get myself home. There is of course the inevitable language barrier, and this is intensified by the disbelief one can get when you give your address with the word "south" before the street when you're picked up in this area.
"Yes, really." Geez.
And then we have to haggle on the route.
"So you want me to just take Ashland all the way?"
"No I do not want you to do that."
I'll offer my alternative--which fuck, I live there so I think I know best here--and they'll just kind of shrug their shoulders and we'll be on our way.
Last night my cabbie seemed to have his shit together. I popped in the back, said hello, and gave him my address. He knew the cross street and happily headed south on Wells.
"Which way you wanna take?"
My stomach kind of tightened and I said, voice lowered:
"Ontario to the expressway and get off on 18th?"
No problem. THANK YOU! Now that wasn't so hard, was it?
Note to the cabbie that picked me and Janel up by the Map Room on Friday night: Bill Withers sings "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone." Action Jackson/Apostle Creed as you correctly pointed out when I said it was Carl Weathers, is not a singer.