They say that smoking is the leading cause of loss of smell among people alive today. And while I'm not going to suggest that cab drivers smoke for this reason, it is at least a fortunate side effect.
Perhaps the first this I noticed, on the first night I drove, was the smell. You, people who ride in my cab, stink. A lot. You reek like cigarettes and nasty perfume and cologne (I won't use the cliche of "cheap perfume" because I have no idea what the difference is), but that's not what gets me. What gets me is the booze smell. At first, it was revolting. That sort of acrid sweet-and-sour smell that I once only associated with the homeless fills my cab every night. I have learned that anyone who is drunk has that smell. I have learned that I have probably had that smell more than I would ever care to know. I have learned that most people, if not all of them, have no idea that's what they smell like.
But on a grosser level, I have learned the intricacies of that smell. My nose is now like a poor man's breathalizer, activated every time someone hops in. I can tell before a fare ever opens their mouth how drunk they are, just by the concentration of that smell that comes weeping out of their pores, filling the small box of air that is my workspace. In my line of work, knowing how drunk someone is is an important thing. You know how much to trust what they tell you their address is, how worth your time it is to argue over how much money they gave you, or if a rolled down window is in order.
There are, of course, other smells, too. Like the frat guy that thought it was the height of humor that he flatulated in the cab, and then let me and his buddy find out the hard way. I rolled down all four windows in the cab, silently cursing him and knowing that I would have been laughing too if it was me that had done it.
And then there was the guy I picked up from his Interstate Ave. motel room at three in the morning and ferried to a prostitute's motel room up the street. He got in wearing stained sweatpants that I originally assumed were filled with his own feces, but then, pondering the stench for the twenty block ride, came to notice a distinct chemical odor to the air. Thus I started to wonder if, in fact, cooking meth smells like crapping Clorox. If anyone out there knows the answer, please let me know. Somehow, I am a little more comforted by the thought of a man cooking meth in his motel room and not changing before his date with his hooker than I am with the thought of a guy riding in my cab with a soiled diaper, sans diaper.
I think I need to start smoking again.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
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