taxi girl
Chapter Two
Tania got paid on January 11. At 9 a.m. on Saturday, January 12, she went to John and Larry’s apartment above a head shop on Wells Street. The boys made a living performing as opera supers, delivering phone books, working as foot messengers, doing singing telegrams, modeling for art classes, babysitting cats and selling pot. Tania bought a lid from them. The trio smoked a joint, and Tania had a mug of nettle tea. She left the apartment around ten.
Downstairs, the owner of the head shop was shoveling the sidewalk in front of his store.
“Are you open for business?” asked Tania.
“No, but what do you need?”
“Rolling papers.”
“Come inside.”
“No thanks. I’ll wait out here.”
The owner went into his shop and came back with an elk hide shamanic rattle; he handed it to Tania.
“Shake this; it’ll protect you from the evil spirits.”
Tania looked around.
“What evil spirits?”
“You can’t see them, but I can. They’re flying around you like bats.”
Tania shook the rattle above her head.
“Chant ‘Ya Ed Moob Ar Ar At,’ and they’ll go away.”
“Ya Ed Moob Ar Ar At?”
“Yeah, say it over and over while you’re shaking the rattle; don’t stop, or they’ll come back.”
“Ya Ed Moob Ar Ar At,” intonated Tania. “Ya Ed Moob Ar Ar At.”
The head shop owner went inside.
Shit, I’ve really got to pee, thought Tania. She hopped from foot to foot while she shook the rattle and chanted.
The owner returned with the rolling papers.
“How much do I owe you?” asked Tania. She crossed her legs and squeezed her thighs together.
“You can have ’em,” he said.
Tania handed him the rattle.
“Thanks; do you have a bathroom?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I use it?”
“Sure; it’s at the back of the shop.”
Tania raced to the toilet holding her crotch.
When Tania came out of the john, the owner of the head shop was wearing a loincloth and beating a goat skin drum. He looked down at his Timex Sportster wristwatch.
“There’s just enough time to bathe you before the store opens.”
“That’s okay; I washed my hands in the restroom.”
“We’ve gotta hurry if I’m gonna lift that dark cloud hanging over you.”
“I have a dark cloud hanging over me?”
“Don’t worry; I’ll take care of it.”
John and Larry are upstairs. If this gets any weirder, I’ll just scream.
The head shop owner uncovered a wooden vat filled with gurgling warm water.
“Start chanting ‘Ya Ed Moob Ar Ar At’ to keep the evil spirits away.”
“Ya Ed Moob Ar Ar At,” recited Tania.
“Don’t stop,” said the owner as he took off Tania’s clothes. He lifted her into the vat and rubbed his hands all over her.
“Keep chanting.” He raised her out of the tub and dried her with rabbit skins.
Tania chanted:
“Ya Ed Moob Ar Ar At,
Ya Ed Moob Ar Ar At,
Ya Ed Moob Ar Ar At.”
“There’s just one more thing I’ve gotta do,” said the head shop owner. He lowered his loincloth.
Tania stopped chanting. “Wait a minute,” she said.
The sound chuka, chuka, chuka entered the room.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Oh . . . that’s my wife’s sewing machine; she makes leather gun holsters . . . and bullwhips.”
“She’s been here the whole time?”
“Yeah, why?”
Tania threw on her clothes and ran out of the shop. She pressed John and Larry’s doorbell; Larry buzzed her in. She barreled up the stairs.
“You won’t believe what just happened.” She relayed the story.
John repeated the chant.
“Ya Ed Moob Ar Ar At.” He said it fast; he said it slow. He said it backward.
“Ta-Ra-Ra-Boom-De-Ay.”
John, Larry and Tania froze, then sang:
“Ta Ra Ra Boom De Ay,
Ta Ra Ra Boom De Ay!
Ta Ra Ra Boom De Ay,
Ta Ra Ra Boom De Ay!”
Tania sang on.
“Ta Ra Ra Boom De Ay!
He took my clothes away.
Gone was my underwear.
I WAS COMPLETELY BARE!”
That Thursday, Tania picked up a fare on State Parkway. He was wearing a striped collarless shirt unbuttoned halfway to his navel and green, tightly fitted, flare-legged trousers; he carried a black briefcase.
“Where to?” she asked.
“Lincoln and Altgeld,” he answered.
Tania took North Avenue to Clark.
“Altgeld’s buried at Graceland Cemetery,” she said. “Ever been there?”
“No.”
“No? Poor you.”
The fare checked his watch.
“Is it far? My meeting’s not until three.”
Tania looked at him in her rearview mirror.
“I’ll take you there, but I’m keeping the meter running and my clothes on.” She turned around and faced the passenger.
“And no ‘Ta Ra Ra Boom De Ay’ backward, forward or upside down, got it?”
“You’ve made yourself perfectly clear . . .” He craned his neck to get the name off the license on the dashboard.
“. . . Tania Wildman.”
Tania drove through the gates of Graceland and passed an oxidized bronze depiction of the grim reaper. She veered to the left and pointed out the grave of the first Black heavyweight boxing champion, Jack Johnson.
“Do you know anything about theater?” she asked.
“A little,” replied her fare.
“The play The Great White Hope’s about him,” responded Tania. She continued down the cemetery’s main avenue, made a right, followed the road and stopped the cab at John Altgeld’s gravesite. Tania and the fare got out. He stood next to the taxi while she read him a quote inscribed on the Illinois governor’s marker.
“The doctrine that ‘might makes right’ has covered the earth
with misery. While it crushes the weak, it also destroys the strong.
Every deception, every cruelty, every wrong reaches back sooner
or later and crushes its author.”
Tania came back to the cab. “Pretty good, eh?” she said.
“Thanks for bringing me here,” answered the fare.
They got in the taxi.
Tania pulled up to the curb at Lincoln and Altgeld. The fare paid and tipped her. He handed her a business card and pointed to a marquee.
“I could use someone like you at the theater; come back around 6:30.”
She looked at the card.
William J. Miller – Artistic Director – City Theater.
Tania swung her taxi into the cab barn around 5:15 p.m. She walked to her apartment and changed into black tights, a leotard and a mid-calf red-plaid skirt. She packed her tap shoes as well as a picture of herself taken in a downtown Woolworths photo booth and blown up to a five-by-seven format. She put on green rubber Converse Thermoboots and her peacoat, newsboy cap and scarf; then she trekked a mile to Lincoln and Altgeld.
Tania fingered the business card inside her coat pocket and walked into City Theater. William J. Miller was in the lobby talking to a guy with a clipboard; the pair looked up.
“You’re here,” said Miller. “This is Gregg. He’s the house manager. What’s your name again?”
“Tania.”
“Tania the taxi girl. Well, Tania the taxi girl, Gregg’s gonna show you everything you need to know about checking coats.”
Tania and Gregg set out two clothes racks with numbered hangers, a card table, coat check tickets, a tip jar and a sign.
“What’s the show?” she asked.
“A postapocalyptic production of Macbeth. It’s the first night of previews.
“Oh,” said Tania. “I’ll be right back.”
Tania raced to a Woolworths down the street. She came back with a white rectangular paper tablecloth, felt tip marker, swim goggles, knit gloves and an elastic bandage. She drew and labeled a fallout shelter sign on the bottom third of the white paper rectangle and draped it over the card table. She took off her plaid skirt, put her hair in a high ponytail and cut the fingers out of the knit gloves. She kept on her rubber boots and added the swim goggles. Then she wound the elastic bandage around her chin, nose and forehead. Her lips and nostrils were left uncovered.
The doors to the theater opened at 7:30; the audience filtered into the lobby. A man handed Tania an Italian cashmere overcoat.
“I like your outfit, especially the boots,” he said.
“They’re vegetarian. It doesn’t make sense to wear leather mukluks but not eat meat. A cow’s a cow, you know.”
“Point well taken,” said the man.
She handed him his coat check ticket.
“Where’s Billy?” he asked.
“I’m new here; I don’t know who Billy is.”
“He’s your boss . . . the boy genius.”
The man put a ten-dollar bill in Tania’s tip jar and walked away.
“I think you tip me after I give you back your coat, not before,” called out Tania.
He continued on; she took the next person’s jacket and scarf.
Tania peeked into the auditorium after the lobby was empty and the audience was seated. On the thrust stage, three black-cloaked and hooded figures stood in a circle with their backs to the audience. They were dimly lit; the rest of the space was dark.
“I’ve got the matches; who’s got the fuse?” said one female voice.
“I do,” said another.
“What are we waiting for?” asked the third.
There was a flicker of light in the center of the circle, then a prolonged sizzling sound followed by a blast. A rising mushroom cloud was projected onto the back wall of the space.
“When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning or in rain?” asked one of the hooded figures.
“When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won,” said another.
I’d better see if there are any latecomers, thought Tania.
She pushed the auditorium door into Billy Miller, who was listening to the play outside the entrance.
“I’m sorry; are you all right?” whispered Tania.
The door closed behind her.
“I’m fine,” said Miller. He rolled his hand in her direction.
“Nice costume; pretty original.”
Tania cocked her head toward the auditorium.
“Nice production; pretty avant-garde. Oh yeah, some guy with a cashmere coat was looking for you.”
“That’s Charlie; he’s on the board.” Miller pulled open the door to the auditorium.
The door closed behind him.
The audience came out for the intermission between acts one and two; Tania took her position behind the card table. Charlie asked for his coat. He put another ten in the tip jar.
“There’s a party at my place after the show.”
“I have to work tomorrow.”
“You could call in sick.”
“But that would be lying.”
“I like your moral compass. I don’t have one.”
Charlie left, and the intermission was over. Tania waited for the audience to clear out of the lobby. Then she went into the auditorium to watch act two. Onstage, Macbeth and Lady Macbeth were dwarfed by gigantic boulders topped by remnants of buildings, power lines and automobiles. A scene of semi-collapsed skyscrapers was projected on the back wall. The two actors wore wool military greatcoats, army helmets, combat boots and gas masks. They physicalized their prerecorded interchange while it was broadcast from the sound booth. Their muffled dialogue was interspersed with gas-mask breathing.
“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?” said Macbeth.
I don’t think so, answered Tania in her head. She looked down and saw Billy Miller lying on the floor with his eyes closed in the aisle behind the last-row seats. For the next three acts, she closed her eyes and listened, too.
“Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing,” said Macbeth.
Tania’s eyes popped open.
What? Fuck that, she thought. Fuck you, Macbeth. Your life may be meaningless, but my life’s not gonna be. Fuck you. If you hadn’t been so goddamn greedy, none of this shit would have happened. You’re the idiot.
Tania crept out of the auditorium and waited for the audience to come for their coats. After the rush was over, she pulled off her goggles and the elastic bandage wrapped around her head. She counted her tips.
Eighty-four dollars; not bad for three hours’ work.
Gregg came over to her.
“Billy wants you to come back tomorrow night.”
“Okay; what time do I need to be here?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Six o’clock? Isn’t that kind of early?”
Gregg handed her a twenty-by-twenty-inch biohazard-symbol wall clock.
“He wants you to hang this somewhere in the front of the house.”
Billy Miller can kiss my ass, thought Tania.
