A cab ride is no more than a necessity/headache and, if all goes well, imminently forgettable. You’re never quite sure dude knows where he’s going, and you overhear he’s banging his brother’s wife. Bluetooth headsets like to gossip. But you didn’t hear that from us.
We hit paydirt Saturday night. We flagged down the Pride Of The Fleet, 28 years strong, totin’ and haulin’ Philadelphians where they need to be. Bill Ward. Doesn’t have a dispatch radio, Foghat tells him where the next pickup is gonna be. Don’t like the classics? He’ll ask you what you need. Doo-Wop? Metal? Choose Your Own Adventure. After asking if the windows were down too much, hack hands us a card: DEPENDABLE, it says, with heartwarming intensity.
“I only respond to phone call requests,” the Pride speaks, “6PM-6AM.” When nothing boring/legal happens. Doesn’t usually do curbside either. Guess he liked the cut of our jib. He’s the ambulance of politicos, athletes, and all us sinners doing things that leave you lost at 4AM.
His business card says “Tours” are offered. Those might be the most intimidating quotation marks ever printed on cardstock, and we’re intrigued. We want to know what he’s seen, but we’ve got too much respect to ask. He’ll tell us when he’s ready.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, May 28th, 2008 at 12:43 pm.