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daybreak, Anya would have to seal me inside a crate within which I would have to travel, at least until
nightfall. Yes, again, the first rays of morning sun are deadly, and when the sun rises, even when safely
sequestered, I become virtually catatonic.
I shall never forget the sight of Anya peering into the crate before she nailed the lid shut. She smiled
bravely, leaned down and kissed me, her lips like rose petals. I wanted to pull her into the crate with me
to hold her, keep her safe, but one of us had to remain on the outside to make sure we both safely
boarded the train. When she closed the lid, I caught one last glimpse of her, the brave smile cracking at
the last moment, revealing what I already knew, that she was frightened, which, to tell the truth, was no
different from what I was feeling.
The word  bid broke through my musing. Dale s pointer touched the button to the far left on the bottom
row of buttons, the top row containing eight compass designations for the eight geographic zones in
which the city was divided.
 This is the most important button on your radio, Dale said.  Your bid button is the one that makes you
money.
As Dale related, the bid button holds the exalted place at the far left of the radio, closest to the driver s
hand, not buried in the middle of the row of buttons like those designating the statuses of empty,
acknowledged, destination or 10-7, which means on break.
When the bid button is pressed, the number marking one s cab on the dispatcher s computer screen
lights up, signaling a driver s desire to be considered for one of the available calls  on the board. Dale
said calls are given to the closest cab, that is unless the dispatcher determines there is need to shift the
entire fleet in the direction of where there happens to be a glut of calls.
A lengthy dissertation followed concerning how to bid, when to bid, why to bid. How, when and why to
bid with packages. How to use the question buttons and the difference between a  HiQ and  LowQ.
Dale even discussed the simple matter of how to handle the cab radio, certainly an exercise in the
obvious; I had had quite a bit of radio experience during World War II working with the French
Underground. Indeed, perhaps organ-grinder monkeys might actually be able to do this job, that is, if
they were allowed to drive.
It all seemed rather simple, actually, and after Dale concluded his highly repetitive explanation, the
expressions worn on the faces of the other trainees seemed to relax, as if they were relieved that a new
topic would be broached. Like the others, I found it a Herculean task to maintain my attention, even
possessing a mental discipline superior to these children.
Dale placed a new piece of posterboard on the tripod.  This is a waybill, he said.  Waybill being the
standard industry term for the piece of paperwork cabbies use to keep track of what they do during a
shift.
I rolled my eyes. Or did my eyes begin to roll up into my skull. Before I knew it, I was once again staring
at Nicole.
Fists pounding on wood broke through my slumber. I heard a crash and Anya s agitated voice. Then, she
screamed.
I could not even lift my arms.
I lay paralyzed, only able to listen to Anya s screams, to the sound of a body loudly striking the floor and
walls, the sound of tearing fabric, of smashed furniture.
By the time I could lift my arms and break open the crate, the garret was silent. Anya lay on the floor on
the other side of the garret, her clothes tattered rags, her body a mess of bruises and abrasions, her
lovely flesh ripped and torn asunder, her throat cut.
Bending down to close her lifeless eyes, my gaze shifted back toward the crate from which I had just
risen. On the floor, next to the crate was her white lace tablecloth, a bouquet of roses, the shattered
remains of a vase and a puddle of water, quickly spreading across the polished oak floor.
She had disguised the crate as a dining table, just to be especially sure the Germans would not inspect the
contents for booty, covering the crate with an heirloom passed from mother to eldest daughter for two
dozen generations.
No conscious thoughts directed my actions for the next several hours. Suddenly, I was no longer in the
garret, having rematerialized in front of a quartet of German soldiers.
Then, I was kneeling on a soldier s chest, ripping open his shirt, tearing flesh all the way down to bone,
cracking open his sternum and sinking my fangs directly into his heart as his fellow soldiers watched in
horrified paralysis.
I have no way of knowing how many German soldiers died that night, but accounts of my exploits were
published in newspapers as far away as England, where the citizenry reading the more plebeian
newspapers were entertained by accounts of  The Prague Mangler.
Suddenly, I realized Nicole was staring at me. Or rather, she was staring at me staring at her. I quickly
averted my gaze.
Dale explained how to take the beginning readings from the taxi meter and showed where on the waybill
to record that information. It seemed he realized he was droning on a bit, that perhaps all this information
was obvious; a certain sarcastic tone was apparent in his voice as he explained trips and units, the former
being the number of times the meter is turned on, the latter being the number of additional  clicks
recorded through mileage and time not-in-motion.
He then walked us through a mythical shift and showed us how to balance our waybills at shift s end.
Oddly, though his tone was sarcastic, his countenance seemed to attach a high degree of importance to
the general topic of paperwork. Perhaps, it was the  bean-counter aspect of his being which caused him
to do this.
Mercifully, Dale concluded his presentation and allowed us to take another ten-minute break. When we
returned, he turned off the lights and showed a defensive driving film.
 This covers the basics, Dale said.  We have an in-house defensive driving course that you will all be [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]