So my job is a delicate mixture of boredom, con-arts and crafts, and awkward interaction.
Of the first of this dynamic trio; we pretty much sit around the front door of the restaurant engaging in little activities to wile away time, such as, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, making fun of customers, discussing global economic policy, and figuring out new ways to quasi-con/manipulate the emotions of people who somehow can't figure out how to open car doors--all in a superbly self-esteem-depreciating effort to get dem, get dem billz.
Which brings us to the second act, les kick-backs.
Oh, you're a cab driver? Just trying to get some fares so you can feed the kids and get the old lady that new technicolor she's been screaming about? Well, before you can do that, you'll have to pony-up a fiver to one of the white boys with post-collegiate depression, obviously a result of their realization that their choice of college major (french literature, archeaology, political science, etc.) was a poor one, though they still gots them some real egos due to a bowtie-aided sense of entitlement.
Finally, the awkwardness of it all. Why do I deserve any money? Because social precepts dictate that my presence and snappy dress warrant compensation far greater in value than the worth of the actual tasks that I complete could deserve. Anyhoo, here's how it works paaaall: you give me the ticket, I get your keys. I run around the corner, and then out of sight, I walk to your car. I cram myself into your powerwheels-sized automobubbler and drive it at unsafe rates towards your stupid face, which is attached to a greasy hand that typically holds between one and five dollars, but usually two.
Oh, and it's ever so slick the way in which you slip your sweaty cash into my hand with that weird handshake thing. Everyone knows you're tipping me, why not just stick it in waist of my pressed black trousers and insinuate the calling of a spade a spade. And by spade I basically mean hooker.
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Of the first of this dynamic trio; we pretty much sit around the front door of the restaurant engaging in little activities to wile away time, such as, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, making fun of customers, discussing global economic policy, and figuring out new ways to quasi-con/manipulate the emotions of people who somehow can't figure out how to open car doors--all in a superbly self-esteem-depreciating effort to get dem, get dem billz.
Which brings us to the second act, les kick-backs.
Oh, you're a cab driver? Just trying to get some fares so you can feed the kids and get the old lady that new technicolor she's been screaming about? Well, before you can do that, you'll have to pony-up a fiver to one of the white boys with post-collegiate depression, obviously a result of their realization that their choice of college major (french literature, archeaology, political science, etc.) was a poor one, though they still gots them some real egos due to a bowtie-aided sense of entitlement.
Finally, the awkwardness of it all. Why do I deserve any money? Because social precepts dictate that my presence and snappy dress warrant compensation far greater in value than the worth of the actual tasks that I complete could deserve. Anyhoo, here's how it works paaaall: you give me the ticket, I get your keys. I run around the corner, and then out of sight, I walk to your car. I cram myself into your powerwheels-sized automobubbler and drive it at unsafe rates towards your stupid face, which is attached to a greasy hand that typically holds between one and five dollars, but usually two.
Oh, and it's ever so slick the way in which you slip your sweaty cash into my hand with that weird handshake thing. Everyone knows you're tipping me, why not just stick it in waist of my pressed black trousers and insinuate the calling of a spade a spade. And by spade I basically mean hooker.
