hackie
a vermont cabbie’s rear view bY jernigan pontiac
Superior Rice and Beans
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with my finger, and, having determined that it had sufficiently cooled, I scarfed the rest down in two crazy-huge bites. And that’s all I’m going to say about me and the fucking pizza, other than making a mental note to quit skipping breakfast. “Where you from, man?” my customer asked as we ascended the Main Street hill. “Brooklyn, New York,” I replied. “You, too — from the city, I mean?” “Bronx, baby,” he said with a laugh, and we pounded fists. Big Apple roots are always a bond. “Puerto Rican grandparents, the whole nine yards.” “Well, right on — I can hear it in your voice. You fluent in Spanish?”
I lIked the kId, from hIs cool beard and glasses
to his handball evangelizing. “No, it’s the funniest thing. I can hardly speak the language, but I can understand it perfectly. My abuelita — grandmother — that’s all she would speak to me. Hey, how long you been up here?” “Oh, jeez,” I replied, “I guess over 30 years now. And you?” “I been up for a couple years with my wife and baby girl. We love it here.” “Yeah, me, too. Whatcha doing for work?” “I’m a cook. I’m working days. I like it, but I’m looking for a night job, too.” “You need the bread?” “Yeah, that — but I also just like to stay busy. My real passion is handball. You know — the single-wall game?” “Oh, sure — is that still big in New York
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laugh. “Gloves are for wimps, dude.” “What about racquet sports? You ever try tennis or squash?” “I have, but it’s strange — I feel like that’s cheating, if you know what I mean.” I got his drift and chuckled. “Yeah, I could see that. Handball is, like, totally natural — you just use your body, with nothing extra.” We got off the highway at exit 15, Route 15. I’ve heard that this stretch of road, between Winooski and Essex Junction, is the single busiest in the state. I believe that. And with no shoulders for a safety margin, you have to keep on your toes when you drive it. “So you like cooking,” I said, going back to the earlier thread in our conversation.
“You think you’re going to stay with it?” “My goal is to get this certification that’s offered through the food shelf. It takes, like, three months, and when I get it I’ll be qualified to work up at the hospital. Up there, you can make, like, 15, 16 bucks an hour.” “Wow, that’s not bad. Probably comes with good benefits, too.” “To tell you the truth, I’d really like to find a job like that and get out of the downtown restaurant scene. I had a terrible experience at my first job in Vermont. It was at this Mexican restaurant, and I kept telling the owners that their rice and beans were, like, a disgrace. I mean, seriously — rice and beans are, like, the heart and soul of Latino cooking. So finally they said, ‘Well, can you make ’em better?’ So I prepared a sample using my grandmother’s old family recipe, and they loved it and started serving it. But as soon as they felt they had it down, they fired me!” Something about this termination story didn’t quite add up to me, but who cares? I liked the kid, from his cool beard and glasses to his handball evangelizing. But most of all, I respect anyone working hard to support a family. We turned into the fort, and my customer got out at one of the grand old brick apartment houses. “See you at Leddy Park the first day of summer, brother,” I called out as I eased away from the curb. “See you there, Brooklyn,” he shouted back. “That’s a date.” m
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City? When I was a kid, I remember, the old guys used to play it.” “Yeah, it’s still played down there. There’s leagues and everything. My mission is to bring it to Vermont. I’ve been coaching it in some school programs. There’s only one dedicated outdoor court, which is in Leddy Park. I actually talked to the Parks and Rec guy who put it up. I’m trying to get the city to construct more of ’em. I been talking to them about Roosevelt Park, across from the Boys & Girls Club. It’s such an awesome sport and so cheap for the kids — all’s ya need is the ball.” “Do you use a glove when you play?” “Are you kidding me?” he said with a
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n a gray, frigid, windswept afternoon, I sat in my parked taxi in front of Junior’s with a steaming, fresh slice of pizza on a paper plate. It was calling to me from the shotgun seat. Not wanting to burn the roof of my mouth, I was giving the Italian delicacy the minimum amount of time to cool down before diving in. Ravenous — having skipped breakfast — I was feeling like a lab chimp in an experiment on delayed gratification. Just as I took my first bite, a young man appeared at my driver’s window, which I lowered. “You working, man?” he asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot in an attempt to ward off the cold. He had a precisely sculpted beard and moustache, and was wearing black, narrow-framed eyeglasses and a thick, orange hoodie. My taxicab doubles as my regular car, so in that respect, I’m like the hooker who’s always in her miniskirt, fishnets and pushup bra; whether I’m technically working or not, I’m constantly being propositioned for a ride. In any event, I permanently mooted this question early in my taxi-driving career — unless I’m late to a social engagement, my policy is never to turn down a fare. “Ahso-oohwee,” I garbled, my stuffed mouth ablaze with the still-scorching pizza. Swallowing quickly (the pizza chunks cauterizing my esophagus on the way down), I reiterated, “I mean, absolutely, buddy. Where ya headed?” “Fort Ethan Allen. I usually take the bus, but it’s freaking cold.” I repositioned the pizza precariously on the dashboard, so the guy could take the shotgun seat. Visualizing flying, searing pizza, I scooched back the seat and again relocated my meal, this time to the space between my legs — a marginally safer strategy, if that. Hmmm. I then tested the pizza