You’ve all read about professional athletes and the easy availability of female companionship. Well by golly, some of that companionship got in my cab this past Saturday. I can tell you for a fact, they’re interested in young professional athletes with tons of money. They’re not interested in 61 year old Irish cab drivers with quick wits and charming personalities. Nor are they interested in the twenty seven one dollar bills I carry in my pocket. What follows is the sordid tale of two lost women.
I got a bell to an upscale apartment complex and prepared myself for the inevitable search for the fare. My GPS simply did not function in this particular complex. I called and a girl named Ashley answered. In a monotone I said, "Hi, Bill from South Suburban, I'm down below on the West side of the building." "OK," She replied, "We'll be right down." Yeah right I thought and once again, I was right. Five minutes passed, then ten minutes, and still no Ashley. I was just about ready to call and give them my, "You need a cab or don't ya" speech when the phone rang. "This is Ashley, where are you?"
“I’m in the same place I was ten minutes ago,” I replied, “On the West side of building 7820.”
“Well, we can’t see you,” was the retort.
“Fine, I’ll drive around the building and we’ll see if I can’t locate you.”
As I rounded the corner I was greeted with the sight of two young women, a brown haired gal with boobs falling out of her blouse and a blonde with a butt barely concealed by the mini skirt she was wearing. I was delighted realizing how nice the cab was going smell in a couple of minutes. I rolled up and gathered my girls and we were off.
“We’re heading downtown, ahh two stops, ahh, where are we?” the one with the boobs named Ashley asked.
“Aah, you’re in Centennial, about fourteen miles from downtown Denver,” I replied.
She rolled her eyes, looked at the other girl and said, “How in the world did we get this far from downtown?” And then she said to the blonde, “By the way, my name is Ashley, what’s yours?”
Well, that’s damn odd I thought. I mean they’re together, just called a cab and we’re now just getting around to the introductions? This was getting interesting.
“Jenn” was blonde’s reply. Ashley continued, “I just hate waking up and not knowing where I’m at. I couldn’t find my clothes or my purse this morning. These pro athletes are such idiots. They’re so young with all that money and yet they can’t string four intelligent words together.”
Jenn replied, “I know what you mean. All they think about is sex, sex and more sex.”
Of course I was listening to this and thinking, “Well hello! That’s what we do!” Hell, I wasn’t even rich, young, or athletic and yet that’s all I could think about and I could string as many as eight and nine words together and occasionally get the verbs and pronouns organized properly, so I must have had something going for me.
Well, for the next twenty minutes I listened to comments like, “Was that Brady Quinn sitting over in the corner? He’s really cute and he just signed a $4,000,000 dollar contract this year.” And of course my favorite, “All he did was stare at my boobs.”
Of course on hearing that my brain went, “Well hello, knock, knock, anybody home?” For God’s sake, they were after all on full display lacking only a spotlight and ring announcer. What was the poor, sex crazed, rich young athlete supposed to do? Recite poetry?
As the two ladies got to know each other in the back seat I occupied myself with some mirror time. Damn, I wish I had been born a professional athlete. Then if you could remove thirty to thirty five years I’d be charming the hell out of my, WHOA! The problem with occupying some quality mirror time “AND” driving a cab is the “RUNNING INTO OTHER CARS PROBLEM.” The guy flipped me off and I decided I’d better look out the front windshield for a spell. When we got Ashley to her destination it was decided she would pay the first twenty five dollars of the fare and then Jenn would cover the rest. I didn’t hear any discussion about not tipping the driver, so I guessed that until Ashley landed one of those rich Football/Basketball/Hockey/Baseball players, she wasn’t going to tip any damn cab driver, so sorry. After dropping Ashley off I soon located Jenn’s digs and she actually tipped me three bucks. I had to chuckle as she walked away from the cab on down the street. I was reminded of that Nancy Sinatra song, “These boots were made for walking.” Hers weren’t. She wiggled as she walked, But more like she had blisters on her feet, the skirt barely concealing the awwwwhhh never mind.