First day, continued

Fishing for riders 

After my fellow pedicabbies and I had dropped off our first passengers, we were on our own. I spent the rest of the night zig-zagging in and around the French Quarter, trying to catch the eye of every pedestrian I passed and calling out to them: "Hey, need a lift?" Most smiled and said, "No thank you," which was really nice because it didn't feel at all like rejection.

Occasionally someone said yes and this invariably gave me a jolt of joy -- like the feeling you get from an unexpected compliment or a surprise gift. I'm guessing that as I get better at the job, I'll start actually expecting people to want to ride, and that this expectation will make me more effective. I figure it's a bit like fishing. When you really expect to catch something on every cast -- an expectation which every fisherman knows is utterly unreasonable -- you somehow end up with a lot more fish. Maybe there's something about confidence that makes you work that lure a little more convincingly. Or maybe it sharpens your reaction time so you set the hook a split second sooner.  Then again, maybe it's just my imagination...

Complimentary and kind passengers

Ok, this blog isn't about fishing. Where was I? Oh yeah, speaking of unexpected compliments... I got a lot of admiration of my calf muscles. (Presumably this would be the part of me most readily apparent from the rear of the rickshaw). While living in Skopje for the last couple of years, I got around almost exclusively by bicycle. Our house there was situated at the top of a daunting hill, which had to be conquered every time I came home. I guess that well-defined calves on an otherwise flabby, forty-five year-old body are the trophies of that daily struggle.

I had imagined that my passengers might be irritated to find themselves in the care of a pedicabbie who knew next to nothing about the layout of the city. I decided that my best policy was to appeal to my passengers for mercy. I explained at the beginning of every ride that it was my first night. "If you know how to get where you want to go, feel free to navigate us. Otherwise, I can look it up on my smart phone or radio the dispatcher for directions." As it turned out, every one of them was gracious, and there was never so much as a hint of annoyance.

Childhood delight

I think that my favorite passengers of the evening (though not my most profitable by a long shot!) were a mother and her 11-year-old son. "How much does it cost?" she asked a bit anxiously when I approached them.

"As much as you want to pay!" I said. (Municipal law allows us to charge up to a certain amount based on a fairly complex fare structure, but our company encourages us to allow our passengers to decide for themselves the value of our service.)

"My son has really been dying to ride one of these, but I've only got three dollars," the lady said.

"That's fine," I said. "Hop on!"

Let me interject here that I have an 11-year old son at home, so if I speak about "kids these days", I presume to speak with some authority. One of the things I thought I knew is that in the era of the internet and Xbox, kids are a lot harder to entertain and impress than they used to be. But for this one boy at least, sitting on the back of a giant tricycle with a grown man pedaling him around town was almost as good as riding with Aladdin on his carpet or Santa on his sleigh.

 "How old do you have to be to drive one of these?" he asked me.

"I dunno. I guess 18," I replied.

"Well I want to do this when I grow up!"

Of course you do, I thought. Who wouldn't? What a lucky guy I am!

We didn't go very far, probably because the mother didn't want to take advantage of me. But with the joy that was flowing between that 11-year-old boy and me, I think that I would've been willing to take them all the way to Texas!

Who says there's no free ride?

I mentioned that these weren't my most profitable customers, but they weren't my least profitable either. I actually hauled one guy for free. He was a New Yorker, not much more than a kid really -- maybe late teens or early 20s. I got the impression that he might have hitchhiked down here. He told me straight up that he didn't have any money, and I said, "Hey, that's cool! It's my first night. I need the practice."

At the end of the ride, he said, "Thanks man. Hey, I've got some cookies I found. They're really good! Take them. I feel bad that I can't pay you."

"No thanks, man, it's OK. Really."

"Well how about this cigarette lighter? Can I give you my cigarette lighter?"

"Thanks, but I don't need it. It was my pleasure. Really, it's OK."

I know that the job's primary purpose is to provide for my family and that providing free transport to down and out ramblers won't necessarily help me accomplish that. But I'm thinking that one of these days when Jesus is sorting things out, he might say to me, "Mark, remember that time I was in New Orleans, and you gave me a free ride?" (See Matthew 25:32-46.)

And I'll say, "Yeah, I remember that! But I've got one burning question for you... If it's OK. What was up with the cigarette lighter!"

An intoxicated Welsh nationalist

Given the French Quarter's reputation, I began the evening expecting to be the designated driver for a lot of drunks. As it turned out there was only one. She and her husband were returning to their hotel room just before midnight. They were probably in their 50s. He barely said a word the whole time and seemed pretty steady getting in and out of the rickshaw, so I'm assuming he was sober more or less. She, on the other hand, was a bit wobbly on her feet; and her speech was slurred and very LOUD.  I recognized from her accent that she was from the U.K., but there was none of the renowned British reserve here.

"I gather that you're from the U.K.," I said to strike up conversation.

"Yes!" she said. "We're from Wales. We're Welsh. We're not English." I've had enough exposure to the U.K.'s various nationalisms (Welsh, Cornish, Scottish, Irish, etc.) to  guess what was coming.

"Have you ever been to the U.K.?" she asked.

"Yes, but only to London and only very briefly."

"Well, you should go to Wales! Wales is wonderful. England is shit."

A few minutes later, apropos of nothing, she called out again from behind me: "England is shit!" Apparently she wanted to be sure I got it.

Then as we pulled up in front of the hotel she shared her assessment of England one more time just in case I had missed it on the previous two occasions: "England is shit!" she shouted.

A high price for a ride.

One more story, this one pretty sad. I approached a young lady (again late teens/early 20s) to ask if she needed a ride, and she said, "Uh... Actually, yeah... But to the Westbank..."

"Oh sorry. I can't take you there," I said, stating the obvious. (For those of you not from around here, the Westbank is the area across the Mississippi River from New Orleans.)

"Yeah, I know," she agreed. "But, um, here's the deal. See, I work at this strip club, right? And I didn't make any money at all tonight. And I don't know how I'm going to get home. Is there any way you could just give me some money to get a cab?"

The cost of a taxi to the Westbank would probably have taken everything I had earned that evening up till that point. "Sorry. I can't help you there," I said as I began pedaling on down the street. I heard her behind me calling out, "I would do anything! I would..." The last part of the sentence was indistinguishable in the general Bourbon Street hubbub as I pulled away. But I have a pretty good idea what she might have been offering. Later on, I felt really bad. I think that if I had it to do over again, I would give her the money. I hope she found someone else to help her get home -- someone decent enough not to charge her the price she was willing to pay.