Sound bites and snippets (some sexy)

A female passenger is making complimentary comments on my butt then starts grabbing it. I whirl around. "It's OK," she reassures me. "I'm allowed to do this. I'm a nurse."

(By the way, this kind of thing happens to my co-workers and me on a pretty regular basis. Oddly enough, I'm pretty sure that we male pedicabbies get more sexual harassment than our female colleagues. Although at this stage in my life, it's hard not to think of this as more a job perk than harassment. Oh yeah, and nurses are generally the worst!)

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A couple of middle-aged local men are griping about the price of the ride. "We could get a cab for cheaper! How can you charge more than a cab?" It's the night before Super Bowl, and I'm on the way to setting a personal record. People are pretty much throwing 50s and 100s around, and I'm not in the mood for this. I'm not charging a penny more than the legal price, but this isn't a night for doing discounts either.

"We're not trying to compete with the cabs on price," I explain. "We're offering a better experience."

"So how is this a better experience?" they challenge me.

"Well for one thing, I'm more charming than your average cab driver. But if you don't want to ride with me, I'll be happy to help you hail a cab."

"You're getting less charming by the minute," one of them grumbles.

In the end, they get off without paying, and I'm relieved to see them go.

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A couple of 20-30 something male passengers, evidently hyper-sensitive to the sensual connotations of sharing the passenger seat of the pedicab, shout out to everybody we pass: "WE'RE NOT GAY!" I wonder whether they're trying to convince the strangers on the street or themselves.

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I ride by a group of gorgeous girls and hear one of them say (loudly enough to be sure that I don't miss it): "God, why are they all so hot? Is it like a job qualification or something?"

I look around to see if there are any other pedicabs in sight. "Yeah, I'm talking about you!" she says, reading my reaction.

My pedicab floats about six inches off the ground the rest of my shift.

(By the way, here's someone making pretty much the same observation online -- but in this case a gay guy in a different city.)

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I'm dropping off a middle-aged resident of the French Quarter at her historic Creole cottage. "I hear the tour guides telling people that this was the home of a famous madame," she says. "Which is kind of funny. I haven't had a date in seven years!"

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I pick up a young couple. "Bret?" asks the female hesitantly as she settles into the seat.

"No, my name's Mark," I respond.

"Wow, you look just like this guy we know named Bret," she says.

"Yeah, totally! Dead ringer," her date agrees.

"Wow, this Bret guy must be really good-looking," I say, emboldened by all the positive attention I've been getting on the bike lately.

"Actually, yes," she says. "He used to be a male stripper,"

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