Calves comments: The best-of collection

We had 12,000 operating room nurses in town this week for a convention, so this has been the main pool that my passengers have been coming from over the last few days. One of them said to me, "Wow, you have beautiful soleus and gastrocnemius!" It wasn't hard to figure out what she was referring to, but I asked her to put it in writing so I could look it up when I got home.


Her remark got me thinking about some of the more interesting and outrageous comments that have been inspired by my soleus and gastrocnemius muscles since I've been pedicabbing. Here's a list, along with some comments of my own:


"Those are so gorgeous, I'd love to just take a bite out of them!"
I'm glad that this girl found them attractive -- and even gladder that she didn't give in to her impulse. Can you imagine how this list of comments might be different if she had? ("Eeww! How did you get that hideous gaping hole in the back of your leg? Was that from a cycling accident or a shark encounter?")

__________

Female passenger A: God, look at those calves!
Female passenger B: I know! Wouldn't he look good in heels!
I have a hard time conjuring up any image as repulsive as my hairy horse-cavles atop a pair of high heels.  On second thought, the image of my calves with a big bloody bite taken out of them (See above) might come  close.

__________

"I sure would hate for you to kick me!"
This is one that I've heard several times, mostly from guys. I suppose it's a safe way for a guy to compliment me on my calves without sounding gay.

__________

"I'm so jealous! I wish I had calves like that."
This is probably the most common comment, and it's always women who say this. A common variation (one I heard last night, actually) is: "I need this job so I can have legs like that!" Personally, I don't think calves like mine -- even clean shaven -- would be very attractive on a girl. But that's just me.

__________

"Can I touch them?"
Sometimes they don't even bother to ask; they just start grabbing.

__________

And my all-time favorite, which I already recorded in an earlier post, but I think it's worth telling again. 
Drunk Cajun A: Man, look at those calves!
Drunk Cajun B: Those aren't calves, no. Those are full grown cows!

Another funny story featuring my freakish calves

Yesterday afternoon. I pull up and park beside a colleague for a minute to catch my breath and engage in the pedicabbie equivalent of water cooler conversation.

"Remember when I had that couple on my bike, and you rode past me over by the steamboat terminal?" he asks.

"Sure."

"Well they were admiring my muscular legs," says my colleague, an ex-Marine, who's pretty ripped all over by the way, "and right at that moment you go riding by. I told them, 'You think I've got strong legs, get a load of that guy!' Their reaction was like shock and awe. Honestly, Mark, I think they were so impressed that they actually gave me a better tip out of appreciation for pointing you out to them!"

Fast forward a couple of hours. The same colleague and I are back in the shop counting up our day's earnings. Turns out he made exactly three dollars more than me, which doesn't sound too bad -- till he reveals that he started the day two hours late. This just isn't fair! I worked till 3 a.m. the night before then slept in my car in the shop to get an early start on the day shift. And this guy shows up for work two hours late and finishes the day with three dollars more than me.

I haul off and whack him as hard as I can with a business card I happen to be holding at the moment. (In case you're wondering, I'm not resorting to literary license here; I actually did this. I actually hit the guy with an honest-to-goodness business card.) I would have used my fist, a bike wrench, or some other more formidable weapon were it not for two facts: 1) He's actually a really nice guy; and 2) as you may remember reading just a couple of paragraphs ago, he's a muscle-bound ex Marine. I figure he could probably snap my neck and the bike wrench with his bare hands. Simultaneously if necessary.

Anyway, the injustice of the whole thing really sunk in on the drive home: By his own admission that no-good scoundrel had gotten an extra tip by showing off my calves. By all rights those three dollars should have been mine! I have been exploited for profit. I'm thinking that I just might sue if I can find a lawyer who'll take the case for a dollar or less.

Is it time to consider drastic measures?

I'm sitting in my car trying out the blogger app on my phone and enjoying a few more minutes warmth before I ride out on another dreary December day. Hope it's better than yesterday. The day shift is always a lot less profitable and entertaining than the night shift, but yesterday was more miserable than most.

It started out pretty well actually. I got three rides in quick succession, which almost never happens in the morning. I couldn't resist bragging about it over the radio, and my boss said, "Mark, we're going to have to pull you off the street and put you in the classroom so you can teach everyone else how it's done!"

I basked in the praise. Looking back I'm overcome with shame that the multitude of sermons I had heard on "Pride goeth before a fall" availed me naught in my hour of temptation. After those first three rides I only had four more the rest of the day.

The worst part was that I didn't get one single comment on my calves all day. Not one. Definitely a career first. If this keeps up I may have to look into calf augmentation surgery.

Regarding fat derrieres and massive calves

The mules and me

I picked up a lady and her little girl the other day. The mother informed me that her daughter had wanted to ride in a mule-drawn carriage, but that she (the mother) had been dead set against it.

"Well I'm glad you chose me, but I'm curious as to why you weren't comfortable getting in a carriage," I asked.

"I guess I just feel sorry for the mules hauling all that weight," she explained.

I stifled a snort of laughter lest the lady think me ungrateful for her business. Actually, I can kind of see her point if I squint just right. I mean the mules didn't really choose the job, right?

Every street name is a shibboleth.

Unlike this particular lady (who was actually quite trim), many female passengers express their self-consciousness about their weight in the form of pity for me. "Oh, I feel so sorry for you. I know I must be really heavy for you to haul," they say.

Last night I picked up three such ladies, girlfriends from out of town having a good time in the city. (We're allowed to carry up to three, but the passenger seat only fits two adults, so in cases like this somebody has to sit on somebody's lap.) They were a real hoot -- the kind of folks who make my job so much fun.

They did seem genuinely concerned that their weight would be too much for me, and I reassured them that it wasn't going to be a problem.

That's not to say that there wasn't any problem. The real problem was going to be finding the place they wanted to go. They asked to be taken to a bed and breakfast in the Marigny, out on the edge of the territory we generally cover. In my first week's work I've grown a lot more confident about navigating New Orleans' narrow streets, but I've still got a lot of learning to do. I told the ladies upfront, "We may not get there by the most the efficient route, but I promise we'll find it."

As it turned out I took a couple of wrong turns and had to stop and ask directions a couple of times. I kept apologizing to my riders, but they were very encouraging. "Oh no, don't worry about it. We're having fun! We just feel sorry for you having to haul our three fat asses around."

I need to interject a little explanation at this point. Going into the job, my mom's greatest fear was that I would be stabbed by a junkie for the cash to buy his next fix. My greatest fear, on the other hand, was butchering a street name in front of a local.

Having grown up across the lake from New Orleans, I don't stumble at all over words like Tchoupitoulas, which totally intimidate tourists. For me the really scary ones are those that appear simple and straightforward. Like Conti for example, which New Orleans natives pronounce "Kon-tie" with a long "i" at the end. Or "Burgundy" with the accent not on "Bur" but on "gun". (Given New Orleans' notorious murder rate, maybe there's some Freudian thing going on with this one.)

The names of the city's streets are a mixture of Spanish, French, native American, and heaven-only-knows what else; but there is no discernible pattern to the pronunciation. I say "discernible", because I suspect that there really is a pattern known only to insiders. I'm convinced that it's all a carefully thought out conspiracy designed to easily identify who's local and who's not. There's probably some kind of code, for instance, that dictates that French names will be pronounced according to the rules of native American pronunciation; native American words will be pronounced according to Croatian rules; and so forth.

I really thought I was figuring it out and that I was going to be spared any major shame. The previous night I had actually laughed at some poor tourist (Not one of my riders. I would NEVER laugh at a rider.) who pronounced "Marigny" (the "g" is supposed to be silent) "margin-y".

So here I found myself -- a man transporting three female passengers, upon whom I hoped to make a reasonably good impression if for no other reason than to get a generous tip -- being forced to stop and ask directions. Everyone knows that this in itself is agonizingly embarrassing for us men. But it was about to get a lot worse.

"Excuse me, sir," I said to a fellow on a street corner who looked suitably local. "Can you tell me how to get to Royal and St. Roch?" And I pronounced "Roch" -- Oh the shame! -- like "roach". Which is pretty hilarious if you think about it. St. Roach, of all things!

"Do you mean St. Roch?" he clarified, pronouncing it like "rock". (Which as it turns out is the proper French pronunciation. I'll have to find a way to accommodate this fact to my conspiracy theory.)

I don't think that the ladies noticed all that much. They were from out of town, and it wasn't as if they had known the proper pronunciation after all. Like I said, they were pretty gracious for the most part,.

Did you get your license in a box of Cracker Jacks? 

One of them couldn't resist a deep dig though. They asked me about the job, and I mentioned that there was a fairly rigorous process for obtaining a permit to be a pedicabbie. There was a pause, and one of them said, "Really?" (Since you, dear reader, weren't present to hear the inflection, an explanation is necessary. One can say "Really?" merely as a friendly way of showing interest and keeping the conversation moving; or one can say "Really" as a way of expressing genuine incredulity. This was definitely the latter.) Ouch!

I finally found the hotel and dropped them off safe and sound. Ten minutes later, I picked up a pair of ladies who also seemed self-conscious about their weight and expressed it in precisely the same way. "Are you sure that you're really up to hauling our fat asses?" they asked. "We don't want to kill you or break the bike!"

Again, I promised them that it wasn't a problem. "You should see the ladies I just hauled," I said. "There were three of them, and they were way fatter than y'all!"

(For the record, I have to admit that I really don't know which group was fatter. I was just trying in my own clumsy way to be nice. Looking back, I can see that I went about this in the altogether the wrong way; telling a woman who's worried about her weight, "I've seen worse," isn't very helpful, is it? I've always been awkward when it comes to this kind of thing.)

"So where are you headed?" I asked.  "Balcony Bed and Breakfast," they answered. "It's on the corner of Royal and St. Roch."

"You're kidding!" I blurted out. "What a coincidence. I just finished taking three ladies there to that very same place."

My passengers burst into laughter. "The ones who were way fatter than us?" one of them asked when she could get her breath.

I must have gone pale. "So you know them then?" I asked weakly.

"We're not old friends or anything, but we met them there at the guest house. Hey, don't worry about it. We wouldn't dream of telling them that you said their asses were way fatter than ours!"

 A freak show on three wheels

I've mentioned a couple of times the attention that my calves have been attracting. Well it just keeps getting crazier. As I noted before, it makes sense that the backs of my lower legs would be the most noticeable part of my anatomy from the passenger seat of the cab. But lately people have been calling out to me from the street as I ride by. Drunk women. Gay men. All kinds of people.

To tell the truth, I was enjoying the admiration at first, but now I'm starting to feel a bit like a freak show on wheels. Maybe my calves are destined to be one of New Orleans' major tourist attractions. I guess that's OK as long as it helps me get more riders and bigger tips.

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.