Swinging both ways
Not long ago I was out on the big yellow trike, and I ran into a guy who had recently started pedicabbing for one of the other companies. He looked at me, did a double-take, and blurted out, "Didn't I see you earlier today on the mule carriage?"
"Yes, it's true," I said, amused at the look of amazement on his face. "I swing both ways!"
It's noteworthy that in New Orleans of all places, where almost nothing is shocking, my career combination strikes people as being so strange. New Orleans is notorious for cops moonlighting as robbers -- or vice versa. But a carriage driver who also drives a pedicab? Now that's just weird!
Bad blood
The mule carriage and taxicab companies fought tooth and nail to prevent the introduction of pedicabs to New Orleans. There was a two-and-a-half year legal battle before the city finally passed a law allowing pedicabs to operate. As a concession to the carriage companies, pedicabbies were forbidden to do tours -- even if they were licensed tour guides. The bitter aftertaste of that legal battle still lingers. (See here for a reference in one of my early blog posts to carriage drivers as "the enemy".) Both sets of colleagues constantly complain to me about the a**holes on the other side.
There are current points of conflict as well. One frequent flash point is the intersection of Saint Ann and Decatur in front of Cafe du Monde. Technically it's illegal to do a U-turn there, but there's a kind of understanding between mule drivers and the police that we have to be able to do a U-turn in order to do our jobs -- with the added understanding that we have to be extra careful not to run over pedestrians in the crosswalk or run into cars. On the other hand, it's technically illegal for pedicabs to park at that intersection (or anywhere else for that matter), but there's a kind of understanding between pedicabbies and the police that we really need to be able to park there sometimes in order to do our jobs -- with the added understanding that we have to be extra careful not to block pedestrians or the handicapped parking spot. Pedicabs and carriages often get in one another's way at this intersection, and whenever this happens both parties protest vociferously that the police aren't enforcing the law on those a**holes on the other side.
There is a general perception on the part of my colleagues on both sides that the police are lenient toward "them" and strict on "us". Neither side has trouble finding ammo.
Exhibit A: There are strict municipal dress codes for both buggy drivers and pedicabbies. Pedicabbies are sometimes levied outrageous fines for offenses as trivial as wearing a baseball cap that is not an official part of the uniform. Buggy drivers, on the other hand flaunt the dress code day in and day out with complete impunity.
Exhibit B: The police routinely harass and fine mule carriage drivers for being illegally parked. They rarely bother pedicabbies for the same offense. (Some carriage drivers claim that pedicabbies never get tickets for illegal parking, but this is definitely not true.)
I don't want to make things sound worse than they are. There are plenty of pleasant exchanges between carriage drivers and pedicabbies. A lot of carriage drivers regularly ride on pedicabs -- and not just mine. I can hear my colleagues on both sides saying, "I really don't have anything against them. It's just that..." But the way I see it, as long as everybody feels obligated to tack on that "It's-just-that..." disclaimer, the situation has plenty of room for improvement.
How it happened
I began pedicabbing in November 2011. One day, not long after starting the job, I was pedaling past a mule-drawn carriage parked at the corner of Bourbon and St. Phillip, and I heard the driver call out my name. I turned around to see an old friend from my church youth group sitting in the driver's seat of the carriage. We hadn't seen one another in more than 25 years.
I'm sure that we must have said some of the normal things that you always say when you run into an old friend with whom you had lost contact many years ago. (Great to see you again! What have you been up to all these years? Looking good!) But to tell the truth, I don't remember any of that. All I remember was his blunt question: "Why are you doing that and not this?"
"Why should I be doing that?" I countered. "I LOVE pedicabbing!"
Over the next couple of months as my friend and I renewed our acquaintance he told me more about his job and why he enjoyed it so much. Meanwhile I was starting to realize that, as much as I loved pedicabbing, I wasn't making enough money at it to support my family, especially given the fact that we were starting a new life in a new place.
I started driving the mule carriage in May. These days I drive the carriage five days a week and the pedicab 2-3 nights a week. I recognize that I can't keep up this kind of pace forever, but right now I really need the income from both jobs. Even if I didn't need the money, I would have a very hard time giving up the pedicab because I enjoy it so much.
Being a bridge
During my years in the Balkans, I always hoped to be a force for understanding and reconciliation. I would like to think that I had some kind of small-scale impact. I'd like to think that... Anyway, having failed to bring a deep and lasting peace between Albanians and Serbs, maybe I'm ready to take on a more manageable project.
Not that I'm claiming to be unbiased. One thing I've learned in life is that nobody is ever unbiased. In practical terms, I probably have much more in common with the carriage drivers; but emotionally I identify much more strongly with the pedicabbies. At any rate, I walk in both worlds, and I have a unique perspective.
Night before last I went to a concert and brought a fellow buggy driver along with me. One of my pedicab colleagues was a member of the group that was performing, and there were a couple of other pedicabbies who turned out to hear her sing as well. After it was over, all of us -- pedicabbies, the other buggy driver, and me -- went out for drinks, and we had a wonderful time. This might have been a first.
If anybody knows anybody on the committee for the Nobel Peace Prize, feel free to drop my name!
Showing posts with label pedicabbie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pedicabbie. Show all posts
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Sunday, April 15, 2012
15 miles to the muffaletta
Napoleon once said, "An army marches on its stomach." Actually there's some debate as to whether it was Napoleon who said this or Frederick the Great. I'm going with Napoleon because I think that it would typically take a Frenchman to be so keenly attuned to the vital role of food in every field of human endeavor. (On the other hand I suppose one might argue that the German would be more likely to be so keenly attuned to the minutiae of military strategy.)
Speaking of French people and food, maybe it's our French heritage that helps explain why we're so passionate about good eating around these parts. If you want to observe this passion in action, try this experiment: Next time you happen to be in the same room with two our three native New Orleanians try raising the question of who makes the best roast beef po boy in town. You'll probably find them expressing their preferences with the articulateness of wine connoisseurs and the aggression of a pack of stray dogs fighting over a ribeye.
A tourist once asked one of my colleagues for directions to a restaurant of a certain well-known, middle-of-the-road, national chain, which I shall leave unnamed. The pedicabbie responded, "We don't have that restaurant here. But if you really want sh***y food, I can probably help you find something. And if you want overpriced sh***y food, I can help you find that too."
A friend of mine from Cajun country once went to Jamaica for vacation. When he got back I asked him how the trip was, and he was very enthusiastic. "Oh, it was wonderful!" he said. "I had the time of my life."
"How about the food?" I asked.
"Oh the food," he said waving his hand dismissively. "The food was lousy. But when you're from South Louisiana you don't go traveling to eat!"
OK, back to where I started, which was with that quote of indeterminate origin about an army marching on its stomach. What I had set out to say was that this same principle applies to pedicabbies. A pedicabbie rolls on his stomach. Actually, that doesn't quite convey the right meaning, does it? My journalism degree isn't helping me out much here. Anyway, I think you get what I'm trying to say.
When I first started the job, my boss told me that I could claim the money I spent on food as a tax write-off since food is our fuel just as petroleum products are the fuel of car taxis. My first thought was that this was a bit shady. After all, we have to eat either way, right? I really didn't get it then. What I've discovered is that if you're pedicabbing full time, then you're going to be spending A LOT OF MONEY on extra food.
Since I started the job back in November I've lost about 25 pounds, and I eat like a horse. Not really like a horse because horses eat mostly salad. Not me. I'm eating good New Orleans food. Oyster poboys and fried boudin balls and crawfish pies and bread pudding. All of it that I can afford. I get home at 5 in the morning after working the night shift, and I go to bed, and after a couple of hours, I wake up hungry, so I get up and eat, and go back to bed, and a couple of hours later I wake up hungry again and eat some more and go back to bed. This is my lifestyle lately. Did I mention that I've lost 25 pounds?
I remember when I was a kid, there were a couple of guys who were riding their bikes across the country who visited our church one Sunday morning. My parents invited them over for lunch after church. To this day I remember how how much those guys seemed to like my mom's cooking. They piled their plates high over and over again, so many times that we finally lost count. My mom was really flattered. Now, all these years later, I understand better what I witnessed back then. My mom is a good cook, without a doubt, but there was another force at work that day. It must take a ton of calories to cross the continent on a bicycle. (Also, those two didn't really talk like churchgoing folk as I recall. I hate to be cynical, but I can't help wondering whether they knew in advance that they were likely get an invitation to lunch if they went to church. Nothing wrong with seeing the Lord's house as a good place to get fed, I suppose. After all, Jesus was known for giving out free lunches.)
Once when I was riding the pedicab, some smart aleck called out to me from the side of the street, "Hey, what kind of mileage do you get on that thing?" I answered him without missing a beat, "Oh, I get about 15 miles to the muffaletta!"
Speaking of French people and food, maybe it's our French heritage that helps explain why we're so passionate about good eating around these parts. If you want to observe this passion in action, try this experiment: Next time you happen to be in the same room with two our three native New Orleanians try raising the question of who makes the best roast beef po boy in town. You'll probably find them expressing their preferences with the articulateness of wine connoisseurs and the aggression of a pack of stray dogs fighting over a ribeye.
A tourist once asked one of my colleagues for directions to a restaurant of a certain well-known, middle-of-the-road, national chain, which I shall leave unnamed. The pedicabbie responded, "We don't have that restaurant here. But if you really want sh***y food, I can probably help you find something. And if you want overpriced sh***y food, I can help you find that too."
A friend of mine from Cajun country once went to Jamaica for vacation. When he got back I asked him how the trip was, and he was very enthusiastic. "Oh, it was wonderful!" he said. "I had the time of my life."
"How about the food?" I asked.
"Oh the food," he said waving his hand dismissively. "The food was lousy. But when you're from South Louisiana you don't go traveling to eat!"
OK, back to where I started, which was with that quote of indeterminate origin about an army marching on its stomach. What I had set out to say was that this same principle applies to pedicabbies. A pedicabbie rolls on his stomach. Actually, that doesn't quite convey the right meaning, does it? My journalism degree isn't helping me out much here. Anyway, I think you get what I'm trying to say.
When I first started the job, my boss told me that I could claim the money I spent on food as a tax write-off since food is our fuel just as petroleum products are the fuel of car taxis. My first thought was that this was a bit shady. After all, we have to eat either way, right? I really didn't get it then. What I've discovered is that if you're pedicabbing full time, then you're going to be spending A LOT OF MONEY on extra food.
Since I started the job back in November I've lost about 25 pounds, and I eat like a horse. Not really like a horse because horses eat mostly salad. Not me. I'm eating good New Orleans food. Oyster poboys and fried boudin balls and crawfish pies and bread pudding. All of it that I can afford. I get home at 5 in the morning after working the night shift, and I go to bed, and after a couple of hours, I wake up hungry, so I get up and eat, and go back to bed, and a couple of hours later I wake up hungry again and eat some more and go back to bed. This is my lifestyle lately. Did I mention that I've lost 25 pounds?
I remember when I was a kid, there were a couple of guys who were riding their bikes across the country who visited our church one Sunday morning. My parents invited them over for lunch after church. To this day I remember how how much those guys seemed to like my mom's cooking. They piled their plates high over and over again, so many times that we finally lost count. My mom was really flattered. Now, all these years later, I understand better what I witnessed back then. My mom is a good cook, without a doubt, but there was another force at work that day. It must take a ton of calories to cross the continent on a bicycle. (Also, those two didn't really talk like churchgoing folk as I recall. I hate to be cynical, but I can't help wondering whether they knew in advance that they were likely get an invitation to lunch if they went to church. Nothing wrong with seeing the Lord's house as a good place to get fed, I suppose. After all, Jesus was known for giving out free lunches.)
Once when I was riding the pedicab, some smart aleck called out to me from the side of the street, "Hey, what kind of mileage do you get on that thing?" I answered him without missing a beat, "Oh, I get about 15 miles to the muffaletta!"
Friday, March 30, 2012
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!
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!
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Rickshawing in the rain
I recently got a shout out from the American Meteorological Society's blog in response to this post. (Executive summary: I jokingly speculated that the wisdom of pedicabbies may somehow factor into the algorithms that meteorologists use to predict the weather. The AMS blogger affirmed that meteorologists do in fact pay attention to the observations of pediabbies as part of their data collection process.) I guess this makes sense, right? If being out in the weather a lot qualifies you, then we pedicabbies should be experts.
Speaking of being out in the weather, this brings to mind a question that I get asked a lot: "What do you do when it rains?"
In these four months that I have been working outdoors full time, I have not missed a single day's work because of the weather. And don't forget, this is New Orleans we're talking about! There have been plenty of days when I didn't manage to get in a full eight hour shift, but I've always showed up for work. Even on the wettest of days there have always been enough breaks in the rain to give me brief windows in which to ride.
As long as I can keep luring people onto the trike, I try to keep moving. The week before Mardi Gras I took a couple on a 20-minute ride in a downpour so fierce if felt as if there were a big fire hydrant in the sky hovering over our heads.
We have two types of canopy available to cover the passenger seat. One is open at the front, and doesn't really offer much protection; the other is a zip-up cocoon kind of thing that is quite an ordeal for riders to get into and out of. With both types, the added wind resistance is like having another 200 pound passenger on board all the time. Naturally, it takes time and effort to mount the canopy and take it down. All that to say that I hardly ever bother to use a canopy anymore. After all, if I don't get any protection on the front seat, why should the guys on the back, right?
If the weather gets bad enough that I can't get anyone on board, then I take cover and wait it out. If I'm lucky enough to be in range, I try to make it to Riverfront Restaurant on Decatur, where they give me free coffee, and the waitresses spoil me. "What can I get you, sweetheart?" they say. "Would you like a refill on that coffee, darling?" (It's a New Orleans thing, I think.)
On rainy days I often struggle to remember why I like this job so much. Sometimes I barely make enough money to cover the cost of fuel for the commute back and forth across the lake. The worst part is the cold. You have no idea just how cold 50 degrees Fahrenheit -- or even 60 or 70 for that matter -- can be until you're out in it and soaked to the skin for hours at a time! As long as I stay dry, it's not hard to combat the cold; I just start pedaling furiously, and pretty soon I'm generating my own heat. But when I get drenched, the only thing that helps is to go home and take off my wet clothes and soak my already wrinkled skin in a steaming bath.
Speaking of being out in the weather, this brings to mind a question that I get asked a lot: "What do you do when it rains?"
In these four months that I have been working outdoors full time, I have not missed a single day's work because of the weather. And don't forget, this is New Orleans we're talking about! There have been plenty of days when I didn't manage to get in a full eight hour shift, but I've always showed up for work. Even on the wettest of days there have always been enough breaks in the rain to give me brief windows in which to ride.
As long as I can keep luring people onto the trike, I try to keep moving. The week before Mardi Gras I took a couple on a 20-minute ride in a downpour so fierce if felt as if there were a big fire hydrant in the sky hovering over our heads.
We have two types of canopy available to cover the passenger seat. One is open at the front, and doesn't really offer much protection; the other is a zip-up cocoon kind of thing that is quite an ordeal for riders to get into and out of. With both types, the added wind resistance is like having another 200 pound passenger on board all the time. Naturally, it takes time and effort to mount the canopy and take it down. All that to say that I hardly ever bother to use a canopy anymore. After all, if I don't get any protection on the front seat, why should the guys on the back, right?
If the weather gets bad enough that I can't get anyone on board, then I take cover and wait it out. If I'm lucky enough to be in range, I try to make it to Riverfront Restaurant on Decatur, where they give me free coffee, and the waitresses spoil me. "What can I get you, sweetheart?" they say. "Would you like a refill on that coffee, darling?" (It's a New Orleans thing, I think.)
On rainy days I often struggle to remember why I like this job so much. Sometimes I barely make enough money to cover the cost of fuel for the commute back and forth across the lake. The worst part is the cold. You have no idea just how cold 50 degrees Fahrenheit -- or even 60 or 70 for that matter -- can be until you're out in it and soaked to the skin for hours at a time! As long as I stay dry, it's not hard to combat the cold; I just start pedaling furiously, and pretty soon I'm generating my own heat. But when I get drenched, the only thing that helps is to go home and take off my wet clothes and soak my already wrinkled skin in a steaming bath.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
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.
"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.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Gambling, fishing and pedicabbing
Back in our dating days Mary (now my wife) came back from her psych 101 class eager to share with me a new insight into my character. She had learned that gambling and fishing are similar in that their addictive power comes from something called intermittent reinforcement. Take fishing for instance. You make a lot of casts that don't produce anything. Then, on that 500th cast: BAM! The fish and the fisherman are both hooked -- the fish for obvious reasons and the fisherman because there's just no telling when it might happen again. Apparently, fishermen are especially vulnerable to gambling addiction.
You should know that I LOVE to fish; and when I'm fishing, I have a real hard time stopping. Whenever it comes time to quit, there are two possible scenarios. Either I'm catching fish -- in which case I can't quit because I'm catching them; or I'm not catching fish -- in which case I've got to keep going till I catch something. Make sense?
In light of all this, Mary made me promise never to set foot in a casino -- a promise which I have faithfully kept because I'm pretty sure she's right. I'm pretty sure that if I ever started gambling, I'd never be able to stop. I haul passengers to Harrah's all the time, but I'm terrified at the very thought of setting foot inside that door.
(By the way, this also helps to explain an aspect of my character that puzzles some people. How does someone like me who has terminal ADD muster the patience for fishing? The honest answer is that it has nothing to do with patience. No one would describe the guy who sits at the slot machine for 10 hours straight as patient. Clearly there's a far more powerful force at work here.)
Speaking of patience, if you're wondering what any of this has to do with being a pedicabbie, stay with me. I'm working around to that by way of the following story:
Yesterday when 6 PM rolled around, I'd been on the street for 8 hours. Both of my colleagues who shared my shift had already announced over the radio that they were calling it quits for the day. It was time for me to be headed to the house too, but I hadn't had a ride in the last hour and a half. Worse still, I was a bit short of what I had hoped to make for the day.
Just one more fare, I told myself. Just one more.
My persistence paid off a few minutes after 6:00 when I picked up an older couple from Oregon. They didn't have anywhere particular they wanted to go; they just wanted to ride around a bit, and I was happy to oblige. (I'm always careful to explain to people that I can't give tours because I'm not licensed to do that, but if they want me to just to take them for a spin, why not?) I told them that they were going to be my last fare of the day.
They were still aboard when a dispatch came over the radio for someone to pick up another couple at a certain hotel. I ignored it at first since I already had riders and was intending to head in as soon as I dropped them off. However, it turned out that there were no other pedicabs available, so my boss got on the radio again to ask if I could do it. My passengers, understanding the situation, graciously dismounted, and I headed for the pickup, thrilled to have gotten two more fares at the end of the day.
I took the second couple where they needed to go and turned my bike toward the shop. When I ride in at the end of my shift, I usually keep doing my 3-second sales pitch just in case I come across someone who happens to be going my way. I don't recall that it had ever worked before, but this was my lucky evening.
"Would you like a ride?" I called out to a pretty girl who was walking the same direction I was pedaling.
"I would love a ride! I'm just going a couple of blocks up to Canal..." She hesitated a moment, and her face fell. "You know what? Never mind. I'm really sorry. I've only got three dollars on me."
"That's not a problem," I said. "I'm just about done for the day, and I'm going that way anyway. I would be happy to take you that far for three dollars." Then I hesitated, wondering if I had misunderstood her reluctance. "Of course if you don't want to part with your last three dollars, I totally understand..."
"Oh, it's not that," she assured me. "I just feel bad for you."
"Well there's no need to feel bad for me. One way or the other, I'm going home. And as far as I'm concerned, I might as well go home three dollars richer."
"OK then!" she said as she jumped into the passenger seat. "This is my first time to ride a pedicab. I've been wanting to take one of these things for a long time."
"Well I'm honored to be your first pedicabbie!" I said. And I was.
At the corner of Canal St., she hopped off, handed me the three bucks, and went on her way. I continued on my way too, rejoicing at having picked up three rides in quick succession after an hour and a half drought.
A block and a half up Canal, a colleague flagged me down in front of a hotel. He was there for a pickup, waiting for his passengers to come out when a pair of ladies (not the ones who had called) approached him wanting a ride. Would I be willing to take them?
I was more than willing. I got them where they were going, then turned toward the shop once again, headed home at last, four fares richer, and so happy that it seemed to me that my pedicab had wings.
All that to say that my susceptibility to intermittent reinforcement sometimes works in my favor. But I'm still not planning to get any closer to the casino than is absolutely necessary in order to drop off riders who want to go there.
You should know that I LOVE to fish; and when I'm fishing, I have a real hard time stopping. Whenever it comes time to quit, there are two possible scenarios. Either I'm catching fish -- in which case I can't quit because I'm catching them; or I'm not catching fish -- in which case I've got to keep going till I catch something. Make sense?
In light of all this, Mary made me promise never to set foot in a casino -- a promise which I have faithfully kept because I'm pretty sure she's right. I'm pretty sure that if I ever started gambling, I'd never be able to stop. I haul passengers to Harrah's all the time, but I'm terrified at the very thought of setting foot inside that door.
(By the way, this also helps to explain an aspect of my character that puzzles some people. How does someone like me who has terminal ADD muster the patience for fishing? The honest answer is that it has nothing to do with patience. No one would describe the guy who sits at the slot machine for 10 hours straight as patient. Clearly there's a far more powerful force at work here.)
Speaking of patience, if you're wondering what any of this has to do with being a pedicabbie, stay with me. I'm working around to that by way of the following story:
Yesterday when 6 PM rolled around, I'd been on the street for 8 hours. Both of my colleagues who shared my shift had already announced over the radio that they were calling it quits for the day. It was time for me to be headed to the house too, but I hadn't had a ride in the last hour and a half. Worse still, I was a bit short of what I had hoped to make for the day.
Just one more fare, I told myself. Just one more.
My persistence paid off a few minutes after 6:00 when I picked up an older couple from Oregon. They didn't have anywhere particular they wanted to go; they just wanted to ride around a bit, and I was happy to oblige. (I'm always careful to explain to people that I can't give tours because I'm not licensed to do that, but if they want me to just to take them for a spin, why not?) I told them that they were going to be my last fare of the day.
They were still aboard when a dispatch came over the radio for someone to pick up another couple at a certain hotel. I ignored it at first since I already had riders and was intending to head in as soon as I dropped them off. However, it turned out that there were no other pedicabs available, so my boss got on the radio again to ask if I could do it. My passengers, understanding the situation, graciously dismounted, and I headed for the pickup, thrilled to have gotten two more fares at the end of the day.
I took the second couple where they needed to go and turned my bike toward the shop. When I ride in at the end of my shift, I usually keep doing my 3-second sales pitch just in case I come across someone who happens to be going my way. I don't recall that it had ever worked before, but this was my lucky evening.
"Would you like a ride?" I called out to a pretty girl who was walking the same direction I was pedaling.
"I would love a ride! I'm just going a couple of blocks up to Canal..." She hesitated a moment, and her face fell. "You know what? Never mind. I'm really sorry. I've only got three dollars on me."
"That's not a problem," I said. "I'm just about done for the day, and I'm going that way anyway. I would be happy to take you that far for three dollars." Then I hesitated, wondering if I had misunderstood her reluctance. "Of course if you don't want to part with your last three dollars, I totally understand..."
"Oh, it's not that," she assured me. "I just feel bad for you."
"Well there's no need to feel bad for me. One way or the other, I'm going home. And as far as I'm concerned, I might as well go home three dollars richer."
"OK then!" she said as she jumped into the passenger seat. "This is my first time to ride a pedicab. I've been wanting to take one of these things for a long time."
"Well I'm honored to be your first pedicabbie!" I said. And I was.
At the corner of Canal St., she hopped off, handed me the three bucks, and went on her way. I continued on my way too, rejoicing at having picked up three rides in quick succession after an hour and a half drought.
A block and a half up Canal, a colleague flagged me down in front of a hotel. He was there for a pickup, waiting for his passengers to come out when a pair of ladies (not the ones who had called) approached him wanting a ride. Would I be willing to take them?
I was more than willing. I got them where they were going, then turned toward the shop once again, headed home at last, four fares richer, and so happy that it seemed to me that my pedicab had wings.
All that to say that my susceptibility to intermittent reinforcement sometimes works in my favor. But I'm still not planning to get any closer to the casino than is absolutely necessary in order to drop off riders who want to go there.
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