stranded in paradise, or hell is other rickshaw riders

We are beginning to show serious strain. I woke up this morning cranky. To my left, was a unshaved man, snoring and hogging the sheets. My nose recoiled at the smell of stale smoke, stale beer, and a foot/ass/man smell. It feels like time has stopped, or I am caught in some kind of time fold, or loop. This day is yesterday. Yesterday is tomorrow. I will get out of bed, take my ablutions in the scummy shower, then stumble to the motel lobby to fill up on weak coffee. Eat small breakfast, pile into car and drive to St. Pete. Another day on the cab in a ghost town; maybe make enough money to buy myself dinner. 

Two days ago, at a meeting the bosses told us that they were still working on getting us into the superbowl so we can work. I asked them to tell me in earnest what they thought the chances were that this would come to pass. At the same time they spoke. Chuck (with the smile of a confidence man) : "fifty-fifty!" Casey (hangdog): "slim..." They exchange a embarrassed look, and then exchange stories, each trying to get the tale straight. 

I think we are being strung along, so we don't mutiny. These guys are going to keep us on the hook for as long as they can. Meanwhile, we have the abandoned city of St. Pete to try and work. Truth of the matter is, the bosses got scammed by the man who sold them the pedalcab permits. The bosses, if not to cover their expenses, but their embarrassment, now expect us to pay for the cash they were conned out of. 

Before I left on this trip, every time I told someone about our itinerary they would ask, "Do you have the permits to work?" I would say, "that's what I'm paying the bosses for. We better have the right papers."

I am beginning to wonder what I paid them for at all. Now, I'll admit to doing more fishing this last week than pedaling, but there have been some dedicated hustlers working the city. $50 is the biggest one-night earner thus far, with the nearest competitor coming in with $10. Are we supposed to carve up $60 between the twelve of us (plus one local cabbie that we are taking money from)? This trip may be a loss for the bosses, but for us workers, this will be ruinous. Several of my co-workers will be returning homeless, having counted on making money. All of us will have to work the coldest month of the year back home, and try to make rent; only peanut butter and jelly to eat until Spring. It will take me months to recover. I will spend my time when not on the cab trying to find another job. 

hopefully things turn around soon, otherwise we have a angry car ride home.

sittin' on the dock at the bay

A relaxing day fishing off the St. Pete's pier (for the low price of $13)! Fritz caught a beautiful sea bass, Just too small to keep. I had a foot-long squid on my line. it spit water and angrily writhed its tentacles before it let go of the line and splashed back into the water. 

Riding through St. Pete is like that Twilight Zone episode with a dude wandering through empty streets. he calls out, his voice echos: "Hello? Hello? Is anybody here? anybody?"

To make matters worse, the weather forecast calls for rain tomorrow and Friday. 

Today, perhaps we will go to the Tampa Aquarium or perhaps the Dali museum. Yea.

On Hobos and Rickshaw Riders

Well, our bosses bought permits for us to work across the bay at St. Pete. The place was a ghost town. Today I plan to go fishing.

Adventures in living in a hooker motel:

Meanwhile…were cloistered the whole day at the hotel, the cramped, stinky, slum hotel.
Earlier, I was in the hotel lobby, fetching some free coffee (our only amenity). I overhear the desk lady, a manager, and the housekeeping staff complaining about the rickshaw riders.
“They have their laundry hanging out the windows, and they are just packed in there”
“I think they snuck in more people, I can’t watch everything.”

I pour my coffee in silence, only looking up to reach for the non-dairy creamer. The hotel staff gets quiet for a second when they recognize me.
“Hey, you’re in 140, yea?”
Me: “mmmhmmm.”
“You can’t hang your laundry out the window. It doesn’t look good.”
Me (in my best lying to petty authority figures voice): “Oh. Well. Um, I’ll get right on that. Bring it up in committee.”
“And how many people are staying in your rooms?”
Me: “four.” I raise an eyebrow.
What I thought loudly but didn’t say: “Listen B, this is a slum town, flea bag, hooker hotel. And we’re too trashy for you? Go Eff yourself!” instead I take my coffee and leave.

The next morning there was a hooker walking the motel property in translucent high heels and a small, white bikini. The hotel staff called the cops on her after she started to go door to door looking for business. I was in the motel lobby drinking crappy coffee and using the wifi. The hooker came in to confront the staff.
“How can you tell me to put clothes on and then tell me to leave?” I look up. Her ass is hanging out. “This is a prejudice issue…well Obama is president! How the hell can you tell me to put on clothes, I’ll come over this counter and slap your face.” She turns and looks at me, I notice that her eyebrows have been replaced with rhinestones. “This is effed up.” I nod and close my laptop. I get up to leave. The last thing I hear as I step out the door is the motel manager:
“Miss, this is a family establishment.” I almost laugh out loud at the audacity of the motel lady. It would seem to me that the working girl’s only crime was a lack of subtlety.

day at the beach...

While our bosses did the legal leg work to make us legal to ride in Florida, work that should have been done months ago, we went to the beach. Sand Key beach, on the Gulf Coast, was beautiful. The temperatures were in the mid-70s, the water was cold, but not cold enough to keep the braver souls out. I swam, hunted for treasures along the surf, and drank beer in the sun. my neck and legs got a pleasant sunburn; the fresh air did us all some good.

We were called in by our bosses in the early evening for an update of our situation. Tampa is off limits to us. The police, they say, are prepared to arrest cabbies and impound their bikes. there is a lengthy (several days at least) and invasive background check/licensing process that, if we were qualified, we would be able to work in Ybor city (an area that is 3 x 9 blocks). Another option is to purchase permits to work in St. Petersberg ($3,000) and work adjacent to where all the action and money is. barring these two choices, we could return home.

Most of us need to at least make money for rent on our apartments back home, and there is a general agreement that working in the sunshine is better than working in the wintery northlands. The Ybor city thing seems to me to be a waste of time. The small area open to us is full of trendy bars and shops, but will probably be patrolled by a small army of traveling rickshaws. We set off to investigate St. Pete, to get the lay of the terrain and to see the nightlife (on a sunday, mind, but nevertheless). The town is very posh, easy to navigate and right on the Bay. 

So St. Pete it is. we are going to try to eek out some cash and hope that the Superbowl doesn't drain the city of people. 

trouble in paradise?

Eff-word! Bad news: it looks like we may not be able to ride anywhere, anytime in Tampa. Apparently the city has only a limited amount of permits for pedicabs and the locals have the exclusive.

On Saturday, we set off to ride in the city. But just before we left the self-storage where we are keeping our cabs, we ran into rickshaw drivers from Austin, (I met these guys during the DNC, and ran into them in DC) they told us that they were threatened with arrest if they worked this city without the right papers. We decided to press our luck and ride anyway. There was some kind of pirate festival going on, complete with parade and massive fireworks show (I got to see some of the fireworks, it looked like a prop plane and a sailing ship in a super cool battle). There are no hills, the weather is in the mid-70’s, and people wanted rides. In two hours I had made a quick $80, with the promise of much more. About this time, I get a text message from the boss, telling me to return to the storage space: apparently the cops had threatened to arrest members of our company and had put out a call on the radio to run us off. I had to turn down fares so I could get back. Someone flagged me down heading the same way I was, so I was able to make some cash on the way in.

We will now wait while my bosses (disorganized and making rookie mistakes) try to make headway with the local bureaucrats. There is still a chance that we could still work St. Pete, the city across the bay. We will not be working the Superbowl at all. We are looking at a bust here…

At a meeting before we left Denver, I asked the bosses if they had confirmed whether or not we could ride in DC and Tampa. They said with confidence that all was good and made it sound like they did the research, made it sound like they had their shit together. Some of us used the money we made in DC to pay for this leg of the trip, and are looking at taking a loss. At least two cabbies where hoping on being able to afford first and last months rent for new apartments. We seem to be screwed.

Vitamin D, anyone?

Well, Tampa Bay is warm and sunny. Shorts, t-shirt, and sandals! Yes, this is the first time in months that I am not wearing four layers of every article of clothing. I am metabolizing vitamin d as i post this, and boy it feels good. no rickets for this tricycle operator. no sir. 

Well, the hotel is kinda flea-bag, i get the feeling that i could score meth or crack around here if i put any effort into it. hopefully our nine days here goes quickly and without event. 

We made our first camp-out dinner last night, burritos and grilled chicken. I cooked the potatoes and rice on my camp stove, and we grilled on a grill at the hotel. Good fare and filling. 

tonight in town there will be a staged pirate attack from the bay, to commemorate some historical pirate attack. there will be fireworks, and i plan on being on my rickshaw

little man, big day.

I got to work early Monday (19), to make some money taking tourists around town. After a falafel sandwich breakfast, I pedaled toward the National Mall. My first ride was a hundred and thirty dollar fare, a tour of the monuments. As we rode they would ask, “ooh, and what building is that?” Some of the obvious ones, I knew: “That’s the air and space museum,” or “that’s the Capitol.” Others, nondescript in this “I’m a big and impressive marble building with a Roman fetish” kinda way, I would squint and try to read its signage or inscriptions “Umm…that’s the…Department of Agriculture?” Most I just made up as we went. I was feeling much more confidant

By the end of the day, my odometer recorded 23 miles. We got back to the house around midnight, made lunch and went to bed. The alarm went off at three am. We dressed quickly and headed into the city. I drove. Traffic on the way wasn’t bad until we hit the city. New York Avenue was choked with cars and moving slow. A motorcade made of tour busses, lead and followed by lit-up police cars shot down the street. The usual and familiar sirens raised in pitch as they passed us, accompanied by these unsettleing low-pitched blasts of sound. These low bursts, you seem to hear as well as feel; like ultrasound resonating a sour note in my “jeweled city” chackra. Looking back the day was filled with the “white noise” of blaring, raging sirens.

National Guardsmen were posted on every intersection for what seemed like a ten-mile radius. It is my understanding that there was a larger security operation in DC that day, than America is running in Afghanistan. We pulled into the alley by our temporary garage and parked. As we got out of the car and gathered our gear, two SUV’s pulled into the alley behind us. The vehicle’s occupants identified themselves as FBI, and they had a bomb dog (thank god it wasn’t a bong-sniffing dog) with them. They claimed that they were investigating a report of suspicious activity. The bomb dog ran through our garage, sniffing at our cabs while a Federal agent asked for our IDs and questioned us. The government man jotted down our info into a small ledger while my fellow cabbies made nervous conversation with the cop. We must have checked out, because once the dog was finished searching, the feds hopped back into the cars and drove off, wishing us luck.

I ate breakfast with John at a diner at tenth and E, just outside of the hard security perimeter. A big serving of coffee, eggs, and salmon cake later and I was on the trike, looking for fares. The sunrise that cold morning was crisp and welcoming.
A huge section of the city was barricaded and closed to vehicles. The security situation was changing all the time. streets would be opened and closed without warning, motorcades rushed by, traffic was tight and fast, large crowds of pedestrians pressed toward the mall. I have never seen so many people, and everyone in a great mood. By the end of the day, my odometer read 46.2 miles; only a fraction of this was without a fare in my cab.

Around 1:30 in the afternoon I was hired by a BBC reporter to shuttle him, Terrence Roberts (one of the Little Rock Nine) and Mr. Robert’s wife around the city while they shot some news pieces. Five hours and eleven miles later, I ended up at the BBC bureau talking about my fare with the top boss there. He promises to wire me the money, but asks that I email him an invoice. I wanted cash, but settled for a handshake. I hope they send me the grand that I’m asking for…