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…