How Not To Behave When Sharing A Taxicab, Or, You Weren’t Hot Enough To Act That Bitchy

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Despite the tone of much of my writing, and the title of this very column, anyone who knows me will confirm that I am an accommodating person, generous even. Sometimes people take advantage of that generosity. That’s not what happened last night. Sometimes people can be shameless pieces of shit. That’s what happened last night.

Anyone who has ever tried to get a cab on 6th Street in Austin when the bars are closing knows that it can be a difficult and frustrating chore. I’ve definitely gotten pissed off more than a few times trying to hail an empty cab that drives right by BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHY! YOU’RE FUCKING EMPTY! I HAVE MONEY! FUCK YOU! You’d think those cabs had someone else to pick up, but really they don’t. I know this because calling the cab services, and using the YellowCab app, is basically useless at that time of night. Your only option is to put your hand in the air, pray to God, give up when that doesn’t work, and then start praying to the cab driver’s deity(s) instead.

All that is to say I understand how someone could be in a bad mood prior to getting into a cab. However, once in the cab, it should be all smiles, since you’ve basically done the impossible and finally get to go home, either to drink more, eat Whataburger, have sex, or sleep. Preferably all of those things, the order isn’t really important.

So when my friend, one time TFM contributor Geoffrey, and I let two very pushy girls into our cab, I assumed that there would be some level of gratitude. Honestly, a simple pleasant attitude would have been fine. I didn’t even need a thank you, and certainly wasn’t expecting what amounted to a FUCK YOU.

This was not, by the way, a disputed cab. We flagged it down and secured it. The girls were a good forty feet behind us when the cab pulled over to grab us. Once we were getting into the cab they came running at us like bats out of hell, and a day’s worth of reflection on our interaction with them leaves me no choice but to assume that they did come from hell.

They ran up to the cab and declared, “Uh we’re sharing this with you.” They did not say that in a cute or sweet way, which I only point out because a lighthearted tone would have been appreciated considering that they clearly didn’t ask if they could get in the cab. They simply, flatly, and rudely declared their partial ownership of the cab. They had no right to it. We were nice enough to let them in. They showed their appreciation for our favor by demanding I get in the front seat.

“Hey, pink shirt*, get in the front,” the impressively less charming of the two rude girls barked.

*Ed. Note: I was wearing a pink oxford. I HAVE A NAME DAMMIT!

So we’re all in the cab and the driver asks where we’re going. Being a gentleman, despite not being from Texas (you’ll understand that joke in a minute), I ask the girls where they need to go. They tell us they are headed back to the Kappa Alpha Theta house on the University of Texas’ campus. That happens to be the exact opposite direction of where my friend and I were going, that being Westlake. Regardless, I told the cabbie to head to Theta.

Upon finding out that they were Thetas, I assumed that the girls, despite their abrasive entry into the cab, must be decent people. Maybe they were just a little too drunk. It would be understandable, as they were coming from 6th Street, after all. I assumed all of that because every single one of my other dealings with Thetas, from multiple campuses, including UT, have been nothing but pleasant. Thetas are cute, sweet, smart, funny girls…and exquisite lovers (Geoffrey can attest to that chapter in particular). These girls, clearly, were exceptions to the rule.

My friend and I are a little put off by their “introduction,” but make conversation anyway, if only to be polite. They ask what we do for a living, we tell them. When I told them what I do, the main antagonist, the same girl who called me “pink shirt,” laughed and said, “You gotta be kidding me.” That actually didn’t offend me at all. That’s probably the most common reaction when I tell people my job. Geoffrey, meanwhile, explained to them that he’s an attorney for a corporation in town. The girl was confused, as she had never heard of a “corporate attorney.” She asked Geoffrey why he doesn’t work for a firm, and he informed her that this job paid better than any of the firm job openings in town. The girl said that this is not likely, because her parents are both lawyers, and they work for law firms, so obviously that’s the only acceptable way to practice law. This 21-year-old has the legal world figured out, you guys, despite not knowing what a “corporate lawyer” is, that companies need lawyers, or that Geoffrey’s particular sect of his occupation even existed.

We moved on, and the girl asked where we’re from. We both say Missouri. He’s from Kansas City, I’m from St. Louis, and we both went to Mizzou. This is where things went south, quickly.

“Oh, yeah I figured you weren’t from Texas, because Texas guys actually act like gentlemen.”

What? WHAT!?!? Apparently letting these girls into our cab wasn’t a gentlemanly act. Or maybe she just forgot? It’d be sad if I’m writing all of this and she actually had some sort of mental condition that caused her to forget. Actually, that seems likely now that I think about it, because this girl was CLEARLY RETARDED.

We laugh at this ridiculous claim and ask her if letting the two of them into the cab was not, in fact, gentlemanly. She doesn’t really have an answer for that, I refer you back to the whole retarded thing. Maybe we weren’t gentlemen. We are from Missouri, after all. Maybe if she wanted us to act more like gentlemen she was going to have to show me that she was worthy of it. Unfortunately she failed pretty hard. I refer you back to the whole shameless piece of shit thing.

At this point the situation devolved rapidly. We don’t take kindly to her comment, or her attempt at countering our rebuttal. Eventually she gives up on arguing with us, because she has to have known she was wrong, and simply tells us we both have shitty jobs. Classy.

Then, as if our unspoken prayers were answered, the girl says that she wants to get out of the cab. Geoffrey says, “That sounds like a great idea.” The girl bitches at us some more and finally the cab driver, of all people, can’t take it. He swerves over to the curb, turns around to the girls and says, “Get out!” They’re stunned. “Wha…wai…what? Really?” They stammer, now coming to the obvious realization that acting like a gigantic bitch is somewhat unbecoming when with strangers, or really with anyone, or really at any time, ever.

They apologize profusely, but Geoffrey, myself, and the cab driver aren’t having it. We tell them to leave. They refuse. The cab driver threatens to call 9-1-1 if the girls don’t get out. Finally, mercifully, they leave. They’re shocked, they’re appalled, we don’t give shit. What is there exactly to be appalled at, ladies? Other than your own shithead behavior, that is. Good fucking riddance.

The cabbie turns around and takes us back home. We spent the entire ride making fun of how awful those girls were. They truly were two of the worst drunk girls I have ever encountered in my life, and I have encountered legions upon legions of drunk girls. It would have been impressive if it weren’t so fucking annoying. The cab driver deserved the giant tips both Geoffrey and myself gave him. Those girls deserved to be kidnapped by hobos after they got dumped on the street. Regardless, they were the perfect example of how not to behave when sharing a taxicab, and they certainly weren’t hot enough to act that bitchy. Not even close.

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