Guerrero and Liberty Please
The last three cab drivers I've had have been HOT! I normally like making small talk with my transportation specialist, but lately I've been down right flirty. The first dashing driver gave me a lift from the Caltrain station on my way home from work at the design firm in B.F.E. He was covered in tats, with spikey hair, and had tales of his own design endeavors in the house that he just bought. Even invited me to check it out. It was just a couple of blocks away, on the shady end of Shotwell Street. I politely declined. I said he was hot, not that I'm stupid. The next casanova cabbie whisked me home after my voice acting class ran late and I needed to get ready for a party in a jiff. Blonde hair, nice tan, great smile. Between swerving lanes and tailgating, he tried to win me over by relating to the voice talent nitch. He does comedy tapes with his brother. He records the voice mails for a lot of his friends. He ran a really red light nearly ending my life. As he tried handing me his card I shouted 'gotta run', and bolted out of the rear passenger door, thanking the goddess I was alive. The final fine fare taker was a dark skin college student, who rushed me home after an interview ran late because I needed to get home to watch 24. He's going to school for international business, he was pleasant. I think he was going to drop me off on a median. He did not know what 24 was. I wished him "la bonne chance ovec l'ecole", and ran inside to find out who was betraying Jack Bauer.
These are not your parents' cabbies.