Broadway Cab 24 Hour Dispatch
by Karen Granaudo
The powerful, energetic sounds of Silverfish were blaring as I consumed my second lime Marguerita at the Off Ramp in Seattle, WA. The nightclub was heavily populated with sweaty, long-haired men and women, even for a Monday night. However, early morning was approaching, and my sister and I were still contemplating how we were to return to our hotel room. The buses were no longer running, and hitch-hiking was out of the question in this strange but beautiful city. The ruggedly alternative-looking man at the door sugested Broadway Cab since it was the least expensive. We took his advice and stumbled to the nearest payphone to make the call. I gave the cab company my name and they said someone would be there shortly.
Within minutes, two cabs pulled up in front of the club. One of them was Broadway, and although it seemed to be a little sooner than I expected, I proceded to the car after gathering my many belongings. The driver caught my eye immediately, and I noticed that I was centered in his path of vision. No words were exchanged as we scrambled into the back seat.
In his strong, masculine voice, he asked where we were headed. As soon as we mentioned the word “hotel,” he smiled and asked where we resided. “About an hour from Boston.” I slurred.
“Boston?” He asked, “My band was reviewed in a Boston paper. We like to call ourselves My Erotic Narcotic. Would you like to hear it?”
“Funny you should say that,” I continued to slur, “I helped put out the first issue of Lollipop, a magazine distributed in Boston and other cities and towns in that area.”
After about ten minutes of soothing my ears with his Jim Morrison-ish vocals, I noticed that the cab driver had graciously turned off the meter, and turned up the stereo. “You girls don’t really want to return to your room now, do you?” He questioned slyly. I grinned and shook my head. The cab jetted off in the opposite direction of the familiar Park Plaza Hotel.
The three of us spent several hours enjoying the spectacular scenery of the nightlife, including the University District, and the artsy-alternative atmosphere of Capitol Hill. Eventually, the very evident smile on my face began to jade as my buzz started to wear off. He stopped at out hotel, but we refrained him from leaving before we got a picture. He offered to take us out the next day, but we regretted to inform him that we were passing through to California.
“Thanks for everything, here’s my card. Look me up whenever you’re in Boston.” I said whilst batting my eyelashes.
The cabdriver looked down at the card, then at me with a puzzled look in his eyes. “Your name is Karen?” He asked. “I was told to pick up Roseanne!”
