My college tuition in 1973 was $2000 for the year. I hacked a cab for Boston Taxi to support myself. Our garage was next to the old Boston Arena. If a driver booked more than $100 a night, the payout jumped from 45/55 to 50/50. My classmate Frank McGurty and I were the top earners for the company. We caught the 12am operators from the NET&T building and ended the night with a final ride for the strippers of the 2 O’Clock lounge. The drinking age was 18. Frank and I rendezvoused at 1:30am to watch the headliners finish the night.

Tuesday night was the best.

The girls got paid their commission for the drinks to the suckers.

We The 3-piece band played our requests. We tipped them with our tips. IN DA GADDA DA VIDA was priceless on a stand-up Hammond organ.

One evening we stayed after hours.

Neither of us were aiming for magna cum laude.

The strippers taught us life.

My favorite was Claudia. She was 17. Blonde. Marilyn Monroe could have been the mother who abandoned her to the nuns. Claudia lived in Jamaica Plains. We drank three tequila and smoked a joint with the band. Frank was driving his favorite, Shaleen, to Roxbury. My first class RADICAL ECONOMICS with Barry Bluestone was scheduled for 9am.

6 hours away.

“If you want to go, then we have to go now.”

Claudia was glad to go. She had a jealous biker boyfriend. I had her sit in the front. Anyone sitting in the back triggered the meter. The Combat Zone to Forest Hills was $7. Better in my pocket than the greedy owner.

Claudia talked about her childhood.

Nuns. Beatings. Priests. Wandering hands.

“A-huh.” I was having trouble staying on the road. Smoking weed and tequila was a deadly combination and Claudia asked at her address, “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” My head was strapped to the end of a helicopter prop.

I headed back to the garage ignoring the radio dispatcher. Anyone in Dudley Station was stuck in Dudley Station until the train opened at 6am. I stepped on the gas. Columbus Street was naked of traffic. My Checker cab had some tiger. I hit 70.

Too fast to stop for a Mustang burning the stop sign at Centre Street.

I t-boned the Ford at the doors. My car snaptailed across the intersection at 1000 rpm. The car came to a stop against a curb. The driving wheel was in my hands. The windshield shattered by the impact of my head. I dropped the steering wheel and touched my forehead.

No blood.

No missing parts.

I saw the Mustang. It was bent in half. A black man lay out the door.

I walked over to the wreck. Steam vented from the engine. People were exiting from the nearby projects. Blood was leaking from the man’s ear. This was not a good sign.

“That look like my Uncle Milton.”

“That white boy killed Milton.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” I leaned over Milton. He was wearing a red silk suit. Wilson Pickett style. “Can you hear me?”

“White boy you done kill me.” Crimson bubbled from his lips.

The crowd was getting bigger. Someone had a gun at his side. I eyed him as if I were not white. He didn’t buy the lie. Mob. Riot. Headlines.

I stood alone. A Boston cab drove between us. Frank was behind the wheel. Shaleen stepped out of the back in pink hot pants slendor.

“Leave the white boy alone. He’s good people.”

This future was detoured by the whoop of a police car. The crowd backed away from the crushed Mustang. Shaleen had done her job. Frank drove away in a hurry.

“Get in the car.” The officer behind the wheel ordered with urgency. I obeyed his command and we escaped, as an ambulance pulled into the intersection.

“I think I killed that man.”

“Not at all. And besides he was just a nigger. We’ll write it up in your favor. You’re from Boston right?”

He could tell from my accent. I was free. No manslaughter, because Milton survived the crash. He had been drinking too. The cab company was angry. Milton was suing them for damages. They fired me. Six months later his lawyer called my house to ask me to testify against the cab company.

$100.

I received a check.

No one showed for the court date, but ever since that night I’ve always thought that the state should have a drunk driving hour. No one on the road but drunks.

2am to 5am.

Made sense to me and probably Milton too.

We were survivors.

A straight person would have been dead.