life in bandon, part III

[Author's note: Seeing as I have no relevant photographs to upload as supplement to this entry, I'll be posting random pics of (or concerning) Public Image Ltd., the band currently spinning on my iPod. Good day.]

Triple Diamond Transportation Service is a small, locally owned cab company in Oregon that serves Bandon, Coquille and Coos Bay. (Because I'm into the whole brevity thing, I'll be referring to ^ as <> <> <> from here on out.) The business still exists, so far as I know, though an acrimonious pillow fight two summers ago pitted brother against brother (or, more accurately, driver against driver) and led to the ramshackle formation of a second, rival company, Par 3 Transportation.

Let’s meet the players of the game, in order of descending relevancy.

1) Frank. The head honcho, the Don, the boss, the pimp. He ran the operation. Equal parts ruthless, greedy, villainous, misogynistic and embittered, Frank was a real joy to be around, a real cutup. My favorite Frank quote: “City people are all fucking stupid. I hate cities. Never met a city person that I enjoyed being around. They’re all assholes.” Frank, a failed musician, moonlighted as a casino lounge singer. You can’t make that shit up.

2) Renee. My favorite <> <> <> employee. Renee, a young mother of two, oiled and maintained the machine when Frank fell asleep at the controls (which was often--he spent four to six hours a day feeding his fortune into slots at the local casino). She had the fattest heart of the lot. I miss her.

3) Large-Breasted Patty. Large-Breasted Patty boasted very large breasts, which she crowbarred into elasticine bras intended for mammaries ¼ their size. Patty, your classic Two-Face, was the sweetest, most well-endowed woman in the world when you were in her cab, but, within seconds of your exit, she'd run your name thru the mud to anyone within earshot. Secrets weren’t safe with her (ginormous rack). In semi-related news, I remember Patty telling me that a group of drunken golfers offered her $2,000 in cash to flash them her jumblies for 10 seconds. “I didn’t do it,” she said proudly, nose and teats in the air. “Stupid,” I said, shaking my head. “Really damn stupid.”

4) Lori. Kind, polite, harmless, somewhat forgettable. (In spite of her seeming boringitude, I loved her immediately.) Lori’s porridge-brained 16-yr-old son worked at the course, and was perhaps the single worst caddie I’ve ever seen. I once watched that acne-scratcher read a three-foot putt to break six inches left. It carved a foot right. His golfer turned many colors and threatened to plant boots in certain orifices.

5) Frank’s Wife, Terri. Terri, bless her soul, really f***ed up. She married Frank--only God knows why--and doomed herself to a life of mindless circuitry in a two-bit town. Every time I encountered her, I wanted to shake those broad, mannish shoulders (she was a brute) and shout: “Escape! Get the hell out! There’s a whole world out there beyond the Coquille River! Your husband smells like ham!”

There were other players, too, though they assumed menial, insignificant roles in the Civil War of 2006. Six or seven other drivers drove for <> <> <> at one point in time, though they held very little stock in the company and, therefore, did not actively influence the fracture.

I rode <> <> <> every day for three summers. The prices they charged were too good to be true; a one-way ride from town to the resort (10-15 minutes door to door) was only $5, a true steal. They didn’t up the fare to $7 until early fall of ’06, when escalating gas prices necessitated a bump. All in all, <> <> <> proved an efficient, economical way to travel. Who needs a car?

The night before a loop (caddie slang for a standard, 18-hole round of golf), I’d ring <> <> <> and request a pickup time, which--more often than not--fell somewhere in the 5:00-5:30 range. The morning cab, a paddy wagon of sorts, burped and rumbled over the volatile Bandon streets (our “cab" was a hugantic Econoline van with very poor shocks), plucking up red-eyed caddies from brittle, wooden homes that looked as if a stiff breeze could do 'em in. Most of the caddies were either hungover or drunk, or brain damaged. They’d curse and mutter and sleep, voweling things that sounded like (but may very well not have been), “…can’t believe…how am I gonna…long day…wrong shoes…not enough water…alarm didn’t go off…damn wife…whiskey...two a.m...”

Incredulously, <> <> <> stocked canned beer, free of charge. Oregon law permits drinking in cabs. After a round or two out on the windy bluff, we’d collapse our sweating, aching bodies into the cab and pop a Budweiser from the cooler. On a good day, if one were feeling particularly ambitious and/or cheap, a looper could easily down three full beers before his drop-off point. If that’s not incentive to take a cab, I don’t know what is.

Okay, on to the fight:

Frank, as previously stated, was a goon. He paid his drivers roughly $8 an hour, but they deserved $15….if not more. Though no mathspert, I once crunched a few numbers and realized that Frank was banking a small fortune off of us. (On an average lift to/fro the course, there’d be 4 or 5 well-tipping caddies in the van. Frank also shuttled golf groups from the local airports, a practice which yielded enormous returns--often twelve or fifteen times the raw cost of the ride.) His drivers saw very little of this profit, though they logged inhumane hours and responded to his every beck and call. Some of them worked 14, 15 hour days. Frank, it seemed, worked once a week. The drivers quickly woke to the scam and demanded raises.

That’s when things got ugly.

Frank wouldn’t budge. I heard arguments from both sides, mostly because I knew all of the drivers intimately. Names were mentioned. Shit was talked. Backs were stabbed. Renee expressed to me that she was planning on breaking from the company. She’d been in discussions with Patty, she said. They had enough capital to pull it off, and all the proper papers. Weeks later, <> <> <> split in two. Somewhere in transition, though, Renee got pushed to the side and forgotten. Big-Breasted Patty took over the new gig and began calling the tits--I mean, shots.

Caddies pledged allegiance to one or the other. Some stuck with Frank. Others--myself included in this, the latter set--switched over to Par 3, the new, Patty-run company. Vitriol ensued as Company A slammed Company B at every opportunity, and vice versa. I’d like to think that Frank’s <> <> <> suffered, though I can’t be certain. He still monopolized the airport runs.

Big-Breasted Patty (for some reason, I feel as if “Big-Breasted” ought to be capitalized…perhaps those bosoms demand exclamation) turned out to be even flakier than previously suggested, so I eventually ditched her, too. See, a few times Patty forgot to pick me up in the a.m., forcing me to seek alternative transportation. I later found out that she often answered my evening phone calls while sauced at the local pub, which might begin to explain her inconsistencies. Crazy wench nearly cost me my job, on multiple occasions.

During those last months in Bandon, I appealed to the third cab service in town, a company whose name escapes me. These swell fellas arrived on time--if not five minutes early--and charged $5, the old rate at <> <> <>. Me: “Sold!”

And that, as they say, was that. Somewhere, at this very moment, Frank is probably pushing my crumpled bills into a Lucky Sevens machine.
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