Vic Pasternak

I wheel for the curb to snatch a flag at the Deadwood, a shivery black dude waving twenties overhead, international sign for “Avoid Me.” I also see too late a […]

The bullshit I get dragged into always starts with a phone call. In this case, voicemail. “We like your background and want to interview you.” I nearly broke my thumbs […]

Funniest puke story I have took place in icy winter, a woman asking that I halt the taxi and let her blow out. I stopped where we were, which happened […]

It’s our first busy weekend of the new school year and I’m hustled out of the office to an address on Westgate. “Get in your cab—we’re neck deep in this […]

It’s always fun to explain what “SFP” means to a cop. “Dispatch said she was headed SFP,” for example. The cop turns his ear on that, “Where’s that?” “‘Some Fucking […]

Weird things are ordinary in our business but things get a little weirder in the summertime. Everything has fallen quiet again, as if the city has exhaled. The traffic has […]

This is the craziest thing that ever happened in my taxi. One day, many years ago, I got to work and scored an airport run right off the bat. Better […]

Rough night: There’s a raunchy fête at one of the meet markets and ladies too young wander the streets boudoir-style looking like they’ve just emerged from Victoria’s Secret, wolf packs […]

  Contrary to popular belief, I don’t live in my taxi. Indeed, three nights of seven I’m released from the pound to go downtown where I, too, can be fleeced […]

I was in court earlier this week pressing assault charges on a fellow citizen and the responding officer pulled me aside: “Jesus H. Christ, did you get a look at her bar?”

The cop was referring to a bar unit built into the garage of the defendant’s home, the whole of it veneered in white Formica and matched with white barstools, the floor decorated with mannequins clad in shining black leather. A sex swing hung from the rafters. I had hauled said defendant home many times previous to the altercation bringing us to court. Too hammered to use the front door, she carried the garage opener in her purse. So yeah, I’ve seen the bar. This is perhaps why I’m playing Peaches on the pleasure-radio tonight.