Church's chicken ride

Back in 2005, I was driving a taxi — you know, before Uber made everyone think they were their own boss with a Prius and a phone app. One afternoon, my onboard computer lights up — a ride request. Some lady needs a lift to work at Church’s Chicken.

Now, I’m just a few blocks away, so I think, Easy money. I pull up to the house, and out comes this woman like a wet hornet — mean, mad, and already mid-argument with life itself. She hops in my cab and lights me up before I can even say hello.

“What the fuck, dude! I’ve been waiting two hours for you! Now I’m late to work!”

I blinked, kept my voice calm, and said, “Ma’am, I literally just got the order about ten minutes ago.”

Didn’t matter. She was boiling all the way to Church’s Chicken, huffin’, puffin’, and giving me the side-eye like I was the reason for all her life problems.

So, we finally get there, and I try to help her out. I pull right up next to the front door — thought I was being efficient, you know? Get her there quicker, save her a few steps.

She’s fishing through her purse for the fare, and suddenly — knock knock knock on my driver’s window.

I roll it down, and standing there is this tall Black dude dressed like he just walked out of a Prince music video — purple suit, white spats on his shoes, the whole nine yards.

He leans in with this raspy, gravelly voice and says, “I’m tryin’ to get outta here, man! You’re blockin’ me in! This ain’t no damn limousine service — park that motherfucker!”

Now I got Miss Angry Biscuit in the backseat and Mr. Purple Passion at my window, both mad at me like I planned this double feature of chaos.