August, My Lonesome Dear, May the Hunt Go On

August has found its way to a close once again and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. I tried. I did. But the candle is closing down and that will be that. Tonight I find myself in an expensive high-rise in the middle of downtown Kansas City. I'm told that Kansas City isn't a "cab town" by the driver of my taxi. I asked him if he had heard of the writer, Dan Fante, and went on to say, "Well, he used to drive a yellow in New York for a long time and then decided to write about it. Mentioned that he use to keep a sawed off ball bat under his seat and got knocked off a couple times." The driver adjusted his rearview so he could see me better and said, "What was the man?" Not an odd question, but a contemplation of an answer. I told him, "Dan Fante. His dad was John." I knew that wouldn't really clear up the fog and I also realized that I should drop the questions about what kind of armaments may or may not be tucked 'neath his fat ass. After that, he told me about how a "family man" runs the cab business in KC. He had worked the area for over 25 years and now, because of John Whoever, the cab business was sinking. Hard to make a buck. The guy had political pull and whatnot. He said, "Most people call them instead of his cab co. because he's got the strong arm". I offered my most believable condolences. I think he bought it and I nearly told him that my first call was to that company because it was the first to come up on Google BUT THEY DIDN'T PICK UP THE PHONE. But he was kind of an over-weight, late-age sort of fellow and I didn't want to fuck up my ride to the bar with a heart attack on the side of the 435. Finally, we had both been somewhat uncomfortable and realized that talking was useless. I think we both knew that from the start but had to give it a shot. We got to Westport. I paid him the fare plus a 2/3 tip on top and walked like a man that can't be touched to the VIP lounge. Then I hit my beer and a shot of whiskey and stared from the balcony at the miles and miles of cleavage below, knowing that I wasn't going to bang any of them tonight, but taking small consolation that neither was the cab driver.