Angol
Nobody rides for free.
Not even a talented opera singer . . .
My initial encounter with the singing diva had been on a Hollywood Blvd bus. I was sitting in the middle somewhere on my way to another nothing job interview that I doubted I had a chance to land. War vet, you see. With a case of PTSD.
She had boarded and claimed the bench seat across from the driver. Next thing we knew, she was squatting. Had hiked up her summer dress, and . . . well, let's just say the air suddenly turned toxic. And the lady? Thought nothing of it, as she calmly climbed down from her perch and got off at the next stop.
Time passed. My next, much closer encounter with the songbird was no less memorable. And this is when I discovered that she, indeed, was a Diva of considerable ability and could belt out a number. I was a cabbie by then and had been flagged down in West Hollywood by her. To avoid getting burned at the other end I'd requested to be paid up front (for a ride to LAX). Instead of producing cash, the tote bag-toting passenger commenced belting out opera at the top of her lungs and refused to stop.
This is the wacky titular tale. One of many, in the 8-story collection. All, except the Green Meany narrative that takes place in Tucson, AZ, are L.A. taxicab rollercoaster rides. So climb in, the rate is reasonable--and hopefully more fun than a toolbox full of loose nuts & washers. K.A.
