Hello Garage, Goodbye Cab

So I sold my black cab today to a man I will call Mr. International for the sake of his rotund modesty. He is essentially the Texan Uncle Steve – a man who has inspired me in so many ways over the years. We had spoken on the phone many times, and he called at 8am this morning to say he was in Austin, and was headed over. He arrived in a motorhome towing a trailer, apologized, and then promptly blocked the toilet in some kind of Papa Lazarou negotiating routine. It took me a while to figure out that his earring was a cutlass thrust through his lobe. It looked like a cocktail accoutrement cast in metal. It may well have been.

I felt vilified that he paid close to what I was asking after just walking around it and watching me back it out of the garage. Even I did more due diligence when I fell for it’s black curves over a year ago. He told me that he’d bought Dom Deluise’s black cab in the 1980s and had once taken seven strippers home in the back, adding that though there was seating for five, they didn’t seem to mind sitting in each others’ laps.

There was the usual car dealer sketchiness over which bits of paper to sign and who was going to do it and when – I expected nothing less from a self-professed car trader. I drove it up on the trailer, turned off the “taxi” light, and said goodbye to the man, the car, the two dogs and his friend, as they set off into the distance, presumably to foul other latrines in their search for profit.

It was quite a ride, owning a black cab. I heartily recommend it to anyone. As for mine, it’s his wife now.