“Wooh, Carol, look at what just came in to take you home,” the bartender called out. Carol looked around, eyes glassy, and saw me. “Hey,” she said. “Hi there, you call a cab?” “No, Ed did.”
TAXI BY MICHAEL CANNISTRACI 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 97
I was trying to get my big break as an actor in Los Angeles. A friend suggested I drive a taxi to make ends meet. In my mind a taxi driver was one of society’s losers. But once I started, I found it weirdly romantic and adventuresome. I met television stars, prostitutes, cops, rock musicians.
I got a panoramic view of life in the City of Angels. My fares would take me to hidden mansions in the Hollywood Hills and down dark, seedy streets in the poorer hoods.
It was November 1979 and I’d just graduated from college. Many of my classmates were acting in Charlie’s Angels or The Waltons.
I had found a two-bedroom apartment in West LA, gotten a roommate, and was fumbling my way to adulthood. My girlfriend had dumped me three days after graduation,…