No. 167 - Cabs in Austin & Versailles
I woke up at a quarter after five, walked three miles in the pitch black to Barton Springs in Austin, and jumped in—well, waded in. As any man knows, there’s a point of no testicular return. It happens upon the submergence of Frick and Frack, when the boys and the central nervous system screech in unison—when a man would just as soon take a Louisville Slugger to the cranium as dip the old coin purse in chilly water. Anyway, I managed to swim a few laps with a bunch of other early-riser lunatics, much to the chagrin of the walnut committee.
At one point I was floating on my back, barely moving and almost in a meditative state, staring up at the moon. It was surreal—to be in the middle of a city, that early in the morning, in a chilly spring, as the sun was starting to rise. I’ll say it again, but in a different context: only in Austin.
On the walk back, I strolled along turquoise-and-emerald springs, invisible just an hour earlier, crossed a few bridges, and felt alive in the shadow of skyscrapers—still in my swim trunks, huffing up North Lamar Boulevard. I passed record stores few cities can claim and all are envious of, and taverns from the days when “We Have Air Conditioning” was marketable enough to flash in neon.
When I got home, I took a shower, made a cup of coffee, and put on a jacket and tie—I’m 99% sure I was the only man in Austin wearing one. Hell, I was one of the few not in shorts and sandals.
My first meeting of the day was with an astute chap at a quintessential East Austin coffee shop—replete with vintage café racers, beat-up leather couches, and a bicycle repair counter.
We discussed Joan Didion and contemporary New Journalism copycats (who can’t quite thread the literary needle), his recent capital raise for an upcoming IPO, and the bipolar nature of Adam Sandler’s acting (dick jokes versus a brilliant performance under the direction of Paul Thomas Anderson).
At the table next to us, as my coffee mate was leaving, sat two young bucks in the crypto game—one on sabbatical and the other heading off for a summer of hopping up and down the Eastern Seaboard. The three of us chatted about Jackson Hole (summer versus winter) before I caught an autonomous Uber.
Back at my apartment off West 22nd, I had lunch and tackled some postcards I’d picked up at the Rothko Chapel and the Menil Collection in Houston weeks ago. If I had to pick an adverb to describe my day thus far, it would be swimmingly.
My last meeting was to discuss publishing a book I recently finished. The office was full of attractive young people—tall, effervescent, white teeth. Austin isn’t lacking for youth, I can assure you. The day kept flowing, effortlessly.
I ordered another Uber, ready to put a period at the end of a great day’s sentence—oblivious, for once, to the bullshit that plagues most other days. In literary terms, I was lost inside a poet’s prose, waltzing between words, almost delirious.
And then the Uber arrived. From the outside it looked ordinary, except for a candy apple red paint job: an SUV with black Texas plates and two mini boxing gloves with German flags hanging from the rearview mirror.
I hopped in and saw the tattooed arm of a sturdy lady—and proceeded to gag from an olfactory funk so intense that I still don’t know what hit me.
My guess was perfume and cigarettes—like a 65-year-old lady with a leather pouch for her Salems, or what I imagine Versailles smelled like when five thousand French aristocrats were urinating in empty ballrooms, refusing to bathe, and spritzing themselves with punchy perfumes.
I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I tried to disguise the fact that I was breathing through my mouth. But that only meant I could taste the stench—it coated my taste buds and slid down my gullet. My biome was dangerously close to revolting—of the projectile variety.
My eyes watered—and, shockingly, stung a bit. It was almost as if a gelatinous film had formed on my glasses. And the ride from West Lake Hills to the University of Texas campus would take 20-plus minutes.
I could feel the smell latching onto my jacket and tie. My hair was absorbing it, too. I contemplated opening the door and jumping out; with any luck, a dump truck would run me over.
I couldn’t help but think about the rating I’d give the driver once this monstrosity was over. I obsessed over it: definitely one star, no tip, and maybe an email to the CEO of Uber. No one should be subjected to this torture—not to mention I was paying for the displeasure of being carted about in this garbage can on wheels. It’s one thing to suffer under the thumb of public transportation, but paying for it?!
In 20/20 hindsight, my Fran Lebowitz attitude of getting even was what got me through the atrocious stench.
And when I was struggling for my last breath—gasping through a dry mouth, head pounding, praying to God that a tongue scraper would fall from the heavens, even wondering if I should receive last rites (and I’m not even Catholic)—the ride was over.
As I was leaving the car, the lady in the front seat—oblivious to the overwhelming funk—thanked me. And I thanked her.
Just another hard-working American doing her best to make a living. And for all I know, the smell of my cologne made her sick (though I find that impossible to believe, as I’m a connoisseur of eau de toilette).
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Austin, TX
