Friday
When I hit the streets in my cab on Friday, June 20, 2008, the day before Grandma’s Marathon, Canal Park was already filling up with traffic. Tourists gathered at crosswalks in colorful clusters. Teenagers snapped pictures of each other climbing the public sculptures. Runners jogged up and down Railroad Street, keeping their edge. Workers assembled bleachers and hung red and white balloons near the finish line on Canal Park Drive.
It was my seventh Grandma’s Marathon in a cab. Starting in the early evening, I would be working the tents—the fenced-off parking area across from Little Angie’s Cantina where a great herd of tourists and locals gathered each night to drink overpriced beer and listen to music. Grandma’s hired two cabs to work that spot every year, to help transport the intoxicated. We assisted the police with our services, within reason.
Grandma’s always meant money—a large slug of it injected into the city’s economy, as well as into my own pocket.
The early part of the day was normal business—grocery runs, medical runs, deliveries—but you could feel the mass of tourists building in town. As evening approached, more and more calls came in from the hotels as they spilled into the night.
I drove down to the tents and parked across the street with the other driver. Canal Park Drive was already blocked off for the race. When the lift bridge went up, traffic in Canal Park stopped dead, hopelessly gridlocked. Tourists paused to ask us for cards, joking that they would need us later.
A contingent of security workers wearing light blue T-shirts emerged from the alley by the Dewitt-Seitz building and crossed Buchanan Street to the tents. They were followed by several police officers carrying metal boxes. Throughout the night, as these boxes filled with cash, the police would carry them back down the alley to marathon headquarters, where an auditor would count the proceeds.
Grandma’s never skimped on security—several squad cars and ten or twelve cops on foot patrolled the area. I made a mental note to be somewhat selective about who I allowed them to dump into my cab this year.
Cabs zipped in and out of the Canal, dropping tourists on every corner. A guy pedaled by on a vertically elongated bicycle, perched seven feet in the air. Seagulls shrieked at each other to keep an eye out for doughnuts.
A cop shepherded an elderly couple into my compatriot’s cab. He took off. Tourists approached me for rides, but I resisted my cabdriver’s instincts and declined. I had to wait until the other guy got back. As in years past, we attempted to leave at least one cab on post for as long as we could, in case the police needed it. Like a favorite uncle doling out candy, I gave the tourists to other cabs.
When my compatriot returned, I cut a tourist from the herd and took her to the Radisson. For this grueling ride of half a mile, she tipped me $10. This was typical of Grandma’s. People from the Twin Cities were accustomed to paying $30 or $40 for a cab ride. When they catch a cab in Duluth and see the ridiculously (to them) low fare, excess money gushes out of them as a tip.
The alcohol coursing through their systems doesn’t hurt their generosity, either. I’m surprised that alcohol’s contribution to Grandma’s is not mentioned more in the local media. Some people come here for the beauty of the lake and our northern charm and all that; a lot of others come here to drink. If you overlooked the race itself, Grandma’s Marathon could easily be mistaken for a drinking festival.
Not every drunk person is generous, of course.
Business was brisk throughout the night, with people hailing taxis up and down Lake Avenue. The tents closed at 1 a.m. Cabs scooped up tourists like seagulls gulping pretzels.
By 3 a.m., the pretzels were gone. I snagged a couple more pickups from the casino and called it a night. Friday was just a preview to the real circus.
Saturday
Saturday afternoon, June 21, 2008, was sunny and clear, with the exception of an occasional one-cloud thunderstorm that hurried in out of nowhere, pelted the streets with rain for a moment and then hurried on. The marathon was over, the route marked by drifts of litter and forgotten Porta-Potties. Everybody was in Canal Park.
I parked by the tents with my compatriot. Throngs of tourists eddied past. Skateboard kids weaved through the crowds. Marathon runners hobbled by like dogs trying to walk upright. Two bubbly girls on a stage in front of Little Angie’s orchestrated hula-hoop contests and games of Twister (“No, not naked Twister! Tee hee hee! This is a family event!”). They cracked jokes, handed out gift certificates and exhorted passersby to drink margaritas. Two more girls, wearing black boots and tight yellow dresses, hawked Cuervo tequila to the happy partiers. A bass guitar throbbed in the tents.
At three in the afternoon, there wasn’t a huge demand for cabs. I had tickets for free food from the tents, so I sat at a table in front of Amazing Grace Café and ate a Famous Dave’s dinner from a Styrofoam plate—two generous smoked brisket sandwiches on cheap buns, beans, coleslaw, and cornbread. I might not have a chance to eat again until tomorrow.
By six o’clock, the frequency of customers compelled me to put away my magazine. The police poured several celebrants into cabs. Unlike last year, none of the people they gave me were any trouble.
At eight o’clock, people began to line up for the night’s entertainment: G.B. Leighton and other bands in the tents. The line filled the sidewalk, went around the corner, spilled into the street. Still the tourists (and locals) poured in. I never failed to be amazed by the size of the mob.
Every few minutes, people approached me for rides. Rather than constantly refusing them and having to explain why I was parked there, I locked my car and walked down the block a little way, leaving the tourists to gather around the empty cab like cattle around a block of salt. Whenever a cop appeared with my next lucky customer, I emerged from the crowd and took them.
By midnight, there was more business than all the cabs in the city could handle. I took run after run. Many of my fares commented on the shortage of cabs, saying they should come to Duluth and start a taxi company and get rich—a mistake many locals have made as well.
At 1 a.m., heading back into the Canal, I locked the doors. On every corner, people were waving wildly for cabs. Some beckoned me with authority, as if expecting obedience. Some pleaded with me, clasping their hands. Some jumped into my path. At every stop, people converged on my taxi like locusts. Hands pulled on my doors, fists pounded the roof, angry faces cursed me through the glass.
I drove by them all, unmoved. It was the same every year. The other cabs in town might be having a free-for-all, but I had to show a little discipline. We’d all be rich in the end.
Back at the tents, a cop asked me to pull around the side to pick up a client going to the Canal Park Lodge.
“Can’t she walk?” I complained. He shrugged.
I pulled around the side. The cop escorted a woman through a folded-back opening in the fence. “This gentleman will take care of you,” he said.
The woman fell into the backseat. “They said I was drunk,” she said. “Do I look drunk?” She passed out.
I drove one block, to the Canal Park Lodge. I turned on the interior light. “You’re here!” I announced.
She bolted awake and started fumbling for the door handle. Falling out of the car, she regained her footing and began fumbling through an empty pocketbook. “What do I owe you?” She dropped a crumpled drink ticket through the window and staggered away, out of my life forever. I stuck my souvenir in my cup holder and drove back to the tents.
At 2:30 a.m., the height of the frenzy, I drove over a piece of glass and got a flat tire. Though my fares bemoaned the cruel fate that snatched away their cab, I let them out on the corner of Lake Avenue and Superior Street. I crawled up to the alley behind the Tech Center to change the tire. There was level pavement and illumination there.
The jack was the kind with a detachable handle that fell off every half turn, and the spare tire was slick with oil on one side, where a quart of 5W-30 had leaked. As I worked, trying to keep my shirt clean, refugees from Canal Park streamed past the mouth of the alley, heading up Lake Avenue. Soon, two guys approached me for a ride.
“If we change your tire for you, will you bring us to UMD?” asked the first, whom I will call Biff.
“If you want to wait a few minutes, I can take you,” I said. “I’m almost done.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“I do,” said the second guy, whom I will call Buff.
Unasked, Biff helped me slide the spare onto the wheel. While he tightened the lug nuts, I inched down the useless jack. Buff stood on the sidelines, praising Biff. “Can you believe this guy?” he said, as I threw the flat into the trunk. “He’s a good guy to have around.”
I cleaned my hands with a paper towel. I brought Biff and Buff to the corner of Norton and Waverly, behind University Liquor. The meter said $8.70.
“Thanks, man,” said Buff, opening his door.
“That’s eight bucks,” I said.
Without responding, he got out. In the backseat, Biff said, “Dude!” in an alarmed voice.
“He’s cool,” said Buff. “We helped him change his tire.”
I do not appreciate people committing me to deals I have not made. I got out and hurried around the car. Buff had Biff’s door open and was whispering for him to get out. They were big, athletic guys. I flashed my flashlight in Buff’s eyes. “It’s eight dollars.”
Reluctantly, he dug in his pocket and produced a wad of receipts and two crumpled one-dollar bills.
“That’s all you have?” I demanded scornfully.
“Yes.”
I held out my hand. Buff gave me the money. I got back in the car.
“Thanks, sir!” said Biff, relief evident in his voice.
Yeah, yeah. Delays cost money. I headed back downtown.
As I turned down 1st Avenue East from 4th Street, two desperate tourists, a guy and a girl, rushed at me out of the darkness. I did not mistake them for locals.
“Can you take us to UMD?” the guy pleaded.
“Sure. Get in.”
“Oh, God, thank you so much,” said the girl.
Each year, when the tourists realize that catching a cab in Canal Park is impossible, some of them try to walk to their beds. Many underestimate the distance involved. Some get lost.
When I got to Burnside Hall, the meter said $7.50. The guy gave me a twenty. “Keep it. You have no idea how much we appreciate this.”
I did, though. My rescuing services were worth $20 to them, a price tag with which I readily concurred.
The Canal Park gold rush lasted until 4 in the morning. The last remaining tourists, sitting hopelessly on curbs, were scooped up. City workers in orange vests arrived to sweep up litter. Calls continued to come in from other parts of the city. I worked until 5:15 a.m., when I took one final fare—a local, strangely enough—from the Holiday station on 27th Avenue West to an address on 8th Avenue East.
I gassed up at the 6 & 4 SuperAmerica and drove to the garage. By the time I got home, the sun was well up. I filled out my paperwork and counted my money. A $600 weekend—not bad. I congratulated myself on a job well done. Now I would be able to lavish my wife with expensive gifts. She’d like that.
This article was taken from “Cab Stories,” a collection of essays by John Ramos. People who subscribe to the Duluth Monitor at the annual level receive a complimentary copy of “Cab Stories.”
