With less than a week before the National Little People of America Conference, this year in St. Louis, Missouri, and behind at the nine to five job, I went in to the office yesterday, which was a Saturday. I was there for about four hours, from noon to four o'clock. Yesterday was a beautiful day in Chicago, sunny and not too warm. The Access Living office, where I work, is in River North, a popular area on weekends, especially weekends with nice weather. Just as I was leaving the office to go home, a young man and woman walked by the front door of the building. As soon as I stepped out on to the sidewalk, the couple stopped, turned and looked in my direction. Noticing them, I also stopped. I stared toward them. They were looking directly at me. The man was wearing sunglasses. I couldn't see his eyes. He spoke. "That is a Lamborghini," he said. I turned around. Directly in front of me, a fancy looking black car slowly rolled down Chicago Avenue.
Not every moment is a dwarf moment. Some times, it's just an overly sensitive moment.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Sunday, May 10, 2015
|David Tuffs (photo from DNAinfo/Alisa Hauser)|
I've ridden in a taxi with Tuffs just once before. I don't use a wheelchair. It's typically fairly simple for me to flag down a cab. But I wish I had scheduled a ride with Tuffs last month. On Sunday, April 26, I flew from Phoenix, Arizona, into Chicago's Midway Airport. I was on my way back from a Little People of America event in Mesa. My flight was a little late, arriving just past one in the morning. Usually, I take public transportation home from the airport. The Orange Line is only about a 25 minute trip. Because the train stops running at 1 a.m., I needed to catch a cab.
Outside the terminal, there was a line of cabs waiting and there were no other customers. I went to the first cab, the driver loaded my bag in the trunk, and I got in the back seat and told the driver where I wanted to go. I don't know exactly, but I'm guessing it's seven to nine miles between the airport and where I live. Before pulling away from the curb, the driver turned to me and asked if I would tell his dispatcher that my fare was only a short trip. This happened to me before. Once, from O'Hare, I needed to go to a hotel within a mile of the airport. Because the trip was short, after dropping me off, the driver was given permission to return to the front of the taxi line back at the airport. "Tell the dispatcher you are not going very far," the driver asked me.
"Okay," I said. "I'll tell him that I'm going downtown." From Midway, I live on the near side of downtown.
"No," the driver said. "Tell him that I am taking you to Archer and Pulaski, (an intersection not far from the airport).
Perhaps I should have done it. There may have been no harm. I know taxi drivers have to work very hard to make a living. If I had lied, and been found out, I'm sure no harm would come to me. But I didn't feel comfortable. It was late. I just wanted to go home. I told the driver I wouldn't do it.
He wasn't happy. I didn't want to make the driver mad. "If you don't want to go downtown, that's fine," I said. "I'll get a ride from another driver." That way, he could stay at the front of the line and wait for a better ride.
I don't remember exactly what he said, but he told me to stay in the cab. In a few moments, the car lurched away from the curb and we sped out of the airport. Because the streets were empty, and because the driver drove very fast, it was a quick trip. That was a good thing. I didn't feel good in the backseat of the cab. I typically don't talk much to taxi drivers, but on the ride home from Midway Airport, the silence was very awkward and uncomfortable.
By the time we got to my neighborhood, I didn't want the driver to see where I lived. I hadn't given an address, just an intersection. I asked him to pull up to the corner opposite the building in which I live. He stopped, rang up the fare, and popped the trunk with an automatic button. I paid with a card, said thank you, and stepped out of the cab. Even though the trunk was open, I was a little worried he might drive away with my bag. But he didn't. I grabbed my luggage, then looked at the open door of the trunk. It was out of my reach. I approached the driver's window. He looked at me but didn't roll down the window.
"I can't reach the trunk," I said. He stared back a me. The look on his face was either confusion, or "I don't care," or "get the fuck away my cab you cheap asshole." I couldn't tell. Whatever it was, I'm guessing he didn't want clarification because he still didn't role down the window. Again, I tried to tell him that I couldn't close the door of his trunk. What I said either still didn't register or was ignored. I stepped away from the cab and started across the street with my bag. The driver turned away from me and pulled away from the curb, driving through the intersection. On my side of the street, I turned toward the cab, watching the open door of the trunk bounce up and down as the car sped deeper downtown.