I was sitting a few blocks from my house, waiting for a fare. Loitering nearby, under the sign for McGurk's Irish Pub, was a young man in jeans, phone clamped to ear.
"You're where now? . . . Oh, keep going straight. Now at the next corner when you come to Great Grizzly's, bang a left and go two blocks. Then turn right and go another two blocks and that's where it is. You'll know when you get there because of this most amazing vehicle sitting in front of me. It looks kinda like a dune buggy, and it's got a red and white striped awning"—
At this, my ears perked up. I realized the fellow was describing my pedicab, the one I was sitting in at the time. (I’ve since switched to a lighter, sleeker model).
—"You can't miss it. It's got a white taxi flag"—
As he went on about the vehicle, I thought I should acknowledge the compliment so I turned in my seat under the striped canopy and grinned his direction. He was looking right at me, but he averted his gaze and continued talking on the phone. I tried waving, but he still ignored me.
Oh. I had violated the unspoken rule: the voice coming from the black rectangle takes priority over the person standing in in front of your face.
I reverted to the new social protocol: mutual disacknowledgement. But it was hard not to overhear his side of the conversation: "What? You're at Hammerstone's? . . . Gee, now you've got to make a U-turn and come back up Russell. No, left, not right!!”
The stream of directions and corrections went on for several minutes—strangely, because I inferred the car was only two blocks away. After an inexplicable time lapse, a yellow Jeep rounded the corner, screeching. It zoomed toward an opening in the cars parked across the street and lurched to a halt. As it backed into the slot, the occupants waved my direction. I knew not to wave back. On cue, their friend exclaimed—to the black rectangle, not to them—“There you are! I'll wait here while you park!" A minute later, a gaggle of chattering twenty-somethings brushed past me into the pub.
I’ll give one thing to that guy. Even though he disregarded my own existence, he couldn’t ignore my vehicle’s. It wasn’t just the looks; it was also the concept: imagine harnessing legs as a means of propulsion. Who would have thought? My two large lower appendages, extending down and forward and fastening into the pedals, indeed filled the space that an engine otherwise would have.
Among my public, the novelty arouses no end of fascination. To choose an example among countless, let me retrieve one "real experience file" from my internal hard drive. It involves two young women, twenty-something, brunette, slender, in form-fitting knit sweaters. After they popped out of McGurk's awhile back and laid eyes on said jalopy, there was a moment of incomprehension as they gawked. Then one squeaked to the other, "Oh, it’s free!" (I had a sign up indicating I worked for tips).
Her friend chuckled naughtily. "I've gotta take this."
The first ran up to the curb, peered at me and pleaded, "Can we go around the block in your rickshaw?"
"Sure, but not if you're smoking."
At this point, I half-expected them to stomp away as some people do. Instead, without a second's thought, they threw their cigarettes on the sidewalk and got in. The first slid next to me in front and the other got in back.
"Can I pedal?" asked the first, breathlessly.
"If you want to," I said. One of the intriguing features of this vehicle is the second set of pedals in front of the passenger seat. (Another feature, less visible, is a pair of electric wheel-chair motors, providing a power boost in case I don't get enough help).
"Gee—tee—hee-hee!" she cried, "I get to pedal!"
As we pulled from the curb, I hesitated, holding tight to the hand brake. It looks like a joy stick thrusting upwards between the two front seats. Should I turn the steering wheel left and head toward Nadine’s, then circle around back by way of the Citgo station? Or should I go straight down the hill, down Russell into the heart of Soulard? That choice, while much lovelier, would necessitate an arduous climb back up. Because of some malfunction, my electric assist motors were barely putt-putting tonight. The problem was, if the young woman next to me wasn't strong enough, we might not make it.
I decided to take the chance. After cresting, we rapidly gained speed, and her hair began to fly. My co-pedaller could barely keep up. She exulted, "I can't believe we're going down the hill! Can I still pedal?"
"If you want to." Not that it mattered when the main challenge would be braking soon enough to make the stop sign next to Joanie's Pizza. As we picked up momentum, my partner began whirling her legs at an insane velocity. She was in the wrong gear. I would have reached over and switched her shifter but I had to keep one hand on the brake. As I feared, she spun out altogether, shooting forward and almost out of her seat. She quickly pulled herself back up again, convulsing into giggles.
We fluffed through the stop sign and lurched left onto Menard. On the level now, we passed the Bastille, the gay bar, and then several ornate Second Empire rowhouses. At Allen Avenue, it was time to turn back up the hill.
The human turbine sitting next to me was up to the challenge. As we made our way slowly past Clementine's, she said huskily, "I can feel the burn." Actually, from the exertion I was undergoing, I would estimate that she was barely pulling her own weight, but it was enough. I decided to turn left again one block early in order to stair-step the ascent, and when we returned to Russell for the final stretch, she was ready.
Grunt. . . . grunt. . . . grunt. . . .
As we approached the summit, alas, the light turned before we could cross. Catty-corner stood McGurk's, but we had to sit out the red tilting backwards down the slant. When the light turned, it was murder getting started again. "Ooh, it's hard to start from scratch!" complained my helper.
After arduously cresting, then swishing through the intersection, I swung back around to my stand and glided to a picture-perfect stop, missing the curb by a centimeter.
"Boy, you know how to do this!"
"Watch your head. Watch your step," I crooned.
Still huffing and puffing, my co-pedaler pulled a five out of her purse and handed it to me. "I'm just gonna run in and tell everyone," she squealed. "I took a ride on the rickshaw!"
Her exhilaration was hardly atypical. It is not uncommon, in fact, for a fare to exclaim, "This is the most fun I've ever had!" Longtime neighborhood residents have said, "It's like I'm seeing Soulard for the first time!" And Soulard is worth a gander: it is the oldest restored neighborhood in St. Louis, streets lined with brick eye-candy: German Federal-style row houses and simple dental cornices; French Second Empire townhouses with mansard roofs; occasional Victorian extravaganzas, bulging with bay windows, angled juts, and turrets. Getting an eyeful is part of my job description. I never tire of it.
Nor do I tire of pedaling. The interaction it catalyzes is magical, a shoulder-to-shoulder, gut-busting collaboration in technicolor real-life with a full-fledged member of my own human species. The banter, I’ll admit, is often light. But occasionally, deep subjects are broached. With luck, I’ll sometimes land a philosophical soulmate, and the conversation will continue at the bar after I drop him or her off.
With the extra pedaling seat beside me, I’ve occasionally taken my son Evan as assistant driver. We've both worn mock tuxedo T-shirts and top hats. I think it was when I first apprenticed Evan in this line of work that we really bonded. Later his musical wheels also turned in synch with mine and he became a composer. (His first professionally produced album is now being edited and will come out in a few months). Finally, he also came ‘round to making soap as a primary source of income.
But the profit motive was planted early. With Evan alongside me, that’s when the tips really came out. He got the lion’s share. It was a bit disconcerting: on the first night that he outearned his father. Of course, my pedicab gig has never been that lucrative: at the most, it has come to about a third of total income.
But imagine getting paid any amount to stay in shape, make new friends, enjoy your beautiful neighborhood, and spread delight to others, in one swoop. It is one of the sly secrets on my cheat-sheet of living frugally, another evasive maneuver that keeps me just out of reach of the Beast.