forties with eyes that make him look ten years older. His skin hung loosely on a gray, unshaven face.
"The companies make it sound like itll put more cabs on the street, but really its just going to screw up the medallion system even worse and give all the power to the big cab companies. We arent employees, you know. All us cabbies are freelance. I owe money the moment I take my cab out. The moment I touch it. A cab driver has the job security of a crack whore. Worse than slaves, even. Were up at the big house begging the master for more cotton to pick. "
"Im sorry, said Spyder. "I dont know anything about Prop 18. I dont vote…?ever. "
The driver shook his head. His black hair stuck out at odd angles, as if hed been sleeping on it just a few minutes earlier. "Votings not a right, you know. Its not a privilege. Its your duty. My daddy died in the war so you could vote. "
"Hey driver, uh," Spyder looked at the name on the mans taxi license, "Barry. Do you want to play a game?"
"I dont think so. "
"Theres a tip in it for you. "
"Are you a cop?"
"No. "
"Fag?"
"No. "
"You from the cab company?"
"No, Barry. "
"What kind of game?"
"Dont rush getting me to the Haight," Spyder said. He leaned his head against the window. It was cool on his forehead. "Take your time. Let the meter run. As we hit each corner, youre going to tell me what you see.
"Whats on the corners you mean? Like buildings and people?"
"Exactly. Big or small. Whatever strikes your fancy. "
"Give me a for instance," said Barry. "Lik
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