Ronnie

Let me begin this blog by saying, we are not rich. However, for a short time, we did have our own personal cab driver back in the ATL. He drove for a company called Lenox Cab, and his name was Ronnie. His business partner was about 500lbs., and his name was Tommy. Our first encounter with Ronnie was when we needed a ride from our apartment in Inman Park to Hartsfield International Airport. It was LOVE at first sight. Tommy was supposed to make the run- but he had bypass surgery, or something. Fate put us in touch with Ronnie, and what a privilege it was to be his passenger.
How does one describe Ronnie? I seem to remember a blond ponytail in a rubber band. A view from the back seat affords you mostly side glimpses of him, so it's not until you settle up that you can really take him in. The golden moment comes once he pulls up to the destination, yanks his partial/dentures out of his sweats (pockets?) and quickly inserts them into his mouth. Then he gets your suitcases out. Priceless. It's pretty trite to say, but the miles have taken their toll on Ronnie. Even as a baby he must have been a bit leathery. It would take two lifetimes and loads of skoal to achieve this skin tone,teeth(or lack there of), and general gnarl. Basically as handsome as an 80's era WWF wrestler in sweatpants and slippers. Looks aren't everything though. You should've heard him on his CB radio- he made the South proud. When he got around to it, he'd engage you into a bit of conversation in the most laid back manner. He didn't really care if you took the bait, or not. He might just say something like, "Ma bahr-eyed is mean as ever." For those of you too normal to know, that's southern for a type of bird called a Bare-eyed Cockatoo.
Turns out Ronnie had a basement full of exotic parrots and reptiles. He had something like 15 parrots in that basement in Forrest Park, GA. We weren't yet parrot owners, but we were definitely intrigued by parrots and the twasted people who owned them. He would feed them all kinds of southern specialties like grits and popcorn and described that basement as a loud circus of cussing parrots, pissed off dogs, and escapee snakes. In fact, Ronnie's son, who worked at Petco, had rescued their African Grey from another Petco employee who was fixin' to feed him to a snake, in order to get back at his girlfriend. Imagine that! So, it seems Ronnie and his son provided somewhat of a homeless shelter for battered parrots. He did frequent the bird shows which are chock-full of carnies. We know, because we used to go, too. What a scene. In fact, we purchased our Pacific Parrotlet, Raja, at a combo bird/reptile show in Gwinett County.
Once we had Raja, we could really converse with Ronnie about what it was like to be a tired-out parent of a parrot. FYI, lots of parrot owners really don't consider Pacific Parrotlets to be real parrots. Ronnie would humor us and nod along listening, though I'm sure he thought we were amateurs and sissies to own just one parrot who couldn't peck out an eye. Parrot owners wear their scars like badges of courage or purple hearts. My mom proudly displays her
small scar on her neck left by her Green Cheeked Conure, Iko. Bisq and I bare no scars but we've definitely had our share of ups and downs with Raj. But, back to Ronnie..
So, not only was he cool because of the parrot thing, but he was an absolute artist when it came to navigating heinous Atlanta traffic. He had lots of great cabbie tricks up his sleeve, like using/abusing the HOV lanes and taking every weird unmarked service exit he could find.
Our real bonding/falling-in-love experience came when we hired Ronnie to take our gaggle of drunks to the Steely Dan concert in 2003. We had 2 minivans for the likes of us, Zulie, the Coach & the Roach, some twasted coke-head realtors and a few other friends/acquaintances. Ronnie came up to our apartment to meet Raj and to let us know that we were welcome to bring our cocktails with us in the vans. As New Orleanians, we greatly appreciated this gesture (especially Zulie, who doesn't really acknowledge any type of open-container law to begin with). Using some incredible back roads that brought us by some sort of State Penitentiary, Ronnie got our caravan to the show in under 5 minutes. He sped through a backstage gate at the amphitheater just as the guard was closing it, while nodding at the guard. We could only imagine that the guard was expecting Ronnie at this exact time. Who would've expected such Secret Service-style precision out of a guy that looked like an ex-Oak Ridge Boy?
Ronnie upped the ante a few weeks later by getting Bisq & Blake into the sold-out Radiohead show at the same amphitheater. He drove them to the show (same spy-like entrance, etc), walked them up to a ticket-taker/conspirator and told them to give the guy $20. That was that.
Once we moved to Chamblee, we didn't see Ronnie anymore: the ride to the airport from way out there was too expensive. I doubt we'll ever have our own personal cabbie again, but we sure felt safe with Ronnie at the helm. I hope he's still out there kicking ass and rescuing exotic animals.