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Almost Getting Hijacked by Charles Blackstone

On the TWYWH book tour,

when I reached in Ann Arbor to read that night at Shaman Drum, I boarded the first taxi that pulled up at the Amtrak station and found not one but two drivers. One sat in the back seat. They were both crazy. Especially deranged was the one driving. I told them what I was doing in town and the driver decided he was going to plan out my evening, where I'd have dinner, how long I'd stay after the reading, and the rest. Of course I didn't really want him to do this. I didn't need restaurant recommendations based on what kind of food I liked or what I wanted to eat that night. How the hell was I supposed to know, after an excruciating 4 hour ride on the amtrak what I was going to want for dinner? I didn't even like eating before readings. Drinking I didn't mind, but eating, no thanks. He wanted to know what time I wanted to leave for the train station in the morning. Again, I try not to think about those things if I can help it, and it didn't seem to be a matter of pressing urgence. This was Ann Arbor, after all, a small but fairly technologically-advanced town. I spoke the native language. I wasn't lost in Japan. What this guy's problem was, I'd never know. And what was the deal with the back-seat guy? Though there was a meter affixed to the dash, I couldn't be certain if this was even a real cab. And now this fucker knew my name, had seen my book, knew at which bookstore I'd be later (I did, in an attempt to placate the crazy, invite him "and friends" to the reading--hey, we'll do whatever it takes to fill some seats), and it didn't seem we were getting any closer to where I felt the motel should be. Fortunately, the college town gave way to a strip of chain places, gas stations, TGI Fridays, and, praise jebus, cheap motels. The Best Western or whatever I'd booked, too, came into view, and I somehow managed to get the maniac to leave me alone at my motel, by promising I'd call within the hour. He drove off, and I checked in. Before I left the counter, I asked the clerk if she had the number for a taxi service, and she handed me a professional-looking flyer. I called this number--not the one I had written on the back of my Amtrak stub--after I'd showered and prepared myself for the rest of the evening.

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