Willard Whitaker May 27, 1966 - April 10, 2011

I really don't have any friends in the cab business. Sure, there's a lot of shooting of the shit, and most drivers I like well enough, but none I have any sort of bond with deeper than on a superficial level. I did have one, Willie Whitaker, but he died of a heart attack Sunday afternoon. He would have been 45 next month.

Willie Whitaker was one of the few people I felt I could tell anything to without repercussion. Maybe because he had nothing to do with my personal life, but I told him things I have never told anyone and probably never will. Every frustration, no matter how big nor how small, I told the "teddy bear" (a nickname I did not bestow upon him but found incredibly apt). And while his advice was usually terrible, if he gave any at all, he never judged, though I'm sure I came across as pathetic from time to time.

I was the only one he truly trusted to pick him his wife if he couldn't. I never ran the meter on Jenny, which bothered her, so she would always give me significantly more money than if I had and ignored me when I old her it was too much.

Once, almost a year ago, Willie blatantly stole a fare that I had legitimate claim. It happens often enough; while we all may drive for Elite we're all in business for ourselves, and it can get mighty cutthroat out there.  But it hurt me quite a bit that he did it to me. We were friends. I didn't speak to him for a couple of days after that. Then we ran into each other at the office and put his monster of an arm around me and said "I'm sorry, buddy" and I couldn't stay mad at him.

Willie was only an inch or two taller than me, but he was close to 200 pounds heavier. Though on the tall side at 6' even, I do feel short on occasion  (having a friend who is 6' 8" will do that), but rarely do I feel small. And that's what he did. Yet it just wasn't his size; his larger-than-life personality contributed to it was well. Loud, funny, kindhearted, and often referred to "The Anaconda" he concealed in the sweatpants he always wore.

I found out about Willie's death via Facebook (a fact that bothers me to no end). I was checking out my preferred social networking site of choice on my way to Pook's for some thrilling Super Mario Bros 3 action. While I was there it hadn't quite sunk in yet, I think I was still in shock. I played SMB3 with some of my favorite people, and that was enough of a distraction. And then off to Boru's with some more of my favorite people, and that was also distraction enough. But about 2:30 or 3 Monday morning, drunk, playing Dragon Age 2, and eating a shitty turkey sandwich from Cumberland Farms, I broke down. I'm certain the beer played a part in that, but a deluge of emotions, none of them good, washed over me. It was also the first time in fuck knows how long that I cried. Just a little bit, I swear. That I do completely blame on the alcohol.

It's been getting a little better ever since. I tried writing this Monday night while I was in my cab, but I couldn't get past the title. Tonight I was able to, obviously, but it was hard. Luckily, I have some wonderful friends offering me support and help, and for that I am eternally grateful. It's only been two days, but I can already feel his absence. And it sucks.