Willie Part 2

A week and a half ago I lost my fellow cabbie, good friend, and confidant Willie Whitaker to a brain aneurysm. The cause of death was originally thought to be a heart attack, at least that was the word circulating amongst Portland's taxi drivers (a notorious rumor-mongering lot). He would have turned 45 years old May 27th. Please see my previous world wide web log concerning Willie if you haven't read it already.

I've been dealing okay. No weird breakdowns when I'm home drunk and alone. I do think about him every day, more often on nights when I'm driving. But most of the thoughts are of fond memories and not feelings of loss and grief, which I know Willie would have preferred. The wake was for family only, and there wasn't a funeral. Instead there will be a celebration of Willie's life the day after what would have been his birthday. This is also something Mr. Whitaker would have preferred.

The only time it gets tough is when passengers or other drivers bring him up; prolonged discussions make things hard, and I get cold and just want to be left alone and it makes it difficult to ride Black Betty. But I forge onward and put on my brave face and get through it. I'm hoping by talking it helps the other person handle it.

My first job Friday night was driving Willie's wife and son home. During the ride Jenny started weeping, and I'm left to wonder if it was because it was her husband's "little buddy" that picked her up, the only guy Willie trusted to get her home safely. When we got to her place we hugged for a long time, standing in the middle of Sherman Street, Jenny sobbing and me on the verge of it. I gave her my number and told her if she ever needed a ride to call me, and it will always be free.

I am mostly reminded of Willie when I am parked the the Greyhound station. The 'Hound was his perch. If he didn't have a fare you could bet on finding Willie there. If another Elite driver had the audacity to park at The 'Hound he would jokingly order him to "get the fuck off my stand." Or maybe just half-joking. Or not joking at all. I, however, was never told to vamoose. According to Willie, The Dude was always welcome on his stand.

And this is where I am as I write this, sitting at The 'Hound on a brutally quiet Tuesday night. It's starting to rain as I bang this out in my notebook, waiting until I get home to type this entry on guakbot and post it for the world to see. I'm feeling the coldness again. Perhaps it's because I haven't eaten anything since Monday night during Mittens + Fuzz Friendly Fun Time, but I can also sense his presence. Regardless, now and forever this will always be Willie's stand.