Cooking With Gas...

Kay has been good enough to remind me that I never told you how it went at the Casino. Well, let me tell you--t'was an adventure.

I had to leave class a bit early to get there on time, as my bandleader had asked me to pick up a VHS tape so that we could record the show for promotional purposes.

I hailed a taxi from downtown, with fifteen minutes to spare before I was supposed to check in at Security. Yes, I was cutting it close, and feeling a little stressed. I hopped in the cab and requested my destination.
"What route do you want to take to get there?"
"Listen, if you don't know how to get to the Casino, I can just take another cab, no problem."
"No, NO! Just wait a second...(He pulls over and pulls out a map.) I'm a new driver, and the regulation is that we don't drive off until we know exactly how to get to a given destination."
Five minutes later...
"I'm in a hurry, I'm just getting in another cab, I have to be at work, it's my first day."
"No, no, I've got it."
(Ten minutes later, after a scenic tour of downtown Montreal and its bridges)
"Miss, I'm going to be honest...I'm calling another cab to take you the rest of the way because I'm lost."

I yelled. A lot. Stuff along the lines of I knew it! Why wouldn't you let me out of the car, you're an idiot and prideful, if you cost me my job, I'm going to cost you yours...stuff like that. What can I say? I was vex. I am proud to say that profanity never entered into the conversation, I wanted to maintain my dignity as much as I possibly could, but I also didn't want him to turn crazy and drive me out even further in Nowheresville while there was still a chance I could get another cab. But as long as we're all being perfectly honest, it's also (to a tiny extent) because the above conversation was happening in French and cursing in French doesn't feel like cursing to me. No satisfying venting of emotion possible, and it's hard to curse with any sort of authority when you get the accent wrong.

Ten minutes later, I finally arrived at the Security desk (ten minutes late) to get my badge. Problem. Noone's there from the band, or the staff associated with our contract to lead me to the backstage area where I can get dressed and changed. I have no idea where I'm supposed to go, and the security guard cannot leave his post. What's more, he's not particularly interested in my plight.

What happened next? Tune in later for the next installment of Cooking With Gas, sponsored by Pooty Pootwell and Co.