“Have a nice evening,” he said as I slammed my door closed.

Slowly he pulled off, waving. He was a pig and his cab was his pen. Surely he wasn’t raised as a pig. I suspect he was once a well-mannered, Catholic school–educated, decent and respectable kid. So I prove my point once again, his behavior was learned. Somewhere, at some time, he discovered some woman willing to let down her hair for a break in her fare. Langston I could see, but the rotten-toothed cab driver?

Wow. It is that bad out here. But again, I’m not going to succumb to the negativity. Expectations of success are still alive and well. Like James Cleveland, I don’t feel no ways tired. Nobody told me that the road would be easy, but I don’t believe God brought me this far to leave me. Now I know using God and the Bible for what has nothing to do with God or the Bible is somewhat inappropriate, but being that I was raised in church, you’ll have to indulge me. Organ, please.

Yes, brothers and sisters, God has a plan. God has a man. Better yet, God has a man with a plan. A man, who like Abraham’s ram in the bush, will present himself as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable unto God, which is his reasonable service. And please, God, forgive me for just having flipped and flopped the scriptures like they were a stack of pancakes. Whew! I feel much better now.

Okay, so it’s after eleven o’clock and I’m an hour away from home. There’s no shuttle, a cab ride will cost a thousand dollars, and there’s no way I’m spending the night anywhere close to Langston or D.C. Okay, Montana, who are you going to call? There must be somebody ready, willing, and able to leave their warm and comfortable home at almost midnight to drive an hour one way just to bring you home. For all you’ve done, all the investments you made, there must be somebody. Someone who in the past had no problem imposing on you and in the spirit of reciprocity should have no problem being imposed on. Got it! I’ll call my mother, sounds like a great idea to me!

Dialing. Dialing. Dialing. Yeah, I’ll call my mother so that I can be trapped in a car like Houdini, bound and gagged like King Tut, or probed and prodded like Mark Fuhrman at the O. J. trial. CLICK!