Blue Light Special

I was reading The War Within (A Secret White House History) by Bob Woodward in my cab across the street from the Ritz when a attractive lady pulled up beside and pointed at me and a guy in her car. I nodded. They kissed. It looked to me like she was kissing him to get rid of him. He walked up to my open window (wearing a fancy shirt that made him look like a busboy and two hundred dollar jeans) and asked how much it cost to go to Salty Senorita. Between fifteen and twenty, I said. Blue light special, he said, and got in the cab. You’re paying cash? I asked. Does it matter? He asked. To me, I said. Blue light special, he repeated. What does that mean? I asked. Are you a rocker? He asked. No, I said. What kind of music do you like? He asked. All kinds, I said. Turn it up, he said. I did and he hummed along to Taking Care Of Business. What kind of car is this? He asked. A Prius, I said. I can feel every bump, he said. It’s a cab, I said. So what, he said. It has a hundred and fifty thousand miles, I added. I’m from Vegas, I understand, he said. He played with his phone during the rest of the ride and as I was turning into the parking lot he said, right here, turn right, as I did. He gave me a twenty for a seventeen - eighty fare. I gave him two back. Thanks, he said. Yeah thanks, I agreed.