part #3 of Reality gives its bail out

-Part 1 and 2 of this Story Click here

Then I let go of the gas peddle as I didn't know where we were going anymore. I asked her, "where to?" as I eyed the mirrors she looked back too, and the silhouette of the New York business man stood there still holding his confidence, but loosing the dignity of a chariot.

"Oh thank you so much!" she said.

And I began to laugh expelling all my tension, even the tensions of a typical ride. Now after letting this guy go I felt like I was just driving through the streets with a friend.

"He was sooo, crazy!" She said.

"Let me just say" I wore the biggest smile on my face as I continued, "Congratulations, so many people may get into that situation, but you finally took control. If you didn't take control, who knows."

She then told me her address, and we turned back to her place. I began to explain all the things that were going through my head before his expulsion. "He was spending all this time, trying to convince you that he was good, he was trying to..." But I couldn't find the exact words I was looking for.

"He was doing what?" She sad. And our moment of joy and comfort had already passed as I tried to analyze the situation.

I was trying to tell her that he was pulling his sleazy sales tactics in a setting that didn't call for a sale. But most importantly if there wasn't anything else I could be proud of from such a moment, I would at least pose an important question to her and be proud of that. "Why did you let him in the car?" I asked.

Her words were kind of broken throughout the whole night, either that was because she'd had a little too much to drink, or it was just because she hadn't mastered english entirely well.

She eventually told me that he was a cute guy, and so sometimes, "you know," She smiled with coyness.

Honestly I had no idea, I made a face. He didn't seem cute to me, but of course I didn't say that, I mean it seemed like she was half his age, not that I have a problem with that logically and emotionally, but I mean, physically? He's old, she's young, what's up with that? I thought. She then looked at me and said "Hey look at you. You, umm.... You don't look so good." What ever did she mean? Did she mean I looked completely rattled from the experience? Or did she mean I was ugly. Wow I really should get a haircut and a shave, jeez.

We get to the place, talking all the way there. She then told me that she'd never seen the guy before, not in the diner, not at the party, never before. He just came to the cab as a complete stranger. I'd assumed there was at least some earlier interaction between the two before hand.

“Would you be offended if I tipped you?” She asked

I thought about it, I took the characterless route, “No.” I said, without reluctance.

She’d already tipped me nicely adding to an already high fare from going double the distance to her house by way of crazy guy. She gave me 4 dollars, but now she added 5 dollars, then she added 2 more, then 2 more again, doubling the fare.

“Thank you,” she said again.

I suppose though I’d like to think I was getting tired of her gratuity, I wasn’t really, I wanted all the praise, but it added more and more to my discomfort at the same time. I didn’t really feel I had saved her at all, and this whole story was something I’d have to mull over in my mind repetitively until I figure out just exactly all the factors. All the questions were swirling in my head:

Who’s fault was this, if it could be really blamed on anybody?

Was he in fact the real American Psycho? No I quickly refuted that idea as it was just too much novelist’s dynamite, what a story that would be, such a guy actually to exist all this time.

How could this really have been prevented? Had all the proper courses been taken, or most likely there may have been even earlier signs that I should have noticed? But if I should pre-judge such a fare, what would stop me from jumping too quickly to wrong conclusions with others? And I had more questions, but I thought them over just a little later

“I just was thinking that there were no more good people left in this world. Where are all of you?” She asked.

Okay, now I wasn't thinking this at the time but who did the casting for this particular woman to be in my cab and where were the hidden cameras? I mean this is just some sort of moment that doesn’t actually exist in reality. Rather, these scenes are only made for the movies, but so it was. I was living in some sort of delusional humble hero world made up of Al Paccinos, Bobby DeNiros, and Bruce Willis'.

And all I could think was the most cliché statement all the firefighters say: that they’re no heroes, all I was doing was my job, and quite frankly it is in my best interest to make sure everyone is safe. I don’t want to go to jail for aiding and abetting, nor do I want something so terrible on my conscience as to leave them down in the dark corners of Wall Street with nothing but cameras on corners of buildings, only pretending to watch, and needless to say none of that would matter anyway if she’d been so dumb to go up to his apartment.

She bid me a farewell, but asked me for my contact information, and I at first refused as I’d given too many people my number through the cab. When an anonymous number calls I don’t have a clue who it is so I don’t pick up. Often I figure they may be asking for a ride, which is impossible since if my empty light is on I could get in a lot of trouble for by passing some riders and selecting others. But she asked again, saying she would need to contact me and thank me, she promised she’d remember. So I gave her my email, my number, my name. I really gave her all the information because I’d hoped that maybe she’d contact the Taxi and Limousine Commission and tell them what a great person I was, I thought maybe I’d get an award. That’s how backwards my head was. I thought it’d be more of a once in a lifetime opportunity to be recognized for outstanding behavior by this city, then to be contacted by this woman. She kissed my hand and looked at me and placed her hand on her heart. She stepped out of the cab, and I thought it would be only polite to watch her go to her door, however she didn’t move once she stepped out. She just stood there like a porcelain statue staring into my window, glassy eyed without blinking. I tell you honestly it freaked me out a lot. I figured she’d be safe enough, and I didn’t have all night to commit to this staring contest. It was odd that it was a doorman building, and the doorman didn’t give a damn to see to her. He just sat there behind the glass door watching, and keeping warm.

I pressed on again, slowly though, without touching the acceleration, and still she stood there looking to my direction. staring at me through every mirror. I had now turned into a big yellow blob with all sorts of identifying numbers on the back, which she may or may not have been trying helplessly to remember. I didn’t want to press too hard on the gas out of politeness nor did I want to see her standing there anymore, but I was curious to know if she’d ever go into her building.

Just then an anonymous man gestures to me, I look at him quizzically. Waking up from this wonderland I discovered he was telling me about a fare across the Street, suitcases rolling out and everything. But it was too late, for as quickly as I realized his signals, another cab went passed me doing 40m.p.h., to my 10, and he pulled the U-turn and grabbed these delicate customers. I decided it was just as well. I wasn’t ready for another ride just yet. I descended over the hill, till’ my cab could be seen anymore by her and I parked the car at the hydrant. I got out for the fresh air and stretched in the rare abundance of space that the night provided. The last minutes of darkness were upon me, and the guy who tried to tell me of the potential ride I missed was working with the Poland Spring truck down the street. He eventually made his deliveries and left. I walked a little up the hill to look back to that address not a block away, and she had disappeared. I then proceeded to open each door of my cab and look for things to discard. I found one bottle of water. Was this hers or his? I wondered, either way, a reminder of the energy that still may have persisted inside the cab. I took it and threw it lightly into the corner garbage can with a wrist toss, a 2 pointer. I looked all I could for more things to discard, gum, tissues, dust balls. I went to the front and drank the last of my cold coffee remains and then swished that into the garbage can too. There was no one out on the street anymore, not within sight, so then I cried, expelling emotions I didn’t even know I had, and I didn’t even know why, but there it was, and I knew I needed this moment alone with just those street lights and the taxi, awaiting my peace of mind to return. I used some more time to pace between the garbage can and the cab 2 to 5 more times. I let out a good yell, but still I held back ‘cause I didn’t want anybody to call the police. I then got in my cab again when I’d gotten enough air outside, and I really cried for only a few more minutes, then I yelled, and continued back to the diner, yelling the whole way back until my vocal cords protested.

It is only after something like this happens that it really hits hard; after you’re forced to cope with the situation, and find your way out of it, or hope, or pray that it’ll work itself out. Once all of your natural instincts no longer are being tested, you realize the extent of it all. I evaluated why I cried maybe for myself, maybe for my self-serving purposes of writing this blog, or both.

And I think I cried because I had no idea that such a calm and rational being might really be a lunatic in disguise, I cried because I had no way to stop such a thing, and all the pressure to be a hero, something I very much would like to be, is not really in my character and I wish she’d take some responsibility for realizing that we all need to be our own heroes and we need to save ourselves sometimes, if not all the time. And I also really cried, because up until then I’d given up on the idea of love perhaps:

The idea that just maybe, love is lurking anywhere, and that I may hear from her again sometime, but in all likeliness, I won't. Maybe, just maybe, love IS something from a movie, where a cab driver finds a damsel from Korea or wherever she was from who doesn’t explain things oh so clearly, but perhaps on some sort of level they could maybe understand each other more than all the other strangers that stagger into and out of each other’s worlds. Or maybe she never wants to remember that night ever again.

I pass that building of course, from time to time. Each time I pass it, I always seem to go by too fast, every single time I notice, even when I look for the address, that it had already passed by about a block ago. Very strange, that ride was.

Reality gives its bailout: Draft 2 of that Sunday.

A woman comes out of the diner without any accompaniment and she looks directly through my window to me. I had my light on to shine some light on my face, facilitating some eye contact and therefore a fare. I waved her inside and she walked toward the cab.

She stood apart from the other women here, as she wasn’t gifted with a tall and lanky build; other diner patrons tended to be made mostly of legs and they wore clothes that drew so much attention to every other chosen feature that their face rarely drew attention with all the other distractions highlighted. She wore a seasonal sweater with reindeer prancing around the torso and she walked toward the cab with some trepidation.

She opened the door but there was a moment before she sat inside when a man hovered by her. It was unclear how together they were, as I couldn’t determine if he came out with her. The partition enlarges the blind spot in the middle of my car, and the pillar by the rear gives a blind spot too. We taxi drivers quickly learn to complete a wide picture by composing the images of each mirror, so I used the side mirror to grab some visual perspective. He held her hand in gentlemen’s fashion as he said things like: “Did I step out of line earlier?” He asked if he could step inside the car, and her answers never stood firm. I thought the whole moment was cute and I thought about taking a picture of the hands still being held for the moment, unfortunately my camera had lost it’s focusing ability these past few weeks. In romantic terms people always speak of time standing still don’t they? Well, this was exactly the opposite, as he was prolonging time for all of us, while it may have been swirling around too quickly for my poor passenger who just wanted to go home. The moment I thought they’d had with the handholding was becoming more of an encumbrance, a hindrance, a delay. He asked where she lived, and only by her answer did I find the situation funny. She told him she lived, “Over there”, and pointed in a general north direction.

I really thought she’d clear it up, and tell him she’s not going with him, nor him going with her, but she failed to drop the hammer. He was working in a Jedi Mind trick style, persisting to her that she really wanted to go home with him. She sat there on the edge of the taxi sofa between the two environments of cold and comfortable, and then he just insisted he was coming in, her response: “Okay?” Her exact word, as she scooted over to the left side of the cab to make room for his decisive boldness.

Part 2-

So there we were, the three of us in a cab, each not knowing a thing about the other, but for me it didn’t seem all that unusual. I treated it as a normal ride, because it pretty much was to that point. I waited for somebody to give a destination, but she was too caught up in her worries, and he was to caught up in his mission, so I had to remind them to give me a place to go. I don’t move until I get a place, that’s my rule. I usually don’t even start the meter, however this time I did because of all the time taken at the door earlier.

The man tells me, "60 Wall Street."

“Do you want to take the FDR?” I ask. Fortunately he doesn’t give me an answer, and I think better of asking him again. This is my one control on the situation that is otherwise all their own. By taking the Bowery I had more opportunities to change direction, to slow down, and to stop if necessary.

She quickly gives different directions then he does, "No, wait, actually just drop me off home on the way."

"Well, where do you live?" I ask.

And she changes her statement, saying, "No go ahead, never mind."

"Are you sure? So we're going to Wall Street?" I ask. I look at both of them when I ask, so that it doesn’t appear that I’m choosing sides. I am Switzerland, however I did check with her to make sure she really wanted to go on, so the seed has been planted with the guy to let him know I do find all of this rather sketchy.

“Alright you know what! Actually I’ll get off right here,” She tells us both.

“Okay.” I reply, my lungs finally grabbed some air and my heartbeat was starting to return to normal.

“No, no,” says the guy. “Why are you getting off? Come on it’ll be nice, I’m a good guy. Don’t get out here, what’s over here?”

I may have even interjected for the guy’s side at the time, to be on both sides, “Are you sure you want to get off here?” I asked.

“Okay,” She says. “I’ll stay. But I really should get home.”

I was exasperated at how easily this girl was bending, “Look,” I said. “All you need to do is tell me where you live, and I will drop you off.” The scenario I had configured in my head was a pretty typical one: Man and woman first meet, both have acceptable time, girl has to go home, guy obliges, girl gets dropped off no matter where she lives, and guy takes the cab back to his respective home.

She continued to not give her address, nor did she fake an address, so there was nothing I could do. She wouldn’t get out of the cab. She continued to suggest another corner, but the same scenario played itself out. It was at another red light, and fortunately it was a long one. I pretended to be exasperated at the time wasted. The light had turned green, but then the next one turned red and the situation was coming to a climax.

“Fine if you want, get out,” He says, finally convinced that she kept her own head the whole time, and that it was no use. I was elated that the situation was coming to a close, but also nervous as now I’d have this guy the rest of the ride. It was something I pretty much counted on though, hence the playing both sides. I figured we’d smooth it over and just talk about how we’re losers or something. Either that or it’d be silence all the way to his place, which would be fine with me. But she turns it around.

“NO, I’m not getting out. You get out!” She pushed him a few times. Each push didn't actually move him, but it gave him the command to do so, which he obliged. He slid further towards the door, in 3 quizzical scoots until he went and opened that door. Out it swung, and within a second he was standing on the outside looking in, trying his last attempts at convincing her he was an alright guy. She clung to that door, it was her new found friend, and she squeezed the the big taxi handle on it, pulling it to counteract any sudden attack on our border. Seeing that he was about a good 4 inches from the door, close enough to get back inside and far enough not to be run over, I clamped the gas to the floor as the green light at Great Jones watched us through the intersection.

And in conclusion…. part #3 click here.

Brains: Don't leave Home Without Them.

This happened about a year ago...

Brains, don’t leave home without them. Actually just don’t leave home.
It was before sunrise and I ran my usual course to the 24-hour restaurant. Two young women came in with a young man sandwiched in between.

“Can you take us to the Path Train station to Newark?”

“Is that at Ground Zer- uh the Trade Center?” I hate the term Ground Zero, as if it were some sort of wasteland.

“Uh, yeah. Do you know if the train is still running?”

“No I have no idea. But I’ve taken plenty of people there at hours even later than this.”

That didn’t seem reassuring enough-

“Hey how would you like to take us to... Newark!”

My eyes lit up for some second or two. What a long journey this would be! How much should I charge I wondered? But then I remembered my difficulties with New Jersey. Despite all three of them looking like a set of silver spoons, I still didn’t want to be lost in a city with one of the highest crime rates in the country; lots of murders, drug dealings, and car jackings I’m sure, and it was the wrong time too, after 4 in the morning. Everytime I go near Newark I’m liable to drive west when I should go south, and even sometimes, I’ve gone north and south and then north again, very bad signage, and at night! Oh fahgetabowdit.

She asked, “How much would you charge?”

Darn I was just thinking that, I didn’t want to refuse the ride, I figured that these three wouldn’t cause much harm so I’d take them if they could direct me there.

“50 bucks,” I tell them.

The negotiator is shocked. "That's expensive!”

And my reply, "I agree, it's completely outrageous!"

"So then why are you charging that price then?" She says, and she thinks she has me, and can mold me to her will.

"Well it costs 60 dollars to go to Newark Airport," I say, "So if you're going to Newark, I'll charge 50."

My explanation was rather simple and to the point. I was being nice, and they had no idea, Idiots. And she would soon prove she was born brainless, I continued to start listing the reasons for the price:

“And so when I go into New Jersey I have to-“

She cuts me off, “Yeah but, um we're like, not going to the Airport.”

It was high time for me to drop the nice guy voice and break out the tone of a disgruntled postal worker, “Yes, and that’s why I am charging 10 dollars less.”

She hinted at some bargaining chips she might have, talks of having a mythical party in New Jersey that I could come to. The guy between the girls was trying to hide his laughter. They were all obviously joking around with me, and I admit I found it all highly entertaining, but I would have to end this banter eventually and pick-up somebody else. All the while, I am driving them to the Path train station, we weren't gonna waste time standing still to wait for her to reach a decision. Soon enough they realized they were asking for a very expensive favor.

“I can’t just hang out with you guys, I need to make my lease price of the car, and I can’t waste time in New Jersey. In fact it is detrimental to my income even if I make 50 dollars to drive you to Newark. I am probably going to get lost there, and it will ruin my entire day.”

Now I thought, how was she gonna talk her way out of that argument? Unfortunately the hamster up in that brain of hers was still running to stand still. "Ahah!" She has a brainstorm, or so she thinks.. “Hey, when you get to Newark, you can get a big fare going all the way back.” In her conceptual moment of genius, she smiles like a Barbie queen.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is an N-Y-C taxicab.”

“So?”

“So I’m only licensed to pick people up in New York City. That is why it is so expensive to go to New Jersey.”

In her plea to prove her case, she had stumbled on the hardest evidence against her. New Jersey was the reason why it was expensive, New Jersey was the reason I'd be lost, and New Jersey was the reason we don't all jump on the highway and let the meter roll along when we go across the Hudson River.

What a dumb ass. I am constantly overwhelmed with how unfamiliar people are with the size of New York City; it’s big, really big. We probably cover more ground than any other cabs in the world. Imagine if we could pick up people across state borders? I mean where would the ludicrous boundaries ever end? I was starting to get pissed. We were getting close to the train station, and I thought she would have made her decision by now. If she didn’t know what an N.Y.C. taxi does, how would she fare in giving adequate directions? The man did interject on that last one; he assured her that it was true, New York City taxicabs only pick-up in New York City. I mean there’s only so much stupidity a man can take. They agree to go to his house so we all won that night! His house was nearby, but she hassled me about why I was driving around in circles, what a pea brain!

“This is where the address is,” I say. “It is not around the corner, it is back in the direction we came from.” Jesus, can somebody implant a brain in this one! For obvious reasons I didn’t get a good tip.

A jazz guy, an alcoholic, a skirt, and a taxi garage owner,

Just another day in the life:

(I warn you this post is long)

Before I drove,

I was up the night before helping my now ex-apartment-mate move out, and after an hour or so of down time I took a midnight local bus into Brooklyn from my Staten Island house. Two Hours later I was at the taxi garage in Long Island City, Queens, eating some fig bars I bought at the 24-hour convenience store. I was assigned a crisp Crown Vic’, so fresh a rubber band still kept the extra middle seatbelt neat, and a factory smell permeated from every seat. I got the car one to two hours earlier than usual, but I had to since I was taking mass transit all the way from Staten Island. Even during rush hour it takes more than an hour to get to Manhattan from Staten, and that’s when they don’t skimp on trains and buses.

One thing about the 2008 Crown Victorias is they all have a tire pressure warning light in the dash. It is one more warning light constantly on. So since I was extra early and I didn’t really want to spend the time picking up drunks, or whomever, I looked around at each tire. They always look low to me, and so I spent a half hour filling my right rear tire to something closer to desirable.


Into the night:
Now that everything was in check I was out the back slowly, peering about and heading south to the usual course and courses. It was all going in slow motion for me that day; I guess that’s how I like it. Driving is very impulsive, and I wondered if my impulses were intentionally driving me away from business. Every time I wake up for a cab-driving day, I tell myself to take it easy. Every action from pouring cereal to brushing my teeth is done slowly and with care to emphasize a full day of careful routine. Some friends were just finishing their party in the farthest east of the Lower East Side and I thought about heading that way through the maze of small streets, but I saw droves of wonderers, zombies, silhouettes under the streetlights moving toward Delancey Street struggling with balance; I decided I’d continue with the routine path.

The Brooklyn Hustle:
My first rider worth note came after I hadn’t found many customers. Two hours had passed, and I had three small fares, as I wasn’t feeling ballsy enough to plunge into high demand spots. He tapped on my right side front window, 

“Can you take me to Brooklyn?”

Hmm well since he asked, “Where in Brooklyn?” I asked, I’d have taken him anyway, but I wanted to know how far out he was going.

“Dean and (x).” He said.

“Dean and what? Where is that?”

“It’s 25 dollars, and it’s real close.” He said

Well I don’t turn down rides, and he was begging practically, I’ve heard ‘it’s real close’ before, a common line, but at 25 dollars, and uhhh, well if you saw him you’d know he wasn’t far out there. Errr, sorry. So he gets in and we head south and he tells me directions, and I’m feeling kinda lucky. It doesn’t seem far, and as usual I’m starting to figure out where he’s going, it was pretty familiar territory. He seems like a nice grateful person, just then the phone rings, he picks up:

“Hello? ---

Oh no this is not the driver this is the passenger.---

 I’m heading to Brooklyn. Well where are you?--

 Yeah I’ll give you your phone back…for forty dollars-

Okay we’re heading back right now.”

This guy had the gumption to ask for forty dollars to return a phone. I sounded concerned for the phone’s return, so he assumed correctly that I would want to return it as soon as possible. I pulled the car around right before the bridge, and luckily the police didn’t stop me for the U-turn. He told me that he would split the money with me, give me 20, Sweet!! Then we waited where I picked him up and dropped off the guys who lost the phone. There they came and paid forty. He gave me twenty and told me to restart the meter.

As we took Dean down to emptier parts we talked about Philadelphia and its up and coming jazz scene, and how Boston doesn’t have a damned thing, New York is incomparable he said,

“Best city in the world,”

meh, I love it, but I need to see other cities, I’m not in a committed relationship with this city. I tell him that we (New Yorkers) all move, but we tend to come back, when we’ve been spoiled by all the conveniences and entertainment the city has to offer. Anyway it turns out he’s a jazz manager or something, a musician as well, he recommends a man named Kenny Garrett. I have yet to hear the guy. The fare was 13 or 15 bucks, he paid and then gave me the other twenty, I had to help him find it though, 

“It’s probably in your back pocket,” I said, presto there it was.

Sympathy for the cabbie:
I returned to Manhattan into the Lower East Side scramble, or what was left of it after 5 am. The bars close at 4, and so I made it through to SoHo without picking up. Then 5 Upper East Siders asked if I could take them. I didn’t know there were five of them, or maybe even 6, but what really agitated me was that 2 wanted to sit in the front passenger seat.

“You have so much room up there,” they remarked. “Don’t worry we’ll be fine.”

To which I replied, “ I am not worried about you, I am worried about getting a ticket for carrying too many people.”

The girlfriend of the couple to my right seemed to care actually. At one point when we passed 2 police cars, the girl bent down toward my side as if she was looking for something, err, like a lost cell phone. Me and the guy were both confused but when she got up after we passed the police, I thought that was a very kind gesture, but a little overkill. Anyway, they tipped nicely.

Waiting in the wrong places:
After all that good fortune I chose the wrong hotel and waited for an hour before getting a 6 dollar ride to CBS, the guy was really cool and apologized for being such a short ride, he gave me a ten.

Then I chose the Ship Terminal and waited for an hour and a half, landing a seven-dollar fare. That ship terminal is harder to figure out then life itself sometimes. Only lord knows what days bring airport fares.

Charity:
It was the middle of the day and had it not been for the ride to Fort Greene in Brooklyn that paid double, I’d have been stressed. Slow, slow, slow, it was one of our first sunny warm days in a while and nobody needed to get anywhere in a hurry. I was in Chelsea and as I turned to 7th Ave from 23rd slowly and wide, I checked all sidewalk territory and saw a disheveled woman hail with uncertainty, then the man next to her dressed business casual hail with authority again. He gave her a ten and she climbed in with his assistance. She took about 2 minutes to get inside, and then another eight seconds to find the handle on the door and pull it closed.

Not one alarm bell went off in my head, because plenty of ugly people hail cabs, plenty of times people need help from a friend to get in a cab. I sometimes assist them on their way out too; it’s part of the service of paying for a taxi and not a bus. It wasn’t until she opened her mouth that I began to wonder,

“FIFSTREET.. AND FIRSTAVinue,”

She said with such effort that the whole seat was probably covered in saliva. As I drove across town she didn’t look frontward with concern for time or even for the money on the meter, she only looked out her window enjoying what little time she had in the comfortable confines of this upper-middle class travel. She soon had to spoil her peaceful moment and lay down the spiel:

“I’m homeless, and I’m going to the 5th precinct to find a bathroom.”

Well that wasn’t exactly music to my ears. I feel it as my duty to oblige to anyone who asks for some change or a little discount on his or her ride, but for her I didn’t feel too guilty. Firstly she got in a cab, so by asking for expensive services and not paying for them with money she has, she’s stealing a ride, she’s stealing my time, which I pay for everytime I drive the car. It’s a plenty expensive city, but it was her decision to step in to a ride worth more than she may have wanted to pay. So yes, her statement sent my thoughts through a whole judge jury and executioner kind of mode, but whatever, we’d cross that bridge if we had too. I was still grateful though that she wasn’t complaining about the length of time it took to get across town, rather she kept asking if we were there yet like she was 50 going on 3 years of age.

BTW a construction crane? Another one? On 10th street for Christ sake!? Why doesn’t anybody tell me these things in advance?? So we continue around that mess and add about a few minutes and a few dollars to the meter.

We finally get there, to Second Avenue and 5th Street, after I explained that it would be silly to go around the block looking for a place she kept describing as over there while she wasn’t healthy enough to lift her arm to point well enough. Then she needed help getting out of the cab. And so I held her arm as she grabbed each of her store bags and slowly stepped entirely out of the taxi. She let her arm free of our arm and arm embrace and pulled her shirt slightly and fussed with her belt.

“I need some help! Can you help me with my belt.”

I thought about it, God knows why, for a second, while checking the seat for any left behind items or liquids.

“No,” I said, “I’m sorry I can’t help you there. I only can go so far.”

“Fine,” She said, as if she was testing me, finding what my limit was.

We continued to the sidewalk at an agonizingly slow pace, and when I tried to move faster and carry her along, she would scream as if her bones were pulled apart. She waddled her fragile ripened pear shaped body over to the curbside, mocking all notions of time's existence. Eventually we made it to the restaurant on the corner, the long journey of several feet had taken about 12 minutes. The restaurant waiter quickly came to the entrance with some garlic and some steaks (just kidding)

“She can’t come in here. Last week she used the bathroom and pissed all over the floor. And she didn’t buy anything,” he said.

“Oh, well she hasn’t even paid me yet, she’s probably not paying me either, despite me walking her from the cab.” I Said.

“Oh, see," He gestured with open palms at her, "She’s a mess. And she leaves everybody else to clean up after.” 

Than she got her money out to pay; I suggested half price or even a little less, the meter was at 7.70. She gave me 3 singles which came from a wad of assorted United States currency larger than my own, my guess was she had about 40 bills in her hand, and of course we know she already obtained a ten. Like I said, she needs the money she has as it is tough to live in such a city, but I asked for one more dollar.

“Make that 4.” “and Thank you”

She asked for more help to walk her to the store she kept pointing to with no decipherable location. So we walked to a point where I finally figured out where she was going. We stopped at the edge of the curb by a parking meter so she could hold on to it as I left her screaming as if she broke a bone again.

“Why won’t you take me there!!”

The sign on the big yellow awning right down the street from the police station where they shot the façade for the hit tv show NYPD Blue, it read, LIQUOR STORE in red capitals. I had gone pretty far out of my way to accommodate her to such a point, so I felt justified, she had underpaid, and so in a sense, she had bought some included advice from some kid who otherwise had no right to tell her what to do. After all she wanted my help, so I might as well give her some.

“I am not taking you to the liquor store. You have all that money in your hand, and just to spend it on more booze would just waste it all away.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” came her voice, again sounding like an angsty teen.


But I continued, by underpaying she had every right to get an earful, “Where are you going to sleep? Why don’t you spend that money on a room and not a bottle? No I’m not helping you ruin your life ma’am.”

And with that I walked away.


“I NEED IT!!” she cried, “I NEED IT FOR THE PAIN!!”

Et-cetera:
Who sits in the cab next: some well groomed woman in a skirt sits down and gives specific directions, FDR to 34th then up First Avenue. If she ever knew, I thought, if she ever knew who sat in her place less than 15 minutes ago. I wondered how dry the seat was.

-Dropped her off, and picked up a couple, again with very specific directions, guy comments on the police motorcycles

“I’ve never seen those before, are those real?”

I thought they we’re new additions to the police toys for a minute, but then I noticed the Dodge Avenger car painted in traffic police colors yet marked as a regular police car, never mind the fact that the city doesn’t use Dodge Avengers and if anything, it would start purchasing Toyota Prius’ for the traffic division.

“Oh that’s right,” I said, “This is all for some movie. They were also filming by the Brooklyn Bridge.”

They didn’t seem to care anymore, I tend to dwindle on subjects long after the interest has left. Anyway he took a look at my trip sheet because he had indicated some interest suggesting he knew a lot about cabs. It turned out he owned a garage in Brooklyn. And name-dropped the owners names of my garage, how’s so and so, and also, his son, and then their buddy,for sanctity of the blog, I won’t say their names, but he knew them, he was a real deal owner of a Brooklyn garage. And I assume she was his wife, sitting, where the alcoholic was just 30 or so minutes ago. He told me to tell them he said hi, but my memory wasn't good enough to remember his name, nor did I feel it would help me to go out of my way to mention him.

After they got out in Chinatown, I pulled up one block further and sniffed the back seat, which still held its strong fresh from the factory smell.

For photos of The Dodge movie cop car after its planned collision go here: Hack Shots: Do we really need....

And for shots of movie Crown Victoria taxis used for movies go to my shots: here, and: here at my flickr account.

Paying the bills-

So I was so lucky to have been a part of a photo-shoot on Monday, well, my cab was. A former coworker of mine is now a photo-editor with Time Out NY, and she needed a cab to complete a picture. I was more than happy to oblige. 

FYI taxi aficionados I drive a real cab, I just photoshoped the medallion # 

I was told I needed more pictures on the blog, so I'll try to push my pictures out a little faster. Look for the horny (or sex, something of that ilk) issue of Time Out New York. It was really cool to see how professionals carried out a shoot, it was really chill and yet controlled, well handled.

Some dude passed by, and she goes 

"Hey Bill, just paying the rent ya know?" Seemed as normal as all else, then she tells us, "He was my landlord."

---

Monday, monday, it's been a while since I worked during the week. It was really slow, and there was lots of traffic. I had to take the long way back from the airport. I spent the day pretty laid back though, since I was paid for my time while they did the photo-shoot.

Cab Nightmare

When driving the cab, so much happens, over so much time, it often blends together in a mush, and eventually, you do it all over again another day.

In my dream: I'm in Brooklyn. My mind creates an entire neighborhood with the streets of Fort Greene and the buildings of Brooklyn Heights.
I’m driving two women home, for some reason I sit facing my passengers, my back to the steering wheel and the street ahead. Every time they tell me "left" or "right" I have to re-think the turn, steering the wheel with my back to it, with one hand.

"Make a left," they say, I make a left onto a small street, my body still facing backward as I spin the steering wheel across my palm and fingers. "Are you sure you can handle this?" one asks.

"Sure,” I say. I follow her eyes, which seem very concerned, so much so that if they could, they would drive for me. She holds her attention to a big tree with roots growing through the sidewalk and overtaking the street. I turn my head around to see the tree, but the turn is too tight. I turn my wheel as far as possible, but a tire gets squeezed between the street, the tree's roots, and the sidewalk. The tire pops, and deflates.

This was going to be my last customer, as I had been driving for more than 10 hours. Without a spare tire in the trunk I wondered how quickly the garage would be able to send someone to change my tire.

I drop the women off, at the corner of a housing complex driveway and several well-kept brownstones. They didn’t have cash and were going to get the money, all 24 dollars of it.

Another cabbie stops at the corner and dropped someone off too. He is very nice. He tells me I should expect them not to return, and speaks of all the times people have not paid him the fare. I "Cannot just let them walk away from me," he says. He tells me he'll help changing the tire. We decide to change the tire, rather than wait for the garage, but we shoot the shit some more. My engine is off; I left the keys, all of them, on my pillow, on my seat. Just then a team of guys in their mid-twenties approaches my taxi and before I can say anything they are all piling in. One even gets in the front. What's more, another looks in the driver door, gets in, turns on the engine, and revs it furiously. I run as fast as I can after my everything. 


My dream changes the scenario; I am still running, in Riverdale, up and down the hills past car dealerships in route to Grand Concourse. The tire wasn't flat anymore. I call the police, with only a trip sheet in hand to tell me the license plate number. The car is due back at the garage in 15 minutes. The police hang up after I say the word "taxi"

Then I wake up... phew all a dream.

Still I figure I'll take that sunday off.

The Experience:

It starts on the avenues amidst a dark sky lit by pharmacies and corner stores. The hustle of New York is only evident by the schools of taxicabs racing forward at every turning of a green traffic light. Between these waves all is still, New York City exhibits a rare silence. As dawn peaks over midtown towers, the daytime workers begin their familiar rhythm. Soon the bagel and coffee lines start.

Within this next hour, Manhattan soon becomes infested. Time starts to compress as taxicab demand peaks. I head to my neighborhood, picking a few ripe street corners as goals. I aim to beat the rest of the yellow wave; more likely, though, I’ll drive around the corner during a lull in traffic, the lone empty taxi. A man or a woman in a suit jumps in. We go to midtown, times square, the financial district, and then we repeat. This cycle starts at seven. By eight, Manhattan is a parking lot. People erupt from beneath the ground and invade the sidewalk.

It starts to rain and everyone runs, searching for cover somewhere, anywhere. And we drive slowly, watching the city become a soggy painting. A passenger with a broken umbrella unravels inside. The meter goes on and the sun returns, soon enough the pavement turns dry and gray.

Into the afternoon, office buildings sprout suits with quick steps always carrying something official. Assorted famous corners produce throngs of New Yorkers. The humans swarm the taxi; as my cab's nose claims the crosswalk. Arms and legs surround each window frame, moving in opposite directions.

By two o’clock, I begin to believe it will be survivable; a woman hails from a Whole Foods, or a senior at Zabaar’s, a child and a caregiver go from Chelsea Piers to Tribeca. Someone complains about traffic, But it’s been 9 hours now and to me “traffic” is a pre-existing condition, it must have come before the chicken or the egg. I forgot to take a piss. I relieve myself in a sterile hotel bathroom.

One more day done, and I relish the opportunity to see the world again.

A Flat Tire

East Village, Manhattan

I was lucky to have a fare at such a time at 6:30 am and I just came back from another very lucky ride to Bay Ridge. We hadn't gone but 2 blocks, when the car started to rumble, as if it had caught something in the undercarriage. The rumbling in seconds became worse, and soon enough it seemed clear that we had a flat tire. So I pulled over, coincidentally right where I used to work for 2 years, back in 1999. Sure enough the right rear tire was flat. Cabs in front and behind were bidding for her ridership as they saw my situation. The guy behind me took her, and he wished me good luck. She asked if she should pay, I told her that it was up to her, and she paid me 5 bucks, the fare was at 3.30. 

So I enjoyed the moment of peace as I serendipitously was at the place where I used to work.

Then I called the garage. "J" let me have it for a split second and then he told me a guy would be on his way. I decided to walk down to the Yaffa Cafe and get a coffee and work a quick piss in. They were nice enough to tell me that I didn't need to buy anything to pee, but I wanted the coffee anyway. Ah memories, old friends and I went to the Yaffa after barhopping ‘till 3 or 4 in those days. But back when I had more then a few drinks, I never remembered the outrageous prices. The coffee was 2.17 and they had no soymilk. I paid 3.17 since it was more of a restaurant. The coffee SUCKED, one more place to cross off the list. The food wasn’t ever memorable either.

I returned to my abandoned car with its flashers on amongst a flock of lonely parking meters. And I sat in the rear and checked the trip sheet, counted money, took pictures, drank coffee, stepped out of the car, went back in, sat in the back again, then stepped outside. What time is it? I thought to myself. Where the fuck was my phone? I lost it somewhere, but where? I searched the front, I searched all my cell phone pockets, the glove compartment, the trunk (why the trunk? no it wasn't there) then I went in the back again, and there was a little pocket of space in the seat where all sorts of things were: 



1. A 'Halls' gum, wrapped and sealed



2. An IRS paper stating the work address, home address, and social sec. number of a certain Mr. someone. But now who was this? Were they my ride? Or was this person from another shift? 



3. A 20-dollar bill folded or crumpled so small, that it was 1/8th by 1/8th of an inch. So she was a big tipper.... hmm, 
well it was all piecing together as not long ago a transvestite who worked at Lucky Cheng's (a themed restaurant as indicated on the IRS slip), was the same individual who dropped these items in the seat.

4. My cell phone.

She told me she was a good tipper. She also asked me if she was the freakiest person I’ve had in my cab, my response: yes actually, but I’d expected freakier sooner, since I’d been driving 2 years now. (Actually in retrospect I recall one or two other men dressed as women, but they weren’t memorable, they didn’t register as official transvestites. This one was working as one, and the others probably only dressed as women four times a year, and half-assed I might add.) She searched through her purse to pay, and the tip was pretty good, but to have gained another 20 and some personal information such as an IRS slip, passed my time with a flat tire rather nicely. Guess what, the transvestite wait staff at c's, the famous Chinese restaurant, earn only $4.60 an hour. Of course all wait-staff and bartenders work for the tips as we know. 


Eventually the service car arrived after a little more than a half an hour. He even turned on the siren, they just installed yellow sirens on the top of the junk taxi they drive. Behind his partition laid 3 full tires with wheels in the passenger bay, stripped of seats. The partition window was shut to keep out the smell of grease and rubber I assume. In the trunk "D.W." pulled out the full jack, the trunk was stripped of all carpeting. I told him I thought my back seat was loose, but it turned out it was ok. I tipped him a little. And was off to find more fares.

Service Vehicle

Because of the timing, the flat tire didn't ruin the day. After the tire was replaced, I got a fare to Corona Queens, and then from around Lefrak City I got a ride to Main Street. Despite the 5-Borough Bike Tour dividing Manhattan's crosstown streets with a wall of moving bicycle's from the south tip to Central Park between 10am and 11:30, 2nd avenue being closed from 57th street to 42nd, and Broadway through SoHo, both from 10 am 'till 6 I did ok by mostly staying far enough east and making sure people didn't want to cross 6th Avenue.

P.S. I mailed the IRS paper to their home address.