Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Some asshole driver clipped my mirror tonight. Traffic was heavy going up 6th Ave and he was trying to get over into my lane, which would've been fine and all except I already happened to be there. I had no room to move, but he must've thought my cab would just magically fucking disappear once he decided to move over because he just came straight at me. When my cab didn't dematerialize for him, our mirrors met. Luckily, Ford Crown Victorias are extremely resilient and my mirror just sort of sprang back into position. I got out and checked the doors and fender, but there was no mark that anything happened. Not that it would have mattered since the guy drove away as fast as he could. Still, I was pissed. And the Texan tourists in the backseat seemed a little freaked.
Meanwhile, I have no idea what is wrong with this cab driver. He was driving really weirdly and was kinda pissing me off, fucking up my rhythm. When I pulled up next to him, the problem became obvious: He was counting his money.
The most notable event of the night was when two classy black ladies got in at 5th Ave and 25th. They were making two stops and talked politics the whole way. One was middle-aged, the other was older. After I dropped off the older one, the other lady said, "That was the former first lady of New York City that just got out of the cab." I said, "Really? Wait, what?" And she said, "Do you remember David Dinkins? He was the mayor before Giuliani. He was the good mayor. That was his wife." So, yeah, I had Mrs. Dinkins in my cab. Does she count as a celebrity?
The other thing that sticks in my mind from this shift was when I picked up a young couple and the guy informed me that I had driven him home last week. That's actually happened to me two other times, where I've met the same passenger in the cab more than once. The first time it happened with some old French guy who I didn't remember but who remembered me, and the other time it happened with a young woman who I did remember. More recently, I was approached in a book store by a young man asking, "Excuse me, are you a cab driver?" I had driven him home in a blizzard last winter and, since it took a while, we got to know each other. It's kind of astonishing each time this happens since there are about 13,000 cabs in New York.