Welcome home

So tonight was my first night back in the cab. I got into the city around 4:00 and found my first passenger on 50th and 2nd. She wanted to go to 8th St and Broadway and, seeing that 2nd Ave was all backed up, I turned right on 49th. When I hit Lex, I turned left to head downtown. But somehow, I totally overlooked the sign that was posted that said no turns allowed between 10 am and 6 pm, Monday through Friday. I mean, I guess I always knew it was there, but I was distracted and rusty and not really thinking. I just didn't see it, and was still clueless as to what I did when I got pulled over by the TLC police.

They were just standing there, actually, waiting for idiots like me to do just what I did. The TLC officer waved me to the side of the street and made my passenger get out and find another cab. When he finally told me what I did wrong, I just felt stupid. I've made this mistake once before, over a year ago, and I got a ticket for it then, too.

I handed over my license and sat there feeling annoyed with myself. After a moment, though, I realized I needed to just roll with it and not let it get to me, so I got out of the cab. I walked up to the TLC police car and started talking to him, saying, "You know, I'm sure you hear this all the time, but I really didn't see the sign. I feel pretty dumb, actually, but I haven't worked in a few weeks and I guess I'm a little out of practice."

At first he was stern and a little cold, but maybe because I was sort of smiling and laughing about the whole stupid ordeal, he seemed to loosen up and all of a sudden we were almost friends. Of course, he still gave me the ticket, but I already knew there was no getting out of it. The worst part of it is the ticket holds a $150 fine.

It needs to be said that the TLC is notorious for being extremely unfriendly and unforgiving to cab drivers. They're our built-in enemies, mainly because their job is to ticket us -- and our job is to get away with what we can without getting caught by them.

My experience this afternoon, however, was actually not that bad. Sure, giving out a $150 ticket is not necessarily a compassionate act, but the officer writing it was at least decent to me when he could've been a total dick, and that makes all the difference. I think he even felt a little bad, since I was being so casual about the whole thing, and eventually he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and with just the tiniest tinge of guilt in his voice, said, "I'm just doing my job." This I understood, but I was just doing my job, too. Unfortunately my job is one in which I run the risk of starting my shift $150 in the hole.

The rest of the night was fine. But the ticket sort of put a little damper on things.

I guess this was my official welcome back to New York.

A lame update

After my little vacation, I was happy to be home. However, I returned to a screwy internet connection, which made it difficult for me to post, much less do anything else online. Each click led to an eternity of waiting, so I have not been able to update the blog. This was probably a good thing since I needed to get some book writing done.

But now the cable technician just left and everything seems to be back in order. My only real update at this point is that, after I left California, Acid Casualty was spotted doing a "hip hop dance" on the Venice boardwalk. I'm heartbroken that I missed it.

I'm scheduled to work tomorrow night, barring any unforseen circumstances, so there should be a proper post by Friday morning. Thanks for being patient.

All this for $1.25

I survived the bus ride and it was actually pretty fun. I borrowed my friend's iPod and created a soundtrack to go with the scenery, which was itself quite fascinating in its repetitive suburban blandness. For an entire hour, as the bus cruised down Venice Blvd towards Downtown LA, all I saw out the window was a seemingly endless series of auto repair shops, used car dealerships, smog check stations, window-tinters, fast food chains, carpet shops, and furniture stores, plus a few check-cashing places, Western Unions, and taquerias mixed in for variety's sake.

The ride gave me a feeling I imagine many visitors to New York get: the feeling that this is a city so big, you can get lost in it. That never happens to me in New York, it seems too small and familiar, and there are always too many people around. But something about the way the sun shines so unforgivingly on everyone in LA makes this place seem huge and impersonal. The sidewalks are not constantly crowded with people, and there's something private and nice about that, if not a little isolating.

The ride was peaceful but, of course, there's always that one eccentric crazy person that is a requirement on every city bus the world over. She sat in front of me and carried on an enthusiastic conversation with herself. When she spoke, her sentences were punctuated with a short air-pump of her right fist, index finger extended to further drive her point home. Over the course of an hour, as the bus grew full and then empty again, she remained, her conversation continuing uninterrupted. Finally, as we entered downtown, she got off the bus and I was the last one on.

As we worked our way through the downtown area to Union Station, things looked familiar again. The streets were smaller, the buildings taller, and instead of selling car parts, all the storefronts were displaying baseball hats and t-shirts and socks. It looked a lot like 14th St west of Union Square, with all those random low-budget luggage and t-shirt stores. But instead of saying New York, Brooklyn, the Knicks, or Puerto Rico, all the shirts and hats here said Los Angeles, Compton, the Lakers, and Mexico. I quite liked downtown, though I didn't really get to spend a lot of time there.

Anyway, after a week of listening to non-stop drum circles and Hare Krishna chants, I left Venice and came to stay at my sister and brother-in-law's house up near Pasadena, where I am now. But before I left, I made a point of spending extra time on the boardwalk in search of Acid Casualty. I'm disappointed to say she never reappeared.

And now my trip has finally come to an end. I am leaving this afternoon and I'm eager to get home. I would like to be able to get back to work tomorrow, but that depends on how tired out I am by the flight and jet lag. If I don't drive tomorrow, I'll be back in action next week, and back to dealing with gridlock, Jersey drivers, and drunk passengers. It'll be good to be home.

Acid Casualty

My friend drove us on no fewer than five freeways in a row yesterday as we made our way to my sister's house in Altadena. She's getting a little better at the driving, though my hair has turned white from the twelve heart attacks I had on the ride.

What I didn't realize is there's no "hands-free" cell phone law in California. I couldn't believe how many people I saw driving while holding a phone to their ear. It's really fucked up. I thought this practice was bad back in New York, but it's seriously out of control here. What I don't understand is where this need to talk on the phone while driving comes from. Like, if it's important and really can't wait, then fine. But if you're just talking to your buddy or your wife or whoever about what you want for dinner or something equally mundane, then can't it wait until you're not behind the wheel of a two-ton vehicle? Seriously, what is so fucking important?

Meanwhile, now that I'm over my initial culture shock, Venice has begun to amuse me. It appears the cosmos have decided to link me somehow to the girl who haunted me on that first day, the one now known as "Acid Casualty." I ran into her again on the boardwalk on Tuesday. She had on an entirely different outfit, which consisted of a gaping-open backpack and black tight jeans that hung more than halfway down her underwearless butt. She passed me quickly at first, only stopping to turn and cackle at some random strangers nearby.

I spotted her again ten minutes later, this time going in the opposite direction. She zig-zagged up to me, laughed a little bit again and asked me for a cigarette. She was standing so close to me and sort of peering into my mouth, it seemed. I had already given out a bunch of cigarettes that afternoon so I said no, but I immediately regretted it. I should've kept her there so I could examine her blown out pupils, which also appeared to be white, in that cataracts sort of way. But it couldn't be cataracts as she's got to be no more than 23 years old, if that.

So now I'm obsessed and have been looking for her every day since, cigarettes and camera at the ready, but she's disappeared. I think I miss her.

Today I will be taking a city bus from Venice to Downtown LA. It's estimated to take an hour and a half and to cost $1.25.

California so far

I'm staying in Venice for now. So far I've gotten a Henna tattoo, had my belly button pierced, bought a huge bong in the shape of a penis, purchased an oversized painting of a peace symbol, stocked up on tie-dyed t-shirts, blasted The Doors music while rollerskating, and got my Tarot cards read.

Or not.

But all of these amenities are at my fingertips should I develop the vomitous urge to make use of any of them.

What the hell am I doing here? It's like St. Mark's Place times a thousand, but with an extra helping of hippies and hobos. Oh, and strangers actually try to, like, talk to you here. It's utterly bizarre.

The reality of my trip so far (I arrived yesterday) is that I rode shotgun from the airport to Venice with my friend who just got her driver's license all of two weeks ago. It was a huge effort resisting the impulse to knock her out and take over the wheel as she either accelerated into stopped cars or drove ever so slowly, unintentionally veering into the other lanes of the freeway.

When I wasn't screaming in fear or silently gripping the dashboard, I tried to be supportive and teach her some little things about driving, like how to change lanes without causing an accident, or the one about how green lights mean "go" as opposed to "slow down and think for a second," which is what I think they teach the students in Driver's Ed classes out here. Oh, and the rumors are true: No one honks in Los Angeles. There must be lithium in the water or something.

I also ate chicken wings on the Venice boardwalk while some hippie acid casualty with track marks on her arms and an inside-out umbrella in her hand stared vacantly at us and laughed like a hyena from the other side of the outdoor cafe's ropes.

At this point I'm just hoping to make it back to New York in two weeks without any bad tattoos, white-girl dreadlocks, or an STD.

More vindication

I have to admit I relish this moment. This one's for all the haters out there who love to generalize and say all cabbies drive like shit. Today's New York Times discusses a study that proves this so wrong. In fact, the numbers demonstrate that, if you're wearing your seatbelt, it's safer to ride in yellow cabs and livery cars than it is to ride in regular cars.

That Wild Taxi Ride Is Safer Than You Think, a Study Says
By THOMAS J. LUECK and JANON FISHER

In a city where almost everyone has a story about zigzagging through traffic in a hair-raising, white-knuckled cab ride, a new traffic safety study may come as a surprise: It finds that taxis are pretty safe.

So are livery cars, according to the study, which is based on state motor vehicle records of accidents and injuries across the city. It concludes that taxi and livery-cab drivers have crash rates one-third lower than drivers of other vehicles.

"This is one of the most important studies we've seen," said Matthew W. Daus, chairman of the city's Taxi and Limousine Commission, who said the city had not asked for the analysis by a Brooklyn consulting firm or paid for it, but was nonetheless happy to receive it.

"Our drivers get a bad rap," Mr. Daus said. "Our hats go off to them."

The study was undertaken by Bruce Schaller of Schaller Consulting, a former staff analyst for the taxi commission and New York City Transit who now works as an independent transportation consultant for several cities and transit agencies. He said that he was not paid, that he obtained his state accident records through a Freedom of Information Act request and that he pursued the analysis out of personal interest.

"The public perception is that taxicab and livery drivers are less safe than other drivers in New York City," said Mr. Schaller, citing surveys by New York City Transit showing that riders, when asked to rate "safety from accidents" on a scale of 1 to 10, give private cars a 7.6, and taxis a 5.7.

But Mr. Schaller, pointing to the strict licensing requirements of taxi and livery drivers, their knowledge of the streets and the financial risks they face by driving carelessly, said the results of the study "are not so surprising."

He said the city's own records show that the job longevity of cabbies has steadily increased since the early 1990's, to 9.2 years in 2005 from an average of 5.7 years in 1993. Drivers with more experience tend to drive more skillfully, and more safely, he said.

Some of the findings set off alarm bells about passenger safety. When cabs are involved in accidents the passengers are about twice as likely to suffer serious injuries than the passengers of private cars, the study concluded.

It documented one of the reasons: Relatively few taxi riders wear seat belts, and are under no requirement to do so by state law or city rules. Another reason for the serious injuries is the partitions in taxis, which are designed to protect drivers from passenger attacks, but can cause head and upper body injuries to passengers when the cabs crash or stop suddenly.

And if you are riding a bicycle, watch out. The study concluded that bicycles are about twice as likely to collide with a cab than other vehicles, a danger that experts attribute to the risks of "dooring," in which passengers in parked cabs throw their doors open in front of oncoming bikes.

Still, the overall findings of Mr. Schaller's report are that the safety of taxis and livery cars has improved over the years, and that it compares favorably with other vehicles by several measures.

In a calculation of accident rates per million miles on city streets, it found 4.6 crashes for cabs, 3.7 crashes for livery cars and 6.7 crashes for all vehicles, including public and private conveyances. A livery car was defined as a black car, for-hire livery or limousine carrying fewer than nine passengers.

For a Manhattan resident who takes 100 cab rides a year, Mr. Schaller found, the chance of being injured in a crash is 0.4 percent in 10 years.

On the streets of Manhattan yesterday, the findings provoked a widely varied response from riders and drivers.

"It's not true," said Philip Lee, 42, a delivery driver from Flushing, who drives into Manhattan five days a week and finds the driving habits of cabbies a constant source of irritation.

"They only care about time," he said. "They only care about money. Even at red lights, they cross. They don't care."

But Liz Loughery, a financial executive from Philadelphia who hails cabs several times a week on business trips to Manhattan, said she had no fear.

"The windows were down, and it was fast and furious," she said as she jumped out of an uptown cab yesterday on Eighth Avenue and headed into Pennsylvania Station to catch her train home. "I'm more afraid inside Penn Station."

Charles Bwuah, 50, a cabby from Newark, who has been driving a New York medallion cab for eight years, said he was not at all surprised by the study.

"You see, most people think taxi drivers don't know how to drive," he said. "But that's what they do for a living."

The link is here if you want to read it on the New York Times website.

Wanna know what sucks?

My car broke down on the way to work today. Which meant that I was no longer going to be working today, and therefore this update is not about anything really taxi related.

In fact, I was lucky. I had to make a detour through Manhattan before heading towards the garage this afternoon and, as I fought through traffic to get on the 59th Street Bridge on my way back to Queens, I just knew my car was about to crap out. It started shaking and shuddering as I got on the bridge so I stepped on it, just hoping I'd make it to the other side before it died. And die it did. When I got to the light at the bottom, it stalled and I had to stick it in neutral and roll it off the exit ramp and on to 21st in Long Island City, just under the Silvercup Studios sign and six blocks from the garage.

This is a problem I've had "fixed" by random mechanics no less than four times already, but clearly nothing has worked, despite the enormous amount of money I've spent on it.

I called Richard at the garage and asked him to send someone to come tow me in, since I was so close, but I knew my chances of working a shift tonight were doomed. I was too late. They were already loaded with too many drivers and I wasn't going to get a cab. At least they were nice enough to send someone to rescue me, and I appreciated that.

Of course, my car decided to start again right when Danny, one of the taxi mechanics, showed up, so he just followed me to the garage to make sure it didn't stall on the way. When we got there, Lincoln, the head mechanic, looked at the engine and disconnected something that he said might help. If it didn't, he told me I'd have to replace some part that I don't remember the name of.

It would probably really help if I knew the first thing about cars. But at this point, it will have to be enough to know a few expert mechanics who will be honest with me and not try to gouge me out of more money than my 1989 piece of shit Buick is worth. I guess this is one of the "perks" of being a taxi driver working out of a garage. Actually, it's when stuff like this happens that I'm happy that I've stuck with this garage. They've been very good to me since day one.

So with the car working again and my day freed up, I stood around for an hour bullshitting with some other drivers before heading home. Those afternoon pre-shift story-telling sessions are sometimes my favorite part of the workday.

And now for some other news: I'm going out of town for the next two weeks, which means this shitty blog update is probably all there will be for a little while. I'll be in LA, though, and I have a feeling I may have a thought or two on the traffic situation there, so if you want to read more non-cab-related posts, check back from time to time. If not, I should be back to work by the end of the second week of May.

In the meantime, another cabbie friend just alerted me to his new blog, so hopefully that will keep you entertained. It's called The Hungry Cabbie and it's about his on-duty discovery of the best food in the five boroughs. It's pretty much all you could ever ask for from a New York cabbie. But be warned: You'll get hungry just reading it.

Just another night

I had a decent shift tonight but there are no great stories to tell. People seem to be behaving these days. So since I don't really have much to write, I will try to illustrate my shift with photos:

I was not pleased when I saw this sign posted at the garage:

$3.15 a gallon? What the hell? Is there another hurricane somewhere driving gas prices up again? It's back to Katrina levels but this time it's for no good reason. At least none that I know about. I spent $40 on gas tonight, and that sucks shit, but supposedly it's only gonna get worse. (UPDATED to say that was only for half a tank, NOT a full tank.)



These two knuckleheads were just waiting to bother me when I showed up this afternoon. That's Merrill on the left and Abe on the right. They're a couple a wise-asses, but I like them anyway. When Merrill gets called over the loudspeaker, John the crazy Romanian dispatcher always calls him "Merrill Salami."



I had a nice late afternoon ride through Central Park when I took an opera singer to the Upper West Side.



There's a huge ad in Times Square picturing that kid Teddy Geiger. He was in my cab once.



Later, I saw a Prius taxi for the first time. It looked small.



At the end of the night, a young drunk guy passed out in the back on the way to Ocean Parkway. He didn't puke, and he tipped well.


Unfortunately I don't have a picture of the very drunk girls who gave me the finger as I was stopped next to them at a red light on my way home. I wasn't even in my cab. One of the girls rolled down her window and stuck half her body out, giving me the finger (for no reason, mind you), while her friends tried to pull her back inside and apologized to me, explaining that she was drunk. The driver looked perplexed. I was just happy I was on my way home and not driving that cab. I'd rather have a dead drunk than a dumb drunk in my cab any day.

Easter

As you know, it was Easter. This kid (poorly photographed above) was highly aware of that fact and was getting into the spirit of things with her bunny ears, going for a ride in the back of the cab in front of me. She was fun to drive behind as she seemed to be having a great ride.

Overall, though, my shift tonight was actually pretty boring. Which is a relief. Most of my passengers were in a happy, laid back mood and, most importantly, were tipping nicely. I got stuck in a weird JFK/LaGuardia vortex early on, during which I dropped some tourists off at Kennedy, saw that the taxi lot was filled to capacity and decided to race up to LaGuardia to see if I would fare better there.

I did, in a way. I got to the front of the line at US Air after only 10 minutes, but when my passenger got in he said, "Kennedy airport." This is called a "shorty." Anywhere in Queens from LaGuardia is considered a short-haul ride, and the taxi dispatcher will you a shorty ticket which allows you to return to the airport (within 90 minutes) and cut to the front of the line.

I got him to Kennedy in record time, thanks to light traffic. I dropped off again, passed by the overflowing lot once more, and once more decided to go back to LaGuardia. I used my shorty ticket, which brought me to the front of the line at Delta and I got some passengers right away. Luckily, they were going back to the city.

The night went smoothly after that, and I was busy for a while. People on the streets were at the same level of retardedness, but the aggression level was much lower than usual. The only real asshole I encountered was some guy who was strolling across the street against the light with his family. As I was bearing down on them, I tapped my horn so they would hurry it up and get out of the way before I, or any of the other cars on the avenue, ran into them.

The women of the group quickened their step but the man slowed down. I guess that meant he was tough or something. He really showed me.

But this kind of thing really annoys me because it's almost as if he expected me to not only see him there, crossing when he shouldn't be, but he also seemed to trust that I'd be able to stop in time to avoid hitting him. Having been hit by a car once as a pedestrian, I know first-hand just how easy it is to get knocked down and royally hurt by a moving vehicle. It's not fun. And when guys do stupid macho shit like this, they're not only fucking with their own lives, their fucking with mine.

So when I saw this guy slow his pace to show what a big tough guy he was, I made sure to lean on the horn to express my disapproval. He, of course, gave me the finger. My passenger at the time read my mind and said, "I hate guys like that." I said, "Yeah, he wouldn't be so tough and brave if he got hit." She replied, "You're so right. I'm a nurse at New York Hospital and it's exactly that type of guy who comes in every day all full of bravado. But it all disappears the second you have to give them an injection. Then they're not so tough."

I understand getting angry at a driver because you got scared, even if you were the one in the wrong, but the above type of behavior is different. It's got nothing to do with fear and everything to do with ego. It's dangerous, completely unecessary, and utterly stupid. This guy wanted to prove something, and boy did he -- he proved that he is a total idiot.

More assholes

This drunk fuck really pissed me off. He and his friend hailed me in Williamsburg on Bedford Ave and wanted to go to Grand and Graham. I started driving but then stopped when I realized this guy was still smoking a cigarette. I myself am a smoker, but I don't like people to smoke in my cab because the smell lingers and non-smoking passengers get mad when they get in after. Plus, it's illegal and I can get a huge ticket for allowing it. So I said, "Hey, are you smoking? Can you throw it out?"

His hand was still out the window, but when I said this, he drew his hand in, took a long obnoxious drag off the cigarette, and then blew the smoke out all inside the back. The whole cab was full of smoke now and I was pissed. It was too late in the night for me to have any reserves of patience left so I said, "That was fucking rude. You know what? Get the fuck out of my cab. Now." The cab was already stopped but they didn't feel like getting out just yet. Instead, they started cursing and yelling at me. I yelled back, telling them to just get the fuck out and so on, and finally they said, "You're a CUNT!"

I said, "That may be so, but it's the most cunt you'll ever have in your life. Now GET OUT."

They jumped out and slammed the doors as hard as they could so that the whole car shook.

But apparently the drunk fuck with the cigarette didn't get enough of me because he ran up to my window and started yelling some more. Which was good, because I was able to shoot a few pictures of him.

I finally left and circled around, looking for a different fare. They were still standing there when I came back around and I had to resist the urge to run them over. Farther up the block, I got hailed by two Indian guys going to Queens. I dropped one off in Long Island City and, after he got out, the remaining guy said, "Would it be okay if I smoked a cigarette?"

I almost said yes, just to spite those stupid drunk guys but, realizing the pointlessness of that, I said, "I'm sorry, you can't. But I appreciate you at least asking."

An announcement

So. Some exciting news, though for some reason I seem to be having trouble figuring out a way to announce it.

Basically, I went ahead and got myself a book deal! And a real live, not-imaginary book deal, at that. It's with Villard, an imprint of Random House, and I'm still not even sure how to contain my disbelief and excitement over this.

Here's what happened: After the AP story came out in January, I got approached by a few literary agents and started seriously considering whether or not I wanted to write a book. To be honest, I wasn't sure. After meeting with some people and stressing myself out about it, I decided to go ahead with it. I chose an agent and began writing. That was two months ago, and I haven't been able to stop ever since.

When I felt I had enough pages to show, I put together a book proposal which was sent out to publishers last week. Villard offered me a deal and I gladly accepted it.

Needless to say, I'm fucking thrilled.

I want to thank you all for reading and responding so positively to this blog. Many of your comments and emails are what gave me the confidence to actually go ahead with this. Who ever thought I'd go from cab driver to "blogger" to soon-to-be-published author in just a year and a half? I still can't quite believe it myself.

Anyway, I plan to continue driving the cab and doing the blog, so if you keep reading, I'll keep writing.

Spring

Spring has officially begun in New York. All the blossoms are out and daylight savings took effect. I, of course, completely forgot about the time change and showed up at the garage an hour later than I intended. Luckily, I still managed to get a cab by 4:30 pm. The day was warm and I pulled out with my windows down for the first time in months.

And with the nice weather came the people and the cars. The traffic report kept telling me that the Holland Tunnel had an hour delay from all approaches. This meant that every street near there was utter hell and, as has been my luck lately, every person who flagged me needed to go in that direction. At one point I happened to pull next to another cabbie from my garage while we were stuck on Broadway for about 10 minutes. His passenger had given up and gotten out mid-block, and I said, "Now you get to sit in this by yourself." He replied with a smile, "That's what we do. We sit and we suffer."



With this weather also comes the OTB guys lingering outside between races. They're fun to look at while stuck at nearby red lights.

Justice

Tonight was one of those rare nights when everyone seemed to want my cab. I haven't had a good shift like this in a while. And I needed it. Somehow, even during the slow patches when all the other cabs were empty, I got jobs, and decent ones at that.

Early in the evening I had a passenger to JFK, and I waited in the taxi hold lot (pictured above) for just under an hour, which, for JFK, isn't bad. I've been so screwed at the airport lately, I half expected to have to sit there for at least two hours. I got a sandwich, used the bathroom, and read a book while waiting.

When I got to the terminal, I got a guy going to 87th and Broadway. At the end of the $45 trip, he didn't tip. Not one single penny. This pissed me off, but only for a little while, because I got my rhythm back right away and had generous, friendly, non-aggravating passengers for the rest of the night. They more than made up for this guy's tiplessness.



Even on my way to the airport, when something bad happened, a good thing turned up to balance it right out. The guy pictured above was driving one of those Air Link vans and he tried to cut me off sharply so he could jump to the head of the long line in the left turn lane going onto South Conduit off Cross Bay Blvd. He just sort of came over into me and I had to swerve left, nearly hitting the median. Then he stopped and began cursing me out. When he saw me taking pictures, he pulled out his shitty camera phone and we engaged in a ridiculous little photo war.

My passenger, who was on her way to Las Vegas, asked me what I do with these pictures. I said, "I put them on the internet. It's the only form of revenge available to me." The guy finally pulled away and cut off the car at the very front of the line to make the turn. We talked about what an asshole he was and I said, "Yeah, the only thing that really sucks is, if he complains about me to the TLC, I'll probably have to pay a fine, even though he was the one who was wrong. And if I complain about him to Air Link, most likely nothing will happen." She agreed that that did indeed suck.

When we got to her terminal, she gave me a nice tip and her business card and said, "Take this and call me if he complains about you. I'll gladly be your witness. That guy was wrong, and I believe in justice."

I sincerely hope this woman wins big in Vegas.

More cable television

It was a weird night. I waited almost three hours at the garage for my cab to come in, and when I finally got out, it seemed like there were fires breaking out all over the city. Around 6:00, 3rd Ave was closed at 26th St with fire trucks and cop cars taking up the entire avenue. It stayed that way for the next few hours, but the radio didn't have anything to say about what was going on, so I don't know the story. Then an hour later, the fire trucks descended on Lafayette and Astor Place. I had a passenger, so I didn't stick around to see what happened.

Meanwhile, last night there was a fire in the building across the street from mine. When I told a few of my passengers about all this, some of them had recent fire stories of their own. One said that she entered the subway this morning and it was filled with smoke, but the train came anyway and she got on. Another said her office building caught fire yesterday. Is it fire season or something? What the hell?

Anyway, around 8:00 I picked up the guy pictured above. He was going to a hotel on the east side and I didn't pay much attention to him until I heard him talking on the phone. His voice sounded oddly familiar so I turned to look at him when we were stopped at a red light. I recognized his face from somewhere but couldn't pin it down just yet. I said, "I hope you don't think this is weird, but you look really familiar." He answered, "Well, I'm an actor, it could be because of that."

Right when he said that, I realized he was the guy who played Brenda's boyfriend for a while on the HBO series "Six Feet Under." His name is Justin Theroux. When I got home and looked him up online, I realized I also recognized him from David Lynch's Mulholland Dr., in which he played a movie director.

I felt a little weird, calling him out like that, but he didn't seem to mind. I apologized for it and said, "You probably get people saying stuff like that all the time." He said, "Yeah, sometimes. I imagine you get the same thing in a different way, with people always commenting on the fact that you're a female cab driver."

I was kind of surprised that he realized this. Most people just get in and think they're the first person in the whole entire world to observe that I'm a female cab driver. What they don't know is that I hear some version of "Oh, a woman!" or "You're my first female cab driver!" or "What's it like to be a female cab driver?" somewhere between 20 and 30 times a night.

I try to be gracious about it, but it gets grating after a while. Usually around number 15 is when I start to lose it and say snarky obnoxious things like, "I really don't know what it's like to be a female cab driver as I have nothing to compare it to, you know, because I've never been a man." One time an elderly man, in response to this, said wryly, "Oh, you haven't? Are you sure? Well, there's still time."

I did not ask Justin Theroux what it was like to be a male actor, but I did almost forget to collect the fare from him. Almost. He paid, tipped decently, and got out. I drove away and spent the rest of the relatively slow night trying to avoid the fires.

Italian food

Speaking of The Sopranos, I had a guy in my cab the other night who grew up in the town of Verona, New Jersey, which is apparently the town the show is based on. He was a guitar-player-turned-money-manager and I picked him up from the Allman Brothers concert at Beacon Theater. He told me that growing up Irish in a predominantly Italian neighborhood was no small feat. In fact, most of his friends and neighbors suggested he change his name by taking the "O" from the front and putting it on the back, going from O'Corman to Cormano, to make him sound more Italian.

He also told me a story about how his best friend's old Italian grandfather stole their next-door-neighbor's pet rabbit from the backyard, skinned it, cooked it, and ate it. Was that customary in Italy in the old days? I doubt we'll ever see any meals of cooked pet rabbit on The Sopranos, though it'd certainly be more fun than watching the characters eat all that boring old pasta.

Feng Shui

It's sort of sad how a "television event," such as tonight's Sopranos season premiere, can cause New Yorkers to spend an unseasonably warm Sunday evening at home in front of the tv instead of going outside and actually, you know, doing something. This explains why the city was a total dead zone after 8:00 pm tonight. The only people out were the cabbies, the cops, and the garbage men, as well as a few random stragglers and tourists.

The Hustler Club (shown above) certainly had good reason to be closed, and there was a strange absence of shady characters outside the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I guess everyone, including the regular strip-club patrons, the loiterers, and the homeless, managed to find their way to a cable-equipped television tonight.



Notable events of the night: Not many actually. I got stuck for 20 minutes on Mott Street (seen above) and renewed my utter and complete hatred of New Jersey and its "drivers." They are usually the ones to blame for my traffic woes, especially this evening, with Holland Tunnel traffic on Canal overflowing on all possible side streets. If I were king, I would close the tunnels completely and say good riddance.

When I finally got out of this mess, I picked up a Feng Shui instructor who was visiting from San Francisco. Feng Shui is the Chinese art of placement, which means that where you put stuff in your house is important and helps with your "flow," or something like that.

We started talking and I said, "I read somewhere that if you put money in the northeast corner of every room in your house, it's supposed to increase your money flow. Is that true?" He replied, "Actually, it would be the southeast corner, since the sun rises in the southeast and has the most energy and pull in the morning. And you should really only do it in a room where you pay the bills or take care of business. You can also use stuff other than money, basically anything that signifies abundance in your life."

I responded by saying, "Well, in my apartment, that would be cat hair." Then he said something that I didn't really catch but sounded like something to the effect of, "Yeah, that would [something inaudible] your pussy." I was a little taken off guard and just paused for a second before saying, "Um, what?" But I guess he didn't feel like clarifying because he just said, "I have a dog."

Murder

It seemed like everyone was driving like a stroke victim tonight. Either they were on the phone and swerving all over the place, like the asshole above, or they were drunk. Depending on my mood, it can really make me crazy getting caught behind all these fuckfaces who don't know how to drive, and I sometimes find myself wishing I had something other than a camera to shoot them with.

Speaking of murder, this girl got into my cab tonight and was like, "Oh wow, a female driver. I'm so relieved. I stopped taking cabs since that cabbie murdered that girl by the Belt Parkway." She was, of course, talking about Imette St. Guillen, and referring to the week-old headlines that suggested a livery cab driver was behind the slaying.

I half-jokingly said, "Oh, I doubt it was a cabbie. It's all just part of the campaign of hatred against us." She asked me what I meant, and I elaborated, saying, "It just seems like every time something bad happens to someone, a cab driver is always somehow implicated. I once read an article about a guy who lost his leg after getting hit by a regular car and the author suggested the car lost control because a cab must have been speeding nearby, even though there was no evidence to that effect. It was ridiculous." And it's true, every time I read the paper, cabs are mentioned in what seems like every other article, no matter how remotely they might be connected to the story, and they're usually referred to in a negative light.

I reconsidered this woman's fear, which I originally thought irrational, as I was walking home after my shift just a little while ago. The streets were relatively deserted when, a block from my building, a silver livery cab pulled over right next to me. Two men were in the front and the passenger rolled down his window and said, "Taxi? Taxi?"

What the fuck? Did these guys actually think I was gonna get in the car with them? I was just walking on the sidewalk, clearly not looking for a cab. Would they have approached me all unsolicited like that if I was a guy? It made me so mad that, after a 12 hour shift, I suddenly had to worry for my safety a block from my house. They were still rolling alongside me, so I summoned all my anger and yelled, "Do I look like I want a fucking taxi?" They peeled out down the avenue and I continued home.

Maybe the killer was a cab driver after all.

So a gay cowboy gets in my cab...

This is Elliott and Allen, two of my friends from the garage. They're standing in front of a retired roof ad for a band I never heard of but I thought it was funny -- and kind of stupid -- that they're called "Train" and their album is called "Cab."


On one of the lockers behind them is this old sticker advertising the defunct NYC Taxi Drivers Union. Believe it or not, taxi drivers once had a union that sort of protected them, sort of not, according to the old-timers. Apparently the union lost what little power it had and faded away after the taxi leasing system was put into effect. The quote above the image of the hands says, "It's nice to be nice." Perhaps the union would've survived if their slogan told drivers it pays to be nice.

As for my shift tonight, it wasn't great. In fact, it was pretty fucking slow. Early on I picked up a middle-aged guy from Penn Station who unloaded a whole story about how he just broke up with his boyfriend of 15 years. When I asked why, he told me that the boyfriend had begun doing a shitload of crystal meth, staying up all night having sex on the internet, and just generally acting like an asshole. I asked, "How'd he get into doing crystal?" He explained simply by saying, "We have a house in Fire Island." That explains everything. (For those who don't know, Fire Island is a predominantly gay beachfront party town on Long Island where lots of guys go to get away from the city, relax, have sex, do drugs, and/or engage in other forms of debauchery.)

Once the big awards show was over, a very drunk gay cowboy flagged me down. I'm not kidding. He was wearing a cowboy hat, a fringed suede jacket, and cowboy boots. He was so wasted, probably from trying to drink away the pain of losing to "Crash," that he could barely tell me where to go. I said, "Where to?" He responded, "Down the street." I might've enjoyed having a gay cowboy in my cab, or even this city boy dressed as a gay cowboy for Oscar night, but it's just no fun when people can't tell me where to go. "Okay, which street? Do you know the address?" He was having trouble speaking, but finally managed to slur out an intersection that made sense.

When we pulled up, he said, "Where's the gay place?" When I told him I had no idea what he was talking about, he replied emphatically, "The gay place. There's a gay bar around here somewhere." I looked around but only saw some shitty bar & grill type place that definitely looked straight, so I just said, "I don't know, but good luck finding it." It was a bit rude of me, but there was no way I was gonna get stuck driving around looking for a bar with someone that drunk. He spilled out of the cab mumbling some unintelligible jumble of words and I just drove away. The incoherent drunks are always annoying, but I guess if there had to be a theme to my night, I'd rather have it be "Brokeback Mountain" than "Crash."

Free Tan

This guy had a sign on his hat that read "Free Tan." I'm wondering if he was offering a tan for free, or if he was protesting to win a person named Tan's freedom. Either way, weird hat.

Tonight I picked up a woman who is a business manager for gay porn film companies. When I asked, "How'd you get into that?" she replied, "Just lucky, I guess." Then she added, "I mean, I got into it the same way any 63-year-old straight woman gets into this business -- by chance."

We started discussing how watching porn all day could really kill a person's sex drive, and at one point she said, "It doesn't really bother me at all. I just woke up one morning and realized I wasn't interested in sex anymore. It was a great feeling, actually. Of course, my husband wasn't too happy with it." I asked her how he dealt with it and she said, "Every now and then I'll give him a token blowjob to keep him satisfied. But other than that, he's got two hands. He can take care of himself. Besides, he's 65 years old! How much sex does he really need anyway?!"

Cab Olympics

It was a long, disjointed night. I got into a screaming match with the cabbie pictured here. What sucks about writing this is that I spend so much time trying to defend cab drivers, but I have to admit, there are quite a few who drive like fucking animals. This guy in particular pulled a really fucked up move that forced me into oncoming traffic. We were both making the left turn from 11th Ave onto 23rd St. There are two turn lanes, so two cars can turn at the same time as long as they stay in the lane they were turning from.

I was in the left lane, this guy was in the right. But as he made the turn, he cut over into the left lane on 23rd, where I was heading, thus making me swerve onto the other side of the street. Luckily there were no cars coming and I was able to fall back in time. He must've seen this happen, because when I pulled up next to him after he finally moved back into the right lane, he rolled his window down and started yelling at me. Of course, he believed very strongly that he did absolutely nothing wrong and that I was an asshole for trying to turn next to him, even though that's what the traffic markers called for.

I was so pissed off, I started yelling back, and we drove side by side for a minute just screaming like maniacs at each other. He was saying, "You have a problem? What's wrong with you?" He was just so innocent. I replied, "I wouldn't have a problem if you learned how to fucking drive." He gave me the typical "Suck my dick." And I gave him my standard answer to that request, which is, "I would if you had one, but since you don't, you can suck mine!" My intention was to imply that his penis is so small that even a girl, who has no penis, still has a bigger dick than him. I couldn't tell if he was confused or offended, but right after that he turned down 9th Ave while I got hailed and picked up my next passenger. Either way, I considered it a victory.

As the night wore on, the club business increased. I picked up a guy on 7th Ave and W. 4th St going to the gay leather bar The Eagle on 28th between 10th and 11th (which is, incidentally, just down the block from Scores West). When we started talking, I found out he works for Virgin Airlines and is the guy who listens to your phone calls when you hear the message that says, "This call will be recorded for quality purposes." I am thrilled to know that someone really does listen to our phone calls when we talk to these companies. I did not reveal to him that our conversation was being recorded for blog purposes.


I had to take a bathroom break at one point, so I went to one of the places cabbies frequent for such purposes on 8th Ave between 55th and 56th Sts. This sign is posted there so that cab drivers can park without difficulty. Actually, the sign designates the block as a "Taxi Stand," which means we need to be in or near our cabs awaiting passengers. This is slightly different from the signs that say "Taxi Relief Stand," which means we can park there and leave the cab to eat and pee and do whatever else needs to be done. Both of these types of sign are posted in various locations all over the city. However, regardless of what the signs say, private non-cab cars always seem to be parked on these blocks.

When I pulled up to this one, there was one cab parked there and about eight or nine regular cars taking up the entire block. I really needed to pee, though, so I just double-parked and ran inside. There was no way I could afford to drive around looking for a legal spot. I wasn't gonna make it. And it just sucks because, even though these blocks are supposed to be reserved for cabbies, the cars that park there never get ticketed. On the other hand, if a cop came along at that moment, there is a high likelihood that I would've received a ticket for double-parking next to them. Why doesn't the NYPD enforce taxi stand parking, but then ticket the hell out of cabbies for parking illegally when we need to use the bathroom? I wonder if the cabbies who drive like animals would be nicer on the streets if they didn't always have to pee so bad.


Earlier in the evening, I watched a kid unsuccessfully attempting to throw a pair of sneakers over the lamp post in front of this 7-11 store. The funny part of this is it was on York Avenue. (For those who don't know, that means it's a nice part of town). So of course an old man came up and yelled at him to stop.

Also early in the shift, one of my passengers had a great idea. I picked up a group of four on 5th Ave and 55th St going downtown. We were catching every green light until we got snagged in a small snarl of traffic and had to stop at the red at 35th. The guy sitting in front with me said, "We had a good run there for a while." I said back, "Yeah. But, actually, I'm a block off schedule. I can usually catch all greens until at least 34th St." To which he replied, "Cab driving should be an Olympic sport." If it was, I'd like to think I would qualify for at least a silver medal.