TAXICAB ALMANAC OF NYC

Imagine yourself behind the wheel of a stellar yellow streak, 65 or so hours a week. Playing musical chairs with 14,000 others looking for fares. Circumnavigating a 300 square mile pin ball machine with swift agility, but without compromising comfort, safety, and humility. Encapsulating passengers to engage and uplift towards a paradigm shift. Anthropological fieldwork on cruise control. Full human potential on autopilot.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Spark of Actor Within


This past weekend I had a few special guests in my taxicab. An indie film crew shot the first part of a 10 episode series about a girl who just emigrated from Spain to New York. Besides driving while incessantly and aloofly (in full audial range) on my phone, I play the 30 second on-camera role of an ill-mannered hack who took a long route from JFK to her newly adopted home in Bushwick. It's ironic, considering how hard I try to always be accommodating to my passengers and uplift the depressed reputation of taxis in this city. But unfortunately it is realistic. As I see cabbies do several times a day, my character refuses to help unload the trunk, after failing to answer her inquiries as to whether we were in Brooklyn or not. Pictured below from left to right are the director, the videographer, me, the actor, and the editor.


My initial connection to the film shoot was through Edu, the Andorran editor who resides in Barcelona. I met him and his Brazilian partner 2 years ago when they came to shoot a documentary about the Freegan movement in NYC. Our mutual friend and outspoken artist, Raquel Sacristan, introduced us. They interviewed me in a taxicab about my lifestyle and we stopped for curb scores in SoHo. The film never fully developed for lack of funding. But Edu has renewed his promise to send me copies of both the older segment and this new one, as soon as he returns to Spain. Everyone on the set, except for me and the trendy young American director, flew in from the Iberian Penninsula.

I was paid $100 for 3 hours, a good deal for me, considering it took place during the slower part of the shift. I met them in Williamsburg at 9 am. With the director up front and the cameraman and actress in the back, we got on the BQE to the LIE and looped back over the Kosciuszko Bridge via Maurice Avenue. The first scene was her reaction to Midtown's magestic skyline through the window. The next scene was cruising down Washington Avenue in Clinton Hill, to give her the lovely (but false) impression she was moving into a beautiful brownstone neighborhood. As we turned down Myrtle Avenue, the landscape progressively deteriorated until we arrived at her destination, by the JMZ train. Then the camera focused on me collecting the overpriced fare without clear explanation or remorse as to why it was so expensive. Next, I was filmed as I stepped out "angrily" to close the trunk, after she walked off having intentionally left it open. Below is a shot of the film crew editing the final scene, using furniture on a sidewalk display as their office (after receiving permission from the vendor.) The elephant woman with the big yellow underwear makes for a nice backdrop.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

News Flash From South America

COLOMBIAN MOTORCYCLE TAXI DRIVERS
VS. VENEZUELAN BORDER GUARDS


Thursday, November 5, 2009

IMPACTS AND TAXI CATS




This past Sunday I drove the night shift. Around midnight I discovered these two cabs (above) on the corner of Broadway and E 9th. They seem to have been chasing after a potential fare on the curb and ended up on the sidewalk with the building's scaffolding all over them. Sunday nights can get downright ghost town. Especially after Halloween took all the limelight on Friday and Saturday nights. If you hail a taxi during hours in which there is a surplus of vacant cabs and a lack of passengers to transport, always be ready to run for your life if they decide to play chicken over you. Unfortunate, but true.

And ironically, that same night I was taking my friend Wald home, down Queens Blvd., through Sunnyside, and I got dangerously cut off by a minivan cab making a left from the middle lane, directly in front of me. I was on the left lane going straight and he was more interested in his ear piece than his mirrors. Lucky for me my reflexes are nearly immaculate and so I swerved gently and braked swiftly. I proceeded to complete the left turn he had forced me into and then got out to go give him a lecture.

He was completely oblivious to the wreck he had almost caused and even went on to use some obscure, unintelligible explanation about why I was at fault and not him. My friend Wald is my witness. I was driving the speed limit and minding my own lane when this guy made an abrupt 90 degree angle with his vehicle out of the blue. That happened around 1 AM.



The above pictures are of crashed cabs parked at my garage on McGuinness Blvd. and I have no clue what their stories are. And the cat up there is the taxi garage lot cat that meows day and night. I really hope it doesn't perish in the freezing cold this winter.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

TOKENISMS AND TRAVAILS


This past Monday at 11:30 I showed up at the Taxi and Limo Commission in Queens. I went through the security checkpoint on the 1st floor, past the wide-eyed newbie applicants on the 2nd floor, and right into a thick crowd of weary-eyed veteran cabbies awaiting their court hearings on the 3rd floor. Half a dozen taxi attorneys shuffled about, each with their personal gaggle of hacks following behind them. We all stood and sat in the hallway for 3 or 4 hours longer than expected (scheduled.) Paks. Afghans. Colombians. Nigerians. Egyptians. Tibetans. Kazakhs. Hindus. Sikhs. You name it. And all of them American because that is a prerequisite for this job.

At about 3 PM I was called into a little room to sit before an enormous desk. Across from me sat the judge with his nose deep inside the thick TLC law book, flipping pages endlessly as if it was his first day there (though it was far from it.) He dismissed my case based on the erroneous dates and points on the summons. That's right folks! I'm still a licensed taxicab operator in the City of New York. It was the miracle I needed for this upcoming holiday season (the most prosperous time of the year for taxi drivers). I plan to save for upcoming world travels in the spring and summer of 2010.


Sonny, my Bangladeshi dispatcher back at the depot, had urgently referred me to attorney Rizwan Raja, an organizer for the NY Taxi Workers Alliance. Both Sonny and Rizwan have proven to be absolute angels in my quest for justice and dignity. I feel privileged to have been represented by a genuinely kindhearted lawyer AND to find myself in the good hands of NYC's best taxi dispatcher each time I go lease a cab. Sonny might give a first impression of being crude and churlish, but he demonstrates true concern for his hacks on a daily basis.

"Rizwan Raja or vakil saab (as he is now called) is the legal eagle of the Taxi Alliance. After driving for ten years, Rizwan decided to take on the TLC more directly. He now is the NYTWA’s representative at TLC courts in Queens and Manhattan. If you want to make him drop his serious vakil saab persona ask him about his daughter Nayab!" -TAKEN FROM THE NYTWA BIO PAGE

THIS IS RAJA ON PBS BACK WHEN HE DROVE A CAB:
http://www.pbs.org/wnet/taxidreams/meet/meet_raja.html
IN FACT, THE ENTIRE SITE IS AN AWESOME LOOK INTO OUR LIVES

Raja explained to me how hard it is to fall asleep every night knowing that the sustenance of cabdrivers with families to feed is on the line. The ever harder push to accelerate the yellow cabdriver turnover rate in NYC is driven by the Mayor's Office. It's no secret that the recent (massive) wave of suspensions and revocations is not a sincere attempt to rid the streets of danger, but rather a two-fold scheme to increase city revenue, and to keep solidarity among hacks to a minimum.

That brings us to a very current topic among New Yorkers: the mayoral candidates. It's obvious that Michael Bloomberg has little to no room in his heart for this city's hacks. His indifference to our plights translates into an utter lack of respect for our profession, embodied by officers of the NYPD. It comes as no surprise that his 3rd term has the unprecedented endorsement of all 5 local police unions. This is the first time in NYC history that all of the police unions have supported the same candidate.

For a long time I, too, was enamored by Bloomberg's straightforward, WYSIWYG way of speaking, and his efforts to make our streets more livable for pedestrians and bicyclists. That's right, a taxicab-driving bicycle advocate! Ever thought you'd meet one? I live on a beautiful planet and though I technically burn fossil fuels for a living, I'm anxious to see the human race revere and appreciate her.


I was willing to look past Bloomberg's billion dollar fortune and judge only his character, but he's inevitably slipped into my myriad list of bullocks politicians. Yellow cabs do not fall into the same category as civilian motor vehicles in Manhattan. Taxis need the same slack and consideration given to buses and delivery trucks, but neither Bloomberg nor his opponent, Thompson, seem to have much compassion for the yellow brother/sisterhood.
Again I'm torn, unable to firmly put my support behind any candidate. What a disappointment.

I'm still collecting testimonials from passengers, in the event I get mailed a new summons with correct dates, which is completely possible at any time. Here's the latest one I've been blessed with:

"It was great riding with you on Saturday. Not only were you courteous and informative but your driving was delightful. My return trip with a different driver cost me almost twice as much and was jerky and uncomfortable. So it reminded me just how special of a trip I had with you in your cab. Thank you for a terrific experience." -Mardy Pilot

AND I LEAVE YOU WITH A MESSAGE FROM THE TAXI WORKERS ALLIANCE:
To win the fight against millionaire garages/brokers, NYTWA needs your help. Send in your
$100 membership dues today and make the union stronger. In return, get great benefits– lawyers for all tickets, free representation in cases against garages/brokers, free $5,000 term life insurance & more.


Thursday, October 22, 2009

THREE TYPES OF QUESTIONS


OFTEN ASKED BY OFF-DUTY HACKS: GOING MY WAY?
Crossing town on W57 at 4:30 PM. Doors locked, back seat empty. Must have the cab back at the base in northernmost Brooklyn by 5 PM, for the night shift switch. Can't help but empathize with folks stranded on the roadside, trying to get home after a long workday. I decelerate past each hailing figure, just enough to yell “where to?”, out the window. If their response is above 72nd or below 42nd, my answer's an apologetic, yet assertive and very audible, "Sorry, eastbound to Queens".

Approaching Eight Avenue there was a man in a suit going to 63rd and Broadway. Slightly out of the way, but very doable! Right after that fare, a woman at Columbus Circle requested 58th and Lexington. Precisely on my path to the bridge! That's $7 and $9. An extra $16 towards gas and two very happy campers who saved a fortune of time on their reverse commute. Negotiating does work, and not just for the hack. There is no need for the city to find itself paralyzed between 4 and 5 each afternoon. There is, however, a need for all parties involved to be flexible and compassionate, including the TLC in the rare event someone accuses us of refusal.


OFTEN ASKED BY THE PASSENGERS: Upon dropping that previously mentioned suit man off near Lincoln Center, he asked me how he'd get down to Ludlow and Rivington around 5 PM, if catching a cab was too hard? "Just jump on the downtown B or D train, at Columbus Circle, and transfer to the F at Times Square. Exit at 2nd Avenue and walk east/south". My advice was free and enthusiastically given, with the help of the miniature subway inset on my laminated street map. And I had done him the favor of taking him the 8 blocks out of my way, off-duty light lit, and Queens-bound. He returned it by tipping over 20%. What a symbiosis!

Another question, asked earlier in the shift, was by a pregnant lady headed home, which happened to be across the street from Roosevelt Hospital on W59. She was headed home from work (Park Av and 56th). Soon as we pulled away from the curb I had to ask intently whether she was OK with taking 57th, but she was intent on using Central Park South, which we got stuck in for a quarter hour, along with all the horse carriages and tour buses. She admitted we should have taken my route. Westbound on 57th is piece of cake in the afternoon, as opposed to the mornings. People get bad taxi experiences eternally stuck in their head and fail to realize that not only does every part of the day have differing traffic patterns, but also not all hacks are inept.

She became very trusting and talkative half way through the ride, and asked me what she should tell the cabdriver who would be destined to take her when she goes into labor. Ironically, even though she lives across the street from the hospital where John Lennon was rushed, the plan is nonetheless to give birth at NYPH, on the other side of town. Her question was, "should I simply just tell the taxi driver to take me to New York Presbyterian Hospital?"

Absolutely not! There's a reason why the reputation of cabdrivers has fallen through every possible crack in this city. You must say 68th and York Avenue. Otherwise, you might confuse the hell out of them. I've heard you can even do that by merely asking for the Empire State Building or the Staten Island Ferry.


QUESTIONS OFTEN ASKED BY EITHER OR:
Could you take a picture of us sitting in the back, once we pull into the airport? This time I happened to be the one suggesting it, and I was forthright with my motive of sharing it on my blog. This lovely couple visiting from Atlanta and I had an uncommonly refreshing, mutually uplifting conversation all the way out there, about a wide range of things: their lifelong love of New York from afar, their intense solidarity with taxi drivers (especially NY Yellow) and other working class people, their right to bear arms, my right to arm bears, and so many others issues.

Another question that could be asked, and in fact was asked by both hack and passenger earlier in the shift is, "what the hell kind of cow looks like that ?" (referring to the middle photograph above) I guess you'd have to call that number. Neither of us could explain why the lump on the left was bigger than the one on the right. Can you?

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

A GOOD LINK THOUGH NOT TAXI


My partner pointed out a fascinating website to me. It's not necessarily hack-related, but it's a look into the human soul of NYC. I'm enamored by these people's deep connection to their (our) city. Haven't found any cabdrivers on it thus far. Would not that be grand? She said I ought to be featured on it. That would be neat.
http://www.revelinnewyork.com/

Monday, October 19, 2009

MORE TESTIMONIALS: extension of the last post

To Whom It May Concern

I am writing to let you know that Gil Avineri picked my husband, myself and our baby up last week to go to LaGuardia Airport.

He was so helpful in getting us settled in the car with the baby and carseat, helped us with our luggage, and was extremely courteous. He was the best taxi driver I think I ever had in NYC and I have lived here all of my life. He was a careful driver, had pleasant conversation and was very interesting.
Most of all, it was raining and he drove very carefully and made me feel very safe, which is often NOT the case in a taxi.
I would recommend him for whatever you need.
Thank you.

Sincerely,
Risa Morley-Medina

___________________________________________________________________

To whom it may concern:

I entered Gil Avineri’s taxi yesterday afternoon (10/14/09) for a ride from 37th Street & Fifth Avenue down to Bond Street. He drove safely, and properly, and got me there in perfect fashion. He was also quite polite, and professional. I wish all cab driver’s were like that.
Sincerely,
Adam Wolfson

Wolfson Insurance Brokerage, Inc.
9 East 37th Street (4th Floor)
New York, NY 10016
__________________________________________________________________

Dear Sir,
I had a very enjoyable cab ride this morning. Gil is very professional and might be the best cab driver I have ever had.

Matthew Somers 917 364 2344

__________________________________________________________________

Gil,
It was a pleasure riding in your Taxi this morning. Even though the weather conditions were poor, I was able to comfortably read my blackberry because of your measured and steady driving.
Thanks

Mike
__________________________________________________________________

To whom it may concern:

Just wanted to say what a pleasant cab ride I had today with Mr. Gil
Avineri. He picked me up in Brooklyn and took me to La Guardia
airport. Not only did he drive safely and courteously, but he even
pointed out different NY spots of interest along the way. He was very
polite as well. If I could call ahead for a specific cab driver I'd
call for Gil!
Liz Harris
__________________________________________________________________

great driver, very friendly and knowledgeable of the area!
Tamecia Williams
__________________________________________________________________

Gil,
I am endlessly impressed by the amounts of professionalism and pride you take in your work. Your courtesy, eagerness, and precision are unparalleled, even compared to cabbies who have been at it for decades. Your predilection towards geography and cartography are what propel you from a great cabbie into a SuperCabbie. Your knowledge of places and the efficient routes between them should be a shining example for all cabdrivers. I hope NYC never loses you to London, where skillful drivers are the rule, and are respectfully appreciated.
-Jenine Bressner

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

SMALL, BUT CRITICAL REQUEST!

TO THOSE WHO'VE BEEN PASSENGERS OF MY TAXICAB:
To my absolute dismay, I have a court date at TLC on the 26th of this month. It involves having accrued over 6 points on my DMV license during a 15 month period. But they're counting back from what was my last violation date: January 08. I'm being punished for minor infractions, 80% of which occurred during my first year on the taxi force: 2006/07.

I've never been a dangerous, nor careless driver. I simply had the naivety to think I could bend certain rules, safely, while fulfilling my duty as an efficient/effective form of transportation when subways, buses, and private cars don't quite cut it. It was an assumption born of the same slack granted to other professional drivers who serve the city: garbage and delivery trucks, busdrivers, etc.. But it turns out we're not in the same league, not as essential to the public? Instead we're easy prey for cheap shots aimed at increasing city revenue.

So I'm asking anyone who has riden in my cab to send a brief testimonial of your experience to my email address: mapsut@gmail.com. Include as much contact info as you can (for credibility), state your profession/role in society, and try to mention things you noticed about the ride and/or driver (me) that were uncommon (beyond the call of duty). There is usually at least one, if not several, every fare. Do I sound full of myself? I'm only being honest because trying my best to provide excellent service is ingrained in me. I will collect all the testimonials into a print out to show the judge. Please help me save my taxi license from being revoked. I sincerely and adamantly believe that the citizens and guests of New York do not deserve to lose one of their best cabbies.

I always treat each and every fare as if it were ME in the backseat. I go above and beyond in my fulfillment of the taxicab riders bill of rights. I never fail to use hazard lights in advance of a pick-up or drop-off. I pull over as close to the curb as possible. I always choose one side of the avenue to comb for fares and never tear across lanes. I gently attempt to interact with everyone, especially tourists, to give them a good impression of our city, and because I care deeply about our reputation as cabdrivers. I always jump out to help load and unload trunk cargo, and hold the car door for elders and handicaps.

I carry a list of daily street closures and keep tuned to the radio traffic reports in order to avoid getting my fares stuck in jams. I know every street below Houston and in the village maze. I have on-the-spot directions (natural born mental GPS) to all the city's landmarks and knowledge of most neighborhoods in Brooklyn and Queens. I carry street maps of Bergen, Nassau, and Westchester counties. This profession is to me more than just a job. It's a labor of love, honor, and service to humanity and to the greatest city on Earth.

An analysis of the points under scrutiny, you might ask? An undercover cop caught me coming to an 'almost' complete stop in Harlem at 5:00 am, upon scouting cautiously 360 degrees. Then I got another 'disobeyed traffic device' for using the bus lane to go around a double parked delivery truck in SoHo. Then I got a 'passed red light' for being the last one in a caravan of turning vehicles on the tail end of a green left turn arrow. I'm sorry but that is not what you'd call 'running a red'.

And to complete my assessment of the points being scrutinized, yet another 'disobeyed traffic device' for making a left turn unto Crescent Street shortly after 7 am, in an attempt to please passengers who were real late to a business meeting in Manhattan from a delayed flight arrival at La Guardia. The traffic on Astoria Blvd. was severely backed up and this move would have saved us a good quarter hour, but instead it might end up costing me my taxi license. Where is the fairness?

Thus far I have received two testimonials, out of the two dozen passengers who enthusiastically agreed to send one in since I started asking at the end of each immaculate fare since this past weekend. Please don't forget about me. This city is running the risk of losing every last one of its few remaining quality cabbies, due to either unfair summonses or simply just feeling the lack of worthwhile compensation and appreciation. Do you want to have to give the driver directions every time you get into a cab? Or not be able to speak with them because of their insolence?

HERE ARE SOME TESTIMONIALS THUS FAR:

"to whom it may concern:
on 10/12/09 i rode with Mr Gil Avineri, and had a very pleasant experience. i found him to be polite, helpful, and a courteous driver. at no point did he speed, make me feel unsafe by weaving or aggressive driving, nor take any unnecessary routes.

thank you." -Heather Millstone

Heathers
506 E. 13th St.
New York, NY 10009
212-254-0979
www.heathersbar.com
www.twitter.com/heathersbar

"Hi Gil. Thanks again for today’s great taxi ride. I use NYC Taxis approx 25 times per month and you’re in the top 5 cabbies! Keep up the great work." -Mark J. Liebman

"My buddies had just moved to Brooklyn. We took a cab up to Manhattan to go check out the city. Gil was our cabbie that night. He safely and swiftly gave us a history lesson and quick tour during our journey. He was by far one of the most knowledgeable, safe, and friendly cab drivers I have encountered. I'm from Chicago, and if this is a testament to all New York cabbies, I would seriously considered moving to New York. Just lower the rent."
Dennis Episcopo
Chicago Public School Teacher

"Gil, I just wanted to thank you for a pleasant taxi ride today. Good luck." -Stephen Pineault

ALSO MY PARTNER MADE A VERY GOOD POINT THE OTHER DAY. ONE THAT I'VE SUSPECTED ALL ALONG: "I think a lot of cases like these are coming to court because the city needs the revenue generated by kicking drivers out of the system. This way more people can become drivers (and pay to do so, especially with work options so sparse.) The revoked drivers who wait and re-enter the system also have to pay for their licenses anew." -Jenine Bressner

AND MY FRIEND & FELLOW BLOGGER/CABDRIVER HAD THIS TO SAY:

"It's like a twisted sick video game. I really do believe that they don't know the harm they are doing. positioning themselves in predictable locations and giving predictable tickets. the real criminals will continue to get away with scams and recklessness" -Noah F.

Friday, October 9, 2009

WHAT'S RIGHT OR WRONG

I'll testify that many of these pedicab peddlers are outright jerks and very full of themselves. However, I have a respect for all cyclists, whether on bicycles or tricycles, since I believe that as utilizers of the most efficient and downright incredible invention on the planet, they have as much a right to be on the road, if not more so, as do motorists. If a pedicab in front of me is pedaling slower than I wish to drive, it is my duty to safely/swiftly shift lanes and move on. The incessant honking and cursing the minivan cabbie did in the first place is intolerable. Not to mention everything else both parties engaged in for the remainder of the clip. Speaking of respect for cyclists, do you ever look in your mirror before making a turn when it involves crossing a bike lane, to see who's there and give them the right of way, since it's harder for them to slow down and speed up?



I DON'T BLAME THIS GUY.
We really do freak people out. But it's not just us. It's the whole city of New York. Daunting. Rabid. Impugning. Browbeating. Bedraggled. Obstreperous. The city that I have always loved with all my being. And the profession that takes it all in. God bless all 40,000 of us.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

AUTUMN HAS BEGUN















My sister just granted me a 7.5 x 10" Moleskin journal that's just the perfect size and binding to inspire the unforeseen, color coded, accidental route maps of every 12 hour taxi shift, which was my intention all along. For 6 months I forced myself to remain loyal to one of those ubiquitous Mead composition books until its very end, disregarding how detrimental the obnoxious lines were to my cartographic gumption. It was an attempt to curb a compulsion to start over on blank new journals, which dates back to teenagehood as a newborn collage journalist. Ironically, the 200th (last) page synchronized itself with the start of a new season.

Now I hope to proliferate this untapped form of artistic taxi cartophilia, definitely scanning it into the blog, and perhaps even blowing it up to fill gallery walls some day. If nothing comes of it, at least I can say I tried. For now I'll leave you with a few shots from around the garage I lease out of, and the neighborhood(s) it's nestled in. These pictures are in fact yet another branch of my 'taxi art' initiative, even though photography relating to taxicabs is nothing new to the world of books and blogs.

Also, I know I've been slacking on my posts. It was not my intention to fall off the face of the planet. Although I did leave town for a month, I still have plenty of worthwhile taxi material from before that, and now I'm back on the cadmium yellow beat. I just need some time to consolidate my words. Also, I'd like to start creating 'taxi poetry', since most of what I have to share are multiple, incongruent bits and pieces of fleeting moments that are hard to put into whole paragraphs and solid story lines. Ten minute slices from dozens of people's life pies. Street scenes flown past and witnessed, but not fully understood. Unique traffic quirks that only last seconds, but are not forgotten because they resemble fiberglass acrobatics or lane melting pneumatics. These things can only be gathered into poem-like bodies of script. Good morning to Greenpoint and its adjoining hoods.



Friday, August 7, 2009

SCIENTIFIC ARTICLE ON THE CABBIE BRAIN

NAVIGATION-RELATED STRUCTURAL CHANGE IN THE HIPPOCAMPI OF TAXI DRIVERS

WATCH ALL THE WAY THROUGH. WOW!

Monday, August 3, 2009

MY FIRST EVER 20 SECONDS OF AIR TIME

I tripped on a few of my words, but I still had a chance to be a voice in the massively variegated, yet little known world of taxi drivers.... though there are probably very few other cabbies who feel the same way about cabsharing as me. I appear about halfway through the clip, starting at 1:20. In response to the reporter's question, I simply try to say that all New Yorkers and visiting guests of every socioeconomic status should feel like they have financial access to taxicabs as often as the wealthy elite seem to.

If someone higher up on the ladder would relinquish some of the fortune they make off of the NYC taxi industry, perhaps drivers could make an income more in line with their grueling efforts, and other hardworking people wouldn't have to limit their taxi rides to the days they're late for work. But none on top would sacrifice for the greater good, so at least maybe a plan like this might help. And it would benefit the environment.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

GUMPTION IS ESSENTIAL

NICE RUN: A CONSECUTIVE STREAM OF WORTHWHILE FARES
Mind you this developed during the otherwise slow mid morning downtime hours....

I fished two foreigners from the art galleries district at 10:15 am and ferried them to the Upper West by 10:30 ($16). Ten minutes later I had crossed over to the Upper East and caught yet a bigger fish. She'd just left dental surgery and mumbled a need to go to downtown Brooklyn. Clear and steady down the FDR and over the oldest bridge got us there by 11:00 ($25). The destination immediately became a point of origin when a lost couple approached the cab in search of Atlantic Yards Mall.

Upon dropping, a right turn on Atlantic Avenue yielded more fruit: a business lady who couldn't wait on the bus anymore ($10 for those two little fares). Within five minutes of that short trip into Cobble Hill I was positioned in the right place at the right time for a fare from the Heights to Kips Bay. She was a classic character of a Gothamite, although not memorable, aside from $20 made in 20 minutes.

Around the corner from that drop I came across an older lady with more humility and inner peace than all of that week's passengers combined. And like an angelic godsend, she had me stop on the very corner of 23rd and 9th where a younger girl and her suitcase awaited a yellow cadmium airlift to La Guardia. $37 in 35 minutes (gracious tip for graceful service).

Sitting outside Terminal B for the following 90 minutes might have seemed like the end of this "nice run", but the magic wasn't over yet. After a nice lunch break among the idle yellow rows of the central holding lot, a kindhearted couple from Toronto had me transport them to Gansevoort Hotel ($40 for friendliness and funicular finesse). The moment we pulled up, a doorman offered me a fare right back to La Guardia again. He wouldn't take my tip, but instead shook my hand and said, "you're the nicest cabdriver this taxi stand has seen today".

A rather pushy dude from southern California stumbled out of the lobby and made me guarantee him a $30 maximum. I said sure. It had been his first ever visit to NYC and the occassion was his 40th birthday. By 4 pm we were at the airport and he dished out $37 for the $30.10 on the meter. Must have been an enjoyable ride. With that it was time to return the cab and call it a day.

Long story short I grossed $200 in under 6 hours, which isn't incredible, but generally satisfactory considering I started that shift at 6:30 am, paid the garage $105 for licensed vehicle usage, and $25 at the gas pump. I had the overhead covered by the time this "nice run" began, so the math calculated out to around $15 an hour this time around. Not bad with the economy and all.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

MORE OPPORTUNITIES

Dear Gil:
"I'm a reporter with RNN TV- an indie station which broadcasts throughout the Northeast. I'm doing a story about the future of NYC taxis and I'd like to interview you for our story. We're taking a look at the new technologies -- the TVs, cab-sharing pilot programs and multi-meter technology -- and I'd like your opinion. Will these "upgrades" affect drivers for the better/worse? What 'taxi charm' is lost with the TVs? Etc. Etc. We'd like to interview you in your taxi. When are you available for an interview? We can come to you -- in fact we'll be in NYC on Wednesday morning."
Thanks,
Elizabeth Wolff
Reporter, RNN-TV
Westchester, New York

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

OPPORTUNITIES

I GOT THIS EMAIL THAT REALLY GOT ME EXCITED, BUT I MIGHT NOT BE IN TOWN WHEN THEY COME TO FILM IT.... CALLING ALL COLORFUL CABBIES....

"Hello, I work as a researcher for a famous Dutch TV program. In the light of the 400th anniversary of the landing of Henry Hudson, our program will come to New York to report from the city to fill three shows. I saw your blog on the internet, that is why I write you this email.

We are interested in New York taxi drivers, because they fulfil an important role in the streetscape of the city, and definitely know a lot about New York. That's the reason why I am looking for remarkable taxi drivers. Taxi drivers that are colourfull and funny, and would like it to tell about their lives en their city New York in front of our camera. Are you such a taxi driver or do you know such taxi drivers? Can you tell me a bit more about yourself?

I hope to hear from you soon, thank you very much in advance for your response! You can reach me by email, or phone me. Because I have a Dutch phone number, you can also send me your phone number by email and then I will call you on a moment that is convenient for you."

Kind regards, Antoinette Kraal NCRV - Man Bijt Hond

T: 0031- 35 671 96 E: Antoinette.Kraal@ncrv.nl


Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Inbound Q Boro

video

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

FROM THE PERIPHERAL BRAIN

In my three years of taxi driving, I've taken only one somewhat famous individual in my cab. Actor Patrick Carroll was headed home from nightclubbing early one morning, in the months after his film had come out. He was genuinely affable and even offered me a handful of the Edamame snacks he was chewing on. To me he had been just another random street hail and I happened to be the nearest stray yellow bullet the moment he'd flung his hand in the air. However, I had been in a talkatively grandiloquent mood that shift and so I think this made him feel inclined to ask if I recognized who he was. I had no idea, nor had I heard of him, or much about the movie(s) he was in.

I've also taken the endearingly cordial parents of Tim Long, comedy writer and executive producer of The Simpsons, from La Guardia to their hotel in Midtown. They were in from Canada for a few days to see their favorite Broadway shows. I can totally see where his sense of humor comes from.

And I've had the honor of taking Judge Ralph Fine, of Wisconsin's Court of Appeals, to the airport. Jenine was my front seat co pilot that morning and together we embellished him with fresh inspiration not to lose conviction in what little, yet profound impacts each of us can have on humanity.

This morning I witnessed a cop in a three wheeled golf cart pull up alongside a yellow cab and scold the driver through the window, with his self-righteously incriminating finger pointed high in the air. I noticed the taxi had a brake light out and then I immediately noticed that the Interceptor had one of his out too. When the cop took off I pulled up and sure enough that was the hypocritical beef he had with my fellow yellow. You see I don't have a problem with the police unless I see their egos go out of control. Sadly, this is the case most of the time. Another common example is when they ask you a rhetorical question and then demand the answer, knowing one does not exist, and belittling you for not having it. I always see scenarios like this while sitting through traffic lights.

I took an Italian tourist couple to the Metropolitan last week and they asked me if my name (they had been staring at my hack license on the partition) was Italian. I could not believe it. I mean people have always assumed this when they heard my last name [Avineri], but I never expected Italians proper (who live in Italy) to ponder that. It's a Hebrew name and it means "my father is my candle (light)".

There were 4 Floridian women. 3 generations of them. It was 1 family trip to New York that they've dreamed about and promised to do together for so many years. Here they were, finally, on a Manhattan street corner, and oblivious to the fact that trying to catch a cab at 4:30 pm is not a simple task. Like most of my 14,000 colleagues, I was off duty, on First, and bound for Queens. These women looked so disoriented that I did not have the heart to not stop and see if I could fit in one last fare. They only wanted to go a few blocks over to the H&M by Rockefeller, but they had no clue as to how close or far it was. The whole ride I charmed them with my nonchalant, nothing new under the sun brand of New Yorkerness. A dismissing commentary for every little ant hill of activity and traffic quirk around us. The meter read $5.30 and I was told to keep the crisp 20 I was handed and to "tell your parents they did a good job". Speaking of hailing a cab when it's not so easy, here's one blogger's unique account.

RECENT FARES THAT WERE BRIEF BUT LEFT AN IMPRESSION:
1. Captain of a tugboat on the Los Angeles harbor and NYC tourist for the weekend.

2. Man with a twisted leg. He was making deliveries on a nimble scooter last year when a bus door opened right into his path. Now he has to take cabs for the smallest errands. Currently undergoing a string of surgeries.

3. Two Hindi ladies wrapped in saris kept requesting me to slow down more and more until we were literally going 5 mph. In between they'd just go on yapping away aristocratically. Then they requested the A/C, on this 80 degree day in May, from a driver who spent nearly a decade in the sweltering summers of southeastern TX. At the end they tipped 80 cents. And mind you I did everything they told me with politeness and care.

4. One very nice Algerian was aboard the cab for 15 minutes. We spoke about traveling across northern Africa and he said it's totally doable with an American passport, as long as I acquire visas. Problem is I doubt Israel would let me in if I had stamps from those countries. But I would absolutely love to walk the ancient streets of Tunis, Tripoli, and Alexandria.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Non Sequitors Of A Heckling Hack


Passengers ask if I'd prefer a hybrid or Vic. The answer is always honest, raw, and unexpected. I'd rather drive a Corolla, or any of the compact models that they use in developing nations, with a roof rack to handle airport cargo. I like a simple, economic and highly maneuverable vehicle that isn't brand spanking new and ostentatious in appearance. They get by just fine with Rios and Rondos in the 3rd world. SPEAKING OF FOREIGN TAXIS AND THEIR AWESOMENESS: YOU MUST READ THIS BRIEF ARTICLE ABOUT THE CABS OF BOGOTA.


In this culture we have one day each year in which we're encouraged to take our children to work with us. There's even a TAKE-YOUR-DOG-TO-WORK day. But what about dad? Mom never comes, no matter how many times I invite her. Dad's come to work with me before, but we've neglected that since the last time he was unemployed (about two years ago), which was during the time he moved to NYC from Florida. But his Brooklyn contractor laid him off this month.

He's been an electrician for almost 3 decades, in 4 states, and 2 countries. He's the best one there is. But he was too much of a newbie in New York to stay afloat amidst this breaking wave of an economy. It looks as though he might end up back in TX, where we lived during most of the 90s.


The lady on this roof cone advertisement says, "college is expensive". And her eyes seem to have lost their soul. I think it's trying to show that just because she has to work as an exotic dancer to make ends meet does not mean that she is a bimbo. And the soulless eyes seem to represent how degrading it can be for women to have to be dependent on rich sleazeballs with penises for a living.


An executive made his bellman close my back door, walk around to the street side, and open that door.... all because of this small rip in the seat cushion. It might look daunting from your perspective because I zoomed in, but it's really not much of anything if you were to see it in real life. But that executive thought it might ruin his suit by cutting into it if it got caught. Come on now. Gimme a break.

Don't forget to read my little rant about how local restaurants insult the impoverished people of other countries on my personal observations blog: BEDOUINI. And here is a link to that article on how cabdrivers feel about TAXI TV, in which I'm repeatedly quoted. Oh, and one more thing. I just discovered a new taxi blog and this one is a keeper. It's out of Boston, very well written, and enticing to read.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

taxicab videoclip proliferation


Waiting in line at the Kennedy airport taxi hold is fascinating, but until now I have been unable to show people what I mean. This clip would have been more interesting had the lot been more full of cabs, cabdrivers, and had I captured more of the conversations occurring in multiple languages inside the cafeteria. Perhaps I was trying too hard to be covert. At least I didn't have to wait more than an hour to catch a fare back to the city that day.


Sunrise over the East River. When my partner Jenine comes along for a taxi ride in the front seat, she acts as the social lubricant that provokes my passengers to tip the living daylights out of me. On top of that, it's exciting to hear her recall the parts of the city that she is familiar with from past experiences. Her discernment and familiarity covers such an unfathomable range of categories. The privilege of spending time with her simply humbles me.


There were lofty ideas for this video, but they were postponed prematurely when I became overly self-conscious. I wanted to get the message across that not only am I one to safeguard the passenger's bill of rights, but that I adamantly believe there ought to be a cabdriver's bill of rights as well.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

this cabbie wears fleece





These pictures were taken by Sunny Shokrae, a professional photographer who came on board the cab to gather material on behalf of Danielle Friedman, a journalism student at Columbia who has been interviewing cabdrivers (including me) for a story about how we feel about TAXI TV. Obviously, we are not OK with the same obnoxious blurbs being repeated each time a new passenger gets in. In case you didn't already know, the person in the 2nd picture is Jenine Bressner (mi enamorada). She was riding along with me that day.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

diurnal tachycardia

Hybrid taxicabs have crept up and infiltrated the iconic streams of Crown Vic for many months now. Though I remain the steer of an old school icon, I've become increasingly ashamed of not making the effort to find a garage that would lease me a hybrid. That was until now.

I just read something quite disturbing in the taxi newsletter. It turns out that just as compact fluorescent bulbs defeat their own energy efficient purpose when you repeatedly turn them on and off, hybrid vehicles emit more CO2 than conventional ones when used in the extreme stop and go conditions found in places like New York (nothing compares). I'm not sure this information is entirely accurate. It might be a ploy on behalf of traditionalists. I myself am what you'd call a flexible tenacity slicker. Therefore, although I adhere to my perspectives with passion, I'm simultaneously on guard for and urgently open to epiphanies, whether internal or imported, that could flip those views upside down, right on their ass.

Both scenarios involve the irony of the apparatus requiring more juice to start up and less to keep going. I've always had a splinter in my cortex about burning fossil fuels for a living. But every time I've expressed these concerns to eco-sensible peers, I've received the same comforting response. A city full of taxicabs is several times more sustainable than a city full of private vehicles. And on top of that, I do an unquestionably good job at it. By that I mean a stellar combination of....
-acutely galvanic maneuverings
-geographical acclimatization
-a voraciously assertive attitude
-blunt honesty about traffic patterns, ETAs, and fare estimations
-an overly accommodating approachability
(especially towards guests of our city)
-utmost respect for bicyclists and busdrivers
(minimal amounts for anyone else)
-the ability to navigate organically through swarms of pedestrians without costing anyone behind you the light (letting three cross the walk and then squeezing by before the next three)

All of these and a whole lot more are essential to a genuinely adequate NYC cabdriver. More than people want to give it credit for. We're not white collars. Nor are we blue. We're cadmium yellow light. Prepare for supersonic flight and the respite of an elevated kite.

I keep a pouch in the cab that contains both the free NYC condoms that I pass out to passengers and the Emergen-C packets that I occasionally pour into my jug of H2O. Sometimes I'll find myself accidentally having reached for the wrong one when my eyes must remain glued on the road. You can't pour a condom into your water. It won't boost your immune system. Speaking of that, I often bring a couple cloves of garlic on board to chew on, and its odor befuddles some of my fares.

I love it when the early parts of a shift line up perfectly like a row of Tetris cubes. Last Friday I hit the streets at 04:00. Off the Q Boro, I followed Lex to 23rd. Three dozen blocks on the tail end of a bar night and no fare? Time to get ill. One vacant cab split to the right. Another sped straight through. Up for grabs was the left. That Third Avenue light and I always synchronize with each other. Round the bend to the right stand two men hailing. Off to South Slope in the BK we go, all clubbed out and talkative. Less than a block away from where we said our goodbyes, in jumps un Mexicano con mariachi, meritoriously loud in his ears. "Roosevelt and Junction (Corona) please." That's not one, but two fares of $30 or more in under an hour. Eminence!

Fatigue overcame me early this morning while fare fishing in Carnegie Hill. I pulled over and laid my head down for 45 minutes, while remaining in the driver seat. During that time I had a dream about some lady with a dog on a leash that was looking for a taxi. She'd seen my vacant cab first, but then made a face and tried to run over to another cab. Each time the cab would become occupied before she could reach it. So she'd turn back reluctantly towards me. She repeated this cycle what seemed like a dozen times, until all of a sudden someone jolted me back into consciousness by knocking clamorously on my window. Standing there outside my hovercraft was a statuesque executive with a uniquely deep voice, asking if I was available. As we pulled away from that nourishing curb, I noticed how fresh the nap had made me. But I could use a taxi dream interpreter.

Actually, something somewhat similar to that dream occurred within a couple hours of that nap. An older Japanese couple from Rhode Island opened my back door and began to step inside, only to suddenly step repugnantly back out. It had been raining and this couple was profusely reiterating that the seat was wet, while escaping over to the taxi behind me. While that driver was refusing to take them for having an outer borough destination, I was wiping off the back seat (merely moist) with my stash of stray napkins. They noticed my effort and came bouncing back again. I smilingly let them know that they could have simply brought the 'wetness' calmly to my attention and waited 5 seconds for me to address the problem. No need to run off and try to catch another cab. After all, they were merely going on leisurely visit to their daughter's condo in Brooklyn. It turned out to be a real enjoyable ride for them and I alike, full of fascinating conversational points. They asked why I hadn't become a limo chauffeur, like the guy who drove them in from the Ocean State. Thought bubble: "Because then I would have been too busy kissing your delicate buttocks to have any time for an intriguing, down-to-earth chat like this."

On a shorter note, one of Ben Harper's tour managers jumped in my cab on Avenue C and begged me to rush him up to his Upper West Side hotel. I must say, that was one of the most delightful fares I've had in a while. We talked about growing up on the southwestern quadrant of the Los Angelino sprawl. I lived in the part of that vicinity known as Lomita from ages 4 to 11, and it really helped shape who I am today. He was born, raised, and still lives a few neighborhoods over, in what is known as Inglewood. He mentioned growing up on the same block as Pharcyde and watching them go from inconspicuous jam sessions to stardom in a matter of months. Our conversation immediately led to a thorough mutual listing of the Jazziest horn samplings from Hip Hop's golden age, of which we are both very fond.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

polar opposite of a kick in the balls

HERE'S A CAPRICIOUS APPETIZER OF BULLETINS FROM THE CAB.... FOLLOWED BY A DESSERT OF TAXI FLASHBACKS FROM THE FIRST FEW DAYS OF BECOMING A HACK: DON'T FORGET TO SCROLL DOWN FOR THAT.
  • De la Ciudad de Panama: a random hairstylist on vacation.
  • A proud 3rd year resident surgeon at Mt. Sinai. Too full of himself. Almost lost his cool when I crossed the park at 86th instead of his usual 96th. But it was 5am on a Sunday morning. Perhaps a bit too robotically wired as well.
  • I like to play geographical trivia with my passengers and I always break the ice by asking them to give me just the first letter of the place they're from. Nine times out of 10 I can guess it. But this time I had a 'tricky' Greek guy in the cab. Since his accent all but gave that away, I asked him to give me the 1st letter of where in Greece he's from. He said 'K', which threw me off completely because in English they don't spell Crete with a K. Oh well. Win some, lose some.
  • My windshield smashed into an airborne pigeon for the first time. These slovenly beautiful creatures tend to glide low and stroll about near wheels, but always manage to slip out of the way, no matter how impossible it seems. But not this time. Headed west on W57th, full throttle with a near replica of my little sister, who was running late to manage a booth at Pier 94. She witnessed it and tried to calm me down because my karma nosedived when I saw those fluffy gray feathers fly out like a fatal pillow fight. It felt like a hit-and-run. I came back after I dropped her off and felt relieved not to find any birds or their guts lying on the roadside. But who know what may have happened. I was prepared to take the pigeon to the nearest vet clinic.
  • Two southern ladies got in and began what sounded like a lively conversation. As we soared downtown and the minutes went by, their interactions were sounding less and less coherent. All of a sudden I realized that they had each gotten on their cell phone at the same time and had not been chatting with each other at all. But their intervals of speech had been right on the ball.
  • Another instance of unintentionally odd passengers was the tipsy Latino I took out to Flushing. We spoke in solid English the entire ride and I hadn't revealed my Castilian fluency, not through accent, appearance, or otherwise. He blabbered the whole time, but used not a single word in Spanish. And at the end, all of a sudden, he burped and said, "izquierda" (left).
  • Captain Sully, who landed an airplane in the Hudson River, has warned the airline industry that if they keep making pay cuts, they'll see their most skilled and experienced pilots end up leaving, in search of more worthwhile endeavors. It's funny to me how similar this predicament is to that of the truly talented, knowledgeable, and downright caring cabdrivers, slowly making their exit out of the taxi industry, due to mounting animosities set forth by the NYPD, the TLC, the DOT, the GPS/credit card people, TAXI TV, the greedy garages, city hall, and anyone else involved in making our lives impossible, simply because they've decided to either put a negative label on all of us or just take advantage of our helplessness.

SO I FORGOT THESE NEXT FEW POSTS EVEN EXISTED. I FOUND THEM IN THE OLD BACKLOGS OF MY LIVE JOURNAL ACCOUNT. I HAD MOVED TO NEW YORK FROM FLORIDA IN THE SPRING OF 2006. IN THE 6 MONTHS LEADING UP TO THE BEGINNING OF MY LIFE AS A CABDRIVER, WITH THE HELP OF TWO SHORT-LIVED OCCUPATIONS, I HAD LEARNED NOT ONLY MY WAY AROUND, BUT HOW TO MANAGE IN THE UNIQUE CHAOS OF NYC TRAFFIC:
#1. Bike messengering for champion courier in Manhattan.
#2 Box truck driving for Hercules Movers, Inc. all over the tri-state area.


Early October 2006:
I was lucky to have Abel Zamora, a doddering Chilean, as my taxi school teacher. Since 1972 he's been driving cabs in NYC and his aura glowed 10 times brighter than any professor I ever had in college. 30 classmates representing 15 nationalities, all shy at first, but loudly debating advantageous routes to common destinations by the end of our 1 week crash course. A wide range of thick accents pervading the room, of mostly south central Asian, East European, and west African origin. Teacher would quiz us questions on the geography of New York City. I'd let 5 erroneous answers get yelled out before giving him the correct one. During breaks many students would come over with their road atlases and request my help getting oriented with the landmarks and traffic patterns. Stories of my bicycle messaging days would surface and so would giggles. I think this made them more considerate of 2 wheelers, having been shown that bicyclists are human beings and even cabbies too sometimes. No women attended the class, but that doesn't mean I haven't seen women cabdrivers on the street, cause I have.


Our curriculum consisted of bridges, tunnels, one ways, squares, parks, avenue endings, rules regarding customers fornicating in the back seat and service animals for disabled patrons, major thoroughfares of each borough, random changes in street names and numbers, appropriate metered fare calculations, transversals connecting the UWS with the UES, rare access ramps to highways, fire hydrant exceptionalities, determining cross sections using unique formulas of NYC address algebra, parallel and perpendicular intersections, compass directionalities, and more.

I passed taxi test with a 92. It's been 2 almost weeks now, so we're talking 48 hours or so remaining before that taxi license snails into the mail. Between the money orders, licensing, drug testing, the class, the exam, being unemployed since I got back from Florida, and sending mother a bulk of chinese herbal pills she requested, I managed to go completely broke. So I returned to that moving company again and did the furniture hauling one more time for a handful of days. That job is so much easier in the cold weather than it was in the summer. Nothing but a t-shirt on at the end of October in suburban NJ. But I'm looking forward to dropping the boxes and picking up the steering wheel.

October 25, 2006: Taxi school is over and the final exam too. These last two hurdles now behind me, but yet another bureaucratic delay: the actual Taxi license takes 10 days to get mailed. Similar to a month ago when I had to wait for DMV to mail me a NY State driver license.

The moment my 'hackie' card arrives, I will rent out my 1st every yellow cab for a 12 hour shift. From then until mid December I won't stop hustling these streets on four wheels, except to sleep. I know some of you think I'm just adding to the loud, gasoline-obsessed, bicycle-hating madness of our developed world, but it's been a dream of mine since 1st grade. In 2 months I'll walk away from this hyper-stimulating metropolis with a few thousand dollars that will sustain my worldly travels for an unspecified amount of time off, beginning with Latin America and Europe. But before I hit the int'l road, I'll stop in Florida again, to recharge inner batteries among family and friends

November 19, 2006: The taxi license landed in my hands three days ago. I had to go pick it up, cause it was mailed back to the commission since no one had been home to sign on it when it arrived. Out of the handful of yellow cab garage facilities, I picked one closest to the cluster of apartments where I couch surf, which, by the way, all happen to be in the same vicinity..... Brooklyn's northern neighborhoods of B'wack, Bed-Stuy, and W'amsburg.

J&I Maintenance, a fleet of both newer and older cabs, hired me with an agreement to work 5 days a week: Sun to Thurs. 12 hour shifts, from 4am to 4pm. Renting out the cab for a discounted $85 per shift. Cab hits the streets with a full tank of gas and I must return it that way. Aside from that, I keep every dollar the meter charges, plus tips. An income of pure cash, no check cashing hassles.

Yesterday was my first day. Up until dawn things were slow. No one out on the streets to pick up. But between 8 and 2, the minute a passenger would exit the cab, a new one would step inside for a ride. It totaled out to 19 fares, each one with its own unique destination, and fluctuating levels of occupancy, talkativeness, formality, impetuosity, and generosity. New Yorkers in a serious hurry, entering my cab like winds of a hurricane, uttering nothing to me but the cross streets, and occasional lane change requests, like the backseat drivers that they are. On their cellulars the entire duration of the ride, asserting demands from who knows who, via numerous brief calls. Tourists chatting amongst each other in their native tongue, inquiring me about all the peculiar sitings outside the window, with destinations like Rockefeller Center, Penn Station, Sheraton Hotel, and Cooper Square. All of them hailing me down from the edge of the sidewalk with their right hand in their air.

Even got to take an investor to Wall Street, an old lady and her grand-daughter to the end of Sheepshead Bay, these two Japanese businessmen from Terminal 1 at JFK airport to Midtown, and plenty of other special people with special destinations. It's nice having Sabbaths off for sure. And I'm serious about going anywhere in New York and its surroundings to pick up a friend or friend of a friend and delivering them wherever it may be. 1.800-825-1713 (NO LONGER VALID). I love this job more than any other one I've ever had. It's even better than figure modeling for drawing students in art classrooms, or being Jim Baker's right hand as we clean out his Secret Garden. God only knows how hard those are to beat.

The insane occupation of guiding a checkered yellow missile through the electromagnetic streets of this atomic city is more mind blowing than I had ever imagined. At the end of the twelve hour shift a sadness sets in that is comparable to an action-packed video game addiction. Eyes all swollen from being fixated upon a turbulent screen, butt cheeks numb from sitting, and bladder bruised from holding urine for too many hours, due to lack of legal pit stop spots throughout Manhattan.

December 2, 2006: Being a YELLOW TAXI CAB driver in NEW YORK equals a happiness I haven't felt since I was a playground child. It erases conventional limitations and elicits meaning from its erratic surroundings like no other. The city breathes, wrestles, and implodes upon itself with each passing minute. Cabbies are perpetually engaged in its effervescence. Our immaculate sense of distance, space, and the intuition to know what split second decisions might be made by pedestrians and bicyclists. The way we shift lanes, left to right and back, accelerating and breaking with a 40mph range from one second to the next. Coming within inches of buses, trucks, and each other. Yet no collisions whatsoever. Zilch!

Like a cockroach whose nervous system allows it to dodge your every swat with no thought processing, or sperm racing eggbound as seen through a microscope. A four lane avenue might suddenly become a single lane, and it doesn't stop the blood cells from flowing right past the clot. Driving in the city yields such sensory stimulation overload, forcing me to pull over at any open gap to jot down thoughts and ideas. That's when a customer might walk up, open the door, step in, and say 3rd and 50th please, before returning to their cellular conversation. I often make the mistake of assuming that they're still talking to me. I respond wholeheartedly, only to find myself 'embarrassed' for interrupting their call. Especially when they say, "good morning, how are you?"... but not to me.

This trade might very well be the one with the most tricks. There's slick solutions to every complication. Some that I can't even express out loud. The main cause for jams and gridlock in NYC are motorists from out of town who attempt to cross an intersection even though it's obvious that they won't clear the box, hence blocking everyone with a newly green light. That's when 100 horns go off, each with its own exclusive pitch, creating an orchestra of numbness. Combating this involves jolting forward, cautiously yet assertively, the moment the light switches to yellow on them.

Inconsiderate passengers take advantage of their backseat heating controls and leave it blasting after they've exited. I'm prefer windows rolled down while the cab is empty, since I'm wearing layers of warmth. I'm forced to park and squeeze my head through the narrow partition slit to turn the damn thing off.

Some fascinating passengers have included a woman with multiple sclerosis on her lunch break, trying to get a dozen errands done via taxi. Or the wealthy family on their way to dad's panoramic office view in Midtown on Thanksgiving morning for the big Macy's parade. We stop at a bakery so he can grab them breakfast and there's this poor man stumbling down the sidewalk, crying. So I motion him over. Says his apartment in the Bronx caught fire yesterday and his entire family's homeless. The kids in my cab are stunned, but their mommy casually says,"oh that's so sad" in a sarcastic tone. I jump out, hug, and hand him a Jefferson. He stresses he's not a begger and refuses it. Does wealth have the power to make people insensitive to human pain?

Then there's the fancy young trench coat woman on route to the Upper EastSide. She requests,"90th & Park, far right corner" with outstanding insolence. I knew she was trouble from the get go. At the destination there are 3 cars standing right where she wants off, so I float ahead to the nearest vacancy. "Oh, MY GOD, I'm practically at 91st Street at this point", she exclaims with disgust. She can't stand to walk 30 extra feet. I almost dragon-fired her right out of my cab. The lack of worldly perspective on some of these people. Outrageous!

So many more passenger stories, good and bad ones, I'll have to tell you face to face some day. Let me just leave you with this last quick bit... every black passenger is so relieved to see a cab stop for them with such effort, like from the opposite side of a busy street, the way I have. Makes you wonder what they go through to catch one. Actually, I was late to the work one morning, so I caught a cab to the taxi garage. On route the cabbie shared all his suggestions with me on how to do things. On was to pretend I don't see blacks when they hail me, and ignore white hailers on the same block, so no one'll play the race card.

I've calculated my daily earnings and they're averaging out to around $15 an hour. The other day I waited in the taxi lot at La Guardia Airport. Next to the ocean of yellow cars I saw a snack stand with the same basic things as inside the terminals, but for a small fraction of the price. This be a hint hint for anyone hungry at an airport from now on. While waiting to move forward in line, some cabbies were feeding pigeons. Others were gathered on their prayer rugs, bowing before Allah. A scene of foreign serenity amidst this domestic flight hub.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Aquamarine Street Litter Basket

MTA buses shift lanes like barbaric, self-entitled whales, and in my book they have the right to, since they have the least selfish purpose of having the most fuel efficient carpools. Meanwhile, taxicabs swerve around them like frantic schools of yellow fish. It's a truly dynamic sea of nimble ambulation on the streets of this city, when you take everything and everyone into account. My adopted homeland of elated madness.

Since I get to take out a different cab each day, and every cab has its own unique set of idiosyncrasies, I'd like to start a brief new series of listing and comparing these quirks.....

#6N14: Driver side door does not open from the outside, even when unlocked. And the front passenger side window doesn't close unless helped manually.

#3H60: The floor cover in the back is busted and its bulky, cumbersome edges are pointed hazardously up at the uncomfortable legs of my passengers, if they didn't already trip over it upon entering. Not a single soul passes through my cab without making annoying remarks about how I should get that fixed. As if it were my car. As if the mechanics at my garage are willing to spend any time on such an 'insignificant' matter. They'd say,"does the car run? Then hit the road jack. We've got some truly sick taxis up in here. You don't wanna trade. We ain't got no time."

I don't mean to disrespect Simon Garber, the founder and president of my garage. Everyone says he such a nice guy. Him and his family emigrated from Russia to Jersey when he was 12. At 17, he started driving a taxi in Manhattan to pay for college. The following year, recognizing potential in the industry, he borrowed money and purchased two medallions. He soon added more medallions and funded growth by establishing a financing arm to offer insurance and loans to drivers. Now with almost 400 taxicabs on the street he is also one of NYC’s largest independent cab company operators. Not to mention his other fleet, the fastest growing taxi garage in Chicago.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Idle Hands and Sestural Glips



Spoonerisms are often used in the titles these postings are given.
Were you able to catch the one above? Or perhaps your cup of tea is more of a vexillological one. In that case, what would the flag above represent? I'll give you a hint. It's not a country. Although it may as well be its own city-state.

So anyhow, things are getting a bit craggy at the garage. It seems all 700 drivers want to work 7 shifts a week. Those who were driving all along are now putting in more hours to offset newly unemployed relatives sitting at home. And then there are those who've had their valid hack license stored away in a drawer, just in case, while relying on a steady day job that ended up falling through. So now they're adding to the long waiting lists at the garage. And the dispatchers are taking advantage of the situation by catering to those drivers who make a habit of tipping them better than anyone else. Leasing a taxicab has become something of an auction, and furthermore, a casino where you put down a hefty sum, in hopes of earning it back on the streets of a landscape that has gone from luscious economic greenery and endless nocturnal revelry, to block after urban block of sand dune. More cabs on duty, later and later into the night, circling the same deserted sidewalks like an obsessive needle locked into a groove on a broken record. These days I'm taking whatever the garage can give me. Day shift. Night shift. Double shift. No shift. Carpe diem.

Last week I got lucky one evening when, after teleporting someone from Midtown to Sunnyside, I happened to be approaching that fork in the road where Queens Blvd splits into Thomson at precisely the right moment. An elder was being escorted on foot from La Guardia College. His helper waved animatedly at me while the #7 made hellish noise, not to mention short circuit sparks seemingly dripping down like lava above our heads. Together we eased a flustered gramps into the backseat and I was reminded of how touching it is to clench a senior's cold, anhydrous hands. Made me nostalgic for the part time companionship I was hired to provide to two wheelchair bound nursing home residents during college. Off to Morningside Heights we went and it turns out he's a retired art history professor who was giving a lecture. And from the same corner where he got out, a college student entered the cab, needing to be at a Pilates class in Union Square, in 8 minutes. God bless the Henry Hudson Parkway. For months she had been oblivious to the statue of Mohandas Gandhi that was directly across from her building, and I was euphoric to have the honor of revealing it. It's my favorite statue.

Jenine was down from Providence over Valentine's weekend and did a few hours of front seat co piloting, during which we took her friend Liz Harris, who's now a famous musician, to the airport, after having come in from Portland for a live performance at the New Museum. That shift Jenine had to witness several instances of me swelling up in dramatic conniptions over unfair activities being carried out by the NYPD against fellow yellows all around us. They're really stepping it up on behalf of city revenue. Just ask this 31 year veteran cabbie who also happens to be one of the best taxi bloggers on Earth. His story is one of hundreds and his account infuriates me. Especially if the cop was a rookie in his early 20s. It's like a teenage Israeli soldier humiliating a Palestinian who is old enough to be their aging parent. The other guy who really pushed my button was a passenger who kept mumbling under his breath about how much he hates cabdrivers (and everyone else who is obsequious to him), for no apparent reason. I sure as hell didn't give him one. Jenine had to tranquilize me with a peaceful pep talk.

This Presidents Day had the smoothest traffic flow of any day I've ever worked (minus Xmas), while yielding the most continuous stream of fares of any holiday I've ever hacked on. The sidewalks were akin to bee hives and ant hills cause the weather had warmed up, yet not a single ounce of vehicular congestion could be found. The reverse gear wasn't responding on this particular cab, so I had to pre plan all of my movements to take that into consideration. No stealthily slothful U turns on 14th, 23rd, 42nd, or 57th. I don't understand slick young men who say they'll pay for my ticket if I get pulled over for breaking a turning law on their behalf. Why would they then leave less than a 10% tip when successfully arriving at their destination on time, thanks to the risky short cut. Something's missing from that equation. In the physical notebook I keep on board the cab is an uninterrupted list of every final red glow display on the taximeter, coupled with another row for the actual total given (including tip). So in theory I could add a 3rd row to show the percentages of gratuity, and even devise statistical charts of generosity levels.

OTHER PASSENGER HIGHLIGHTS OF MID FEBRUARY 2009:
1. Minneapolis parents and their post graduate New York daughter jump in at Gramercy Park and hesitantly inquire about making three stops. Why in the world would I have an issue with stopping at the thrift store to unload three large bags of clothing donations, dropping her off at work (NY Times), and then continuing on to David Letterman's show with the free ticket wielding parents? Sounds like a fabulous fare to me. Some of these cabbies have really devalued the riding public's expectations. She was so surprised at my enthusiasm and her parents were like (in a thick Midwestern swing), "see honey, they're not so bad." $14.60 was the bill and one crisp, solid Andrew Jackson their reward.

2. The sweetest old lady ever leans down and collects a few chunks of rubbish left on the floor by previous passengers and says, "I'll throw this away for you honey." Meanwhile, her door person stands there and holds it open.
In a 180 degree upper torso twist I blurt out,"I really appreciate it".
"I know you do", she smiles warmly with sustained eye contact.
No one ever does that for a cabdriver. Especially not on the Upper East side.

3. If it hadn't been for a graciously informative guy from Seattle that I picked up at the international toy fair earlier in the afternoon, I would have made nearly 100 dollars less that shift. On our way to his hotel he let me in on the inside scoop: where would many of the 1000 toy manufacturers, distributors, importers and sales agents from over 2 dozen countries be partying tonight? The hottest new spot in NYC: Strata! From 11:30p to 1:30a I kept bouncing off that place like a pinball stuck between a jackpot and a trampoline. I tend to avoid nightclubs because they're always already crawling with yellow cabs, but this one has yet to be discovered.


Tuesday, February 10, 2009

15 clamoringly abstract potshots

#1. A cocktail waitress from Winnipeg: home to Astoria from the bowling alley on West 42nd.
#2. An elder trio from Minsk: to church service in Boerum Hill from their doorstep in the E.V..
#3. The skinny version of Morgan Freeman goes 4 dollars worth and says, "God be with you".
#4. Windshield gets dangerously dusty on the newly salted expressway and urine flies unto your face when you pour the piss bottle out the window to substitute the empty washer fluid tank. You can call it 'minimal maintenance' on the fleet garage's part.
#5. Maori father and son who just immigrated here (NYC) from New Zealand now find themselves not driving fast, but flying low from Chinatown to Sutton Place and breaking the sound barrier in a cadmium yellow light.
#6. I often get the straphangers who never take cabs, but are running late to work. These MTA aficionados and the bartenders who do a marvelous job of empathizing are the best tippers of all. They know our professions put us up against the worst mental states NYC has to offer.
#7. Hannah Temple boards the front seat of the taxicab for a couple hours of co piloting and part of the plan is to roll past the evening's scheduled humanitarian Gaza demonstration in Manhattan, but out of the hundreds that show up, everyone gets either arrested, sent to the hospital in an ambulance, or promptly escorted back to subway pits and parked cars on parallel avenues, courtesy of NYPD on bullhorns in paddywagons and on foot. Hooray for freedom of speech!
#8. Swank man pops out of Webster Hall and jumps into your cab. He's visiting from his customized mansion in Western Mass. that he brags about the entire ride. He's here for GlobalFEST '09 and wants a ride back to the Hilton in midtown. That's all fine and dandy, and we even get into a friendly chat about our mutual love of international rhythms. He suggests I attend next year's event because it's well worth the $40 admission. Now mind you the cheapest room at this hotel is $219, plus his gas, tolls, and steep parking rates. He hands me a $100 bill and asks for 10 back on an $8.10 fare. "But sir this is not a twenty" and I hold up the bill. He says, "oh, well in that case gimme 90 back". Not a single utterance of appreciation for this whopping act of honesty. He steps out and doesn't look back. My heart sinks low. I understand these things must be done without expecting anything in return, but this just adds to the feeling of bleak helplessness that comes with providing a service to the best of your abilities and being very poorly compensated for it time and again.
#9. First long distance fare beater in my 28 month cabbie career occurs the following night. It's just past 4 am on a Wednesday morning and I'm idling on the corner of Prince and Thompson in SoHo. People are emptying out of Milady's bar and one guy in his mid 30s comes inside. He sits there silent until I ask, "where to?"
"Queens, take the LIE" is all he says, in a voice almost as shady as this. Twenty minutes later we're in front of his single family unit on Mexico Street in St. Albans. The meter reads $38.20 and he says,"I gotta go inside to get some money. Wait right here." Before I can protest he slips out the cab and into his house. Twenty minutes later he still hasn't come out and I've never called the cops in my life, mostly out of indifference. But this time I feel an urgent thirst for justice. It takes them another twenty minutes to arrive. They wail the siren for a moment and put all their strobe lights on before knocking on the front door. Lights remain on inside but no one answers. They come back shrugging their shoulders. Nothing they can do. They say I should have demanded advance payment but that happens to be highly illegal under TLC rules. I bite my tongue, clench my teeth, and cut my losses by heading to nearby JFK airport.
#10. Zubin rides the front seat of the taxicab to triple check if this is indeed a job he would want to do part time. Looks like the verdict is positive. People hesitate to get in when we respond to their street hail because they think we're undercover cops. He's a substitute teacher in NYC schools and perhaps I should be doing that too. Did it in Florida for a brief period of time. He's an Iranian Jew and when I reverse haphazard yet clear through an intersection to catch a missed street hail he remarks it's a very Persian thing to do, as in very genius.
#11. We pick up the lady who was La Reina de Turkiya at last year's International Coffee Beauty Pageant in Colombia. It was the first time Turkey was ever represented. She's currently couchsurfing among friends in NYC and considering a permanent relocation from Istanbul.
#12. A few days later that plane lands in the Hudson River and when I suggest to a passenger that it should be put in a park and turned into a playground like I've seen them do to old planes in other countries, she gets emotional about how good an idea that is and tips me like 45%.
#13. On MLK, Jr. Day I get this murmury and miserable young Bangali dude in the cab who claims that this holiday is only for the blacks. I don't bother arguing, but what about all the other struggles people like MLKJ stand for. They represent the triumphant human spirit.
#14. Financial absurdities I keep hearing on the radio making me lose momentum in the otherwise perpetual taxicab hustle hunt for rapid rider turnover rates because I see how easily billions of dollars flow above me, while the trickling down takes hundreds upon hundreds of hours to accumulate into an income on the streets. Three new local stadiums are being built next door to older ones that, if you ask any developing or underdeveloped nation, are in near mint condition. The 2nd Avenue subway tunnel might be a need postponed for too long already, but here we are again in the midst of economic depression. That is precisely what stopped this line from being built in the 1930s. And how about that John Thain character? Spending lavishly as CEO and then disappearing so as to leave less of a trail. Who the hell needs an 83.1 million dollar salary? Only someone with a damn heck of a lot of charitable ideas in mind. Not some numskull in an deceitfully ironed suit.
#15. Jenine Bressner of Rhode Island rides shotgun in the taxicab late one Sunday night and our suspicion of being potential soulmates and twin siblings from other nibblings is confirmed. We both have a tremendously vigorous admiration for life and the world as a whole. We absolutely love learning, teaching writing, editing, and being fit on various fronts (muscles, intellect, and spirit). We each have a plethora of future goals that involve the proliferation of our independent artistic endeavors, an ongoing altruistic service to humanity, and ecological homewardboundness. We both have an extensive travel destination list and a commitment not to be merely tourists in our peregrinations. Our lifestyles and ethical stances mirror one another. The both of us are multiethnic Jews who deplore violence and negativity whatsoever. We can more or less communicate in three languages. And juiciest of all, we have an immense physical attraction to each other. The only issue to look out for is that we're both Leos and therefore must be mindful not to burn each other up in contending passions. It's like putting two confident lions or blazing suns next to each other for prolonged periods of time. It can either turn into one unstoppable ball of flame or two charred and wilted carcasses of infatuation. I have reason to trust in the fireball. And no it ain't making holiday stops at the shopping mall this fall.

Friday, January 16, 2009

fughedaboudit!

I am so allergic to television. David Letterman is one of the only people on TV that I can half stand to watch, especially when he has a taxicab related remark. And the other two clips below I shot inside my cab the other night, experimenting with the video feature on my new used digital camera for the first time.



Monday, January 12, 2009

taxigraphic memories






Above on the topmost is a close up of my side view mirror on Pike Slip. Notice the double decker tourist bus behind the mirror. Next one down is a typical backseat nap awaiting dispatch at the JFK taxi hold. Then are the junks, forever docked at South Street Seaport. Notice the overhead FDR on that side view mirror. Next is a shot of the first passenger in two years who allowed me to take their picture. People are so distrusting. And the one just above us is a glimpse of the skyline from Kusciuszko with my brutish face in the frigging way. Below we have a food rescue cargo tricycle receiving the well deserved right of way for helping redistribute supermarket leftovers to the hungry. Next is the Willie B bridge by night. Then an easterly view from the far west of Midtown. Notice the prominent door lock. Last is a picture of the best Sephardic cabbie in New York, followed by a very short video clip shot inside my cab by Italian tourists, and totally by mistake.





Tuesday, January 6, 2009

plump samosas

Shifting paradigms makes a really slow shift like the day after Christmas go by easier. I just imagine/pretend I live in a Communist state and so my job is not to chase desperately after the widest possible profit margin, but rather to serve the riding public as needed, in return for basic needs (net income on the worst days is literally hand to mouth). Otherwise I'll drive myself insane to come up with 2 fares an hour. I took an Indonesian couple visiting from San Francisco to a NY Knicks game. They had not known that 'knicks' is short for knickerbockers, nor that 'the Mets' is short for 'the Metropolitans'. Los Metropolitanos (sounds better in Espanol)! Earlier that morning I'd taken a drunk young Jewish hipster home to the corner of Hooper and South 4th. Upon flagging me down by Tompkins Square Park he'd simply said "Williamsburg". I didn't want to pry at first, but as we descended off the bridge I had to ask which exit to use. His index finger flew in every direction. Next thing to come out of his mouth was, "this is Hasidic Williamsburg, I'm not Hasidic", all flustered and claiming he had given me the exact street corner upon entering. The 978th biting of the my own red hot tongue. He later apologized for being drunk and obnoxious.

New Year's eve is supposed to be the most lucrative of all 365 nights to drive a cab in NYC. But I decided to have a life for once. No use risking trouble with lunatic passengers, street closures, and intoxicated motorists. Instead I picked up my old friend Chip from the airport at 23:00 with two bicycles strapped to the trunk and we rotated amongst three parties on two wheels along the north side of Brooklyn. Liquid blankets for the zero degree wind chill and buzz clippers in hand for impromptu dance floor haircuts. 2009 came into view from the roof top terrace with a 360 degree panorama of fireworks and echoes of city wide mirth.

The night ended on a bad note when, at 4:30 am, I brought up the Strip to a circle of revelers. Someone went on to say, "why don't the Gazans go live in Damascus? It's nice there this time of the year." I couldn't help but respond with, "why don't the western Negevites go live in Moscow?" One side wants freedom and the other wants security. Can't become autonomous unless you give us quiet, but you can't give us that unless we give you a viable/workable sense of self determination and the smallest ounce of genuine respect. It's so non existent. Call me crazy, but if I had been the leader of the Zionists in the 1940s, I would have settled all my refugees in an area the size of the Gaza Strip, seeking the least problematic of possible spaces. Perhaps splitting into two enclaves. One on the Mediterranean coast and the other somewhere in the southern Negev. I would have maximized resourcefulness and humble appreciation amongst my population. I would have made sure that those who were already on the land when I got there were consulted with utmost esteem. That would eliminate the need for military defense. One dense, compact urban center or two for the Jews while the rest of Palestine be left to their jurisdiction. With their permission, we would have cooperated on extensive plots of mutual agriculture in the large rural tracts in between. And they would have gladly allowed us access to the biblical landmarks via organized round trip bus/truckloads to and from our enclave(s). This intense bilateral hatred wasn't there before we created it with our arrogant and (who truly knows how) violent push to take over and control every last square kilometer of that beloved territory. Unfortunately it's all or nothing with us (Jews). 'Nothing' being the annihilation we are at risk of experiencing if we continue building a monstrous list of enemies. Why must we be so thick headed? So ignorant of the humility our creator wants us to emulate. Imagine the tremendously beautiful coexistence we could have nurtured if we hadn't bullied our way through all these years. But I was raised in Los Angeles, Texas, and Florida, so what do I know?

A French New Yorker named Arnold got a flat on his brand new luxury SUV on E11th. I was the first cab coming down Third Avenue so I took him to buy one of those instant disposable mini C02 tire inflators from the nearest gas station. I offered to wait on the corner and mount his spare on if this didn't work. Turns out the valve was busted, so my idea was implemented, but not before he wasted another 15 minutes digging under the seats for an imaginary magic pump he claimed came with the SUV, according to the manual he kept perusing under cellular glow. I kept suggesting we bring the spare over to the same nearby station and inflate it there, which he finally succumbed to. He was also stubborn when I warned him of its instability with his wife and baby still inside, while the flimsy jack barely held up one side of his heavy vehicle. At some point someone had come out of their building and asked me to help them lift a delicate, old fashioned baby stroller up three flights of stairs. Almost an hour later Arnold had hit the road again with a smile. I was also wearing one, having received sixty dollars from him, after assuming I had missed out on crucial fares around town. As long as I'm not losing too much income, I love scenarios that go beyond the average taxi stint. Arnold more than reimbursed my time. The effort though was my pleasure.

Monday, December 29, 2008

modi operandus (मोदी ओपेरंदुस)




East River as seen from the upper level Queensboro. Love my city.

JFK pigeons have more character than LGA, but get less attention.

East 14th at crack of dawn. Silhouette of Con Ed power plant?

Cabs on Queens Plaza by 21 Jump Street. Island of money on the horizon.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

metonymic quandaries

Last Friday some schmuck in a suit jumped in at Hudson and Duane. "33 Maiden Lane as fast as you can please", he begged with puppy dog eyes. This as I was attempting to fit a cup, brimming with blazing coffee, into a stiff holder. It squirted and spilled in every direction as I focused on playing hardball with the 1.2 mile stretch on behalf of my passenger. Upon arrival he blurted out, "you did a real nice thing for a really shitty person", which left me scratching my head. Maybe it had to do with his destination: the federal reserve? Six bland fares later Lisa Foti, the owner/designer of a womens boutique jumped in on her way to work. She's suffering from dwindling patronitis, even though her prices are reasonable and her fashions optimal. She deserves to stay afloat.

Four easily forgettable fares later an offensively opulent, mid aged woman takes her sweet time getting in, covered in gold and diamonds, and smothered in shopping bags. The kind that tips the least of anyone. Just as we take off, an alluringly scabrous woman with a hefty rucksack who looks like she's with National Geographic stands on the roadside hailing the next cab. I should have known it would pay off to turn a blind eye on the name dropper in order to come across the swashbuckler. So for five Soho blocks I was trying hard not to forget that this indeed is a human being, who perhaps got lobotomized by top secret purveyors of greed, thereby having no recollection of her humanitarian nature. Upon turning unto southbound Lafayette we coast alongside a trio of double parked mack trucks. Suddenly she blurts out: "stop here, stop here!" With my tongue already chewed on and clenched, my response came out ruder than it ever had: "I can't triple park here BUDDY!" A nicer tone would have been, "I like to go out of my way to not be in the way.

Many of the cabs at my garage have blemished transmissions or delayed mechanisms. The accelerator doesn't respond at first, and when you bring the pedal further down towards the metal it jerks into action, thereby jolting the entire vehicle forward in one violent thrust. Not only must I endure this when a red light changes green, but also every single time traffic slows and speeds up. On days like this I have to explain to every passenger that I'm not having epileptic seizures, nor am I suffering from perpetual jackrabbit syndrome. A lot of times they don't even know what I'm talking about because they're totally accustomed to cabbies driving in this manner out of habit. No wonder half of the cabs are always on the verge of breaking down. We've forgotten it's a virtue to treat things as if they were ours, even if we're only borrowing them. I understand the spite felt towards acquisitive garage owners and dispatchers, but taking it out on the taxi hurts your fellow yellow colleagues the most. Oh right, we never had any camaraderie either. You steal my fare. I'll steal the next one's. It makes our roof cones look like dorsal fins. And our minds like that of a malnourished shark. And a City Harvest truck rolls by with a very fitting ad: "34% of New Yorkers have to choose between food and rent."

The holding lot at JFK has recently come under great scrutiny by many cabdrivers, due to it's new rule allowing wheelchair accessible taxi vans the privilege of going first, while everyone else sits in line for hours. It already was an almost abortive idea to stick around for a return fare after bringing someone to the airport, but now it's just preposterous. The city wants to become handicap friendlier by giving these van cabbies an incentive. But now the lane designated strictly for accessible taxi vans has become everlastingly packed with them and the dispatchers keep that line flowing interminably, while nearly 500 other cabs rot in deliquescence. So the last time I was at the Kennedy taxi hold might have very well been the last indeed. A crowd of us were standing near the management office, debating the situation. After a while two drivers proceeded to ask the head of dispatch how much longer they were going to keep us idle on behalf of the vans. One of them was Ethiopian and the other Nepalese. But both of them lifted up their shoes and pretended to aim at the management, which made everyone break into a roar of laughter and compliments for Bush over his sharp reflexes. Over 4 hours later I was released into Terminal 5, only to take this teenager home to South Ozone Park, literally 11 blocks away and a dime tip. I couldn't use my shorty pass because my mother's best friend needed a free ride from Midtown East to Newark Airport so I had to get back on time. You can imagine how substandard my income was that day.

Speaking of low wages, the other day, around noon, I picked up two ladies from the Port Authority. The daily lease and gas had taken 6 hours to pay off that morning and I had just broken even. We sat at a red light on 41st and Eleventh Avenue. When it turned green I drove forward slowly for a left turn. A textile merchant on his cell phone hadn't realized it was his turn to stop. His SUV entered the intersection at about 10 MPH. I braked and began blowing my horn. Inches away he noticed what was going on and slammed on his brakes, but still managed to put a big dent above my front right tire. It turns out he speaks Hebrew like me, but with a thick Persian accent. He begged me not to call the police and promised to work out a deal with my garage. I had no part in the fault, yet my net profit that shift was nearly zero. At least I didn't lose $800 in damages. I simply had to return the cab to Queens and go home for the day. Beware of New Jersey plates as they make their way towards the Lincoln Tunnel.

A payroll investigator by day. Macy's employee by night. She had me rush her between jobs extra fast in order to change into an all-black outfit. I almost told her that in the summertime a lot of teenagers change into their uniforms in the backseat, on their way from school to flipping burgers. She was definitely one of my more hardcore passengers, but probably wouldn't feel comfortable with that. Later on that evening I took the manager of a lounge home. We had a lively chat about our mutual love of ethno-mesh and he promised to let me in free whenever. At some point I was refueling on the corner of Metropolitan and Bushwick, when a Chinese trio behind me asked the clerk if any tire shops were still open. I ended up switching out their flat and they forced me to take a twenty bill. It did take nearly twenty minutes anyhow. From there I gave Daniel St. George a ride up to his studio in L.I.C.. Then a Bolivian bartender who moved here when he was 5 y/o (like me) home to the Bronx. Then Almanzo the Greco-Cuban ABC soap opera actor from Sheridan Square to Jersey City. Then an Asian-Australian Londoner to dinner with her friends. All these ethnic mixtures had the gamma waves of my prefrontal cortex buzzing all night. But the psyche of a cabdriver can shift quickly from carefree endorphin rushes to fight or flight adrenaline gushes.

I had just parked along the taxi relief stand on Ninth and 42nd. I was about to cross the street for a snack when a shiny new BMW reversed with maniacal force into the empty space in front of my cab, where I happened to be standing. He stopped just shy of sending my kneecaps into oblivion. Another yellow cab was trying to park in that same spot, designated by law as one of the only places in the city where taxis can park free of all hassle in order to piss, poop, eat, sip, and stretch out their cramped bodies. The cabbie honked incessantly, like a calf witnessing the slaughtering of his mother, but the BMW wouldn't surrender. I ran around to the driver's window and pointed at the official D.O.T. sign while explaining loud enough for him to hear through all the commotion and glass. By now the bums from the local homeless shelter were in on the riot and several bystanders were watching, including other (more browbeaten) cabdrivers.

The wealthy old suburban white guy (NJ plates) left his embellished wife in the car and got in my face, threatening to hit me if I uttered another word, which I did. He made a fist and swung his scrawny little arm at my mouth, causing my jagged teeth to slice a slit in my gum. All I could do is just keep repeating, "you're not allowed to park here because it's reserved for taxicabs who wish to go on break". He got back inside and peeled off. One homeless woman commended me for not punching him back. That's how much I love my hack license.

As if one unusual taxi tale per week weren't enough, here's another. I picked up this short Puerto Rican dude on Houston and Allen the other night. With slurred speech he said "150th and Amsterdam". During our entire ride up the FDR he kept asking if I wanted a ticket for not illuminating my name and picture on the partition. The bulb was simply drooping off to the side. He also accused me off trying to take a longer route because I'd made a U-turn on Houston in order to head towards the Joe DiMaggio, which I agree on hindsight was less than the best option (2nd only to the FDR). But I wasn't doing anything on purpose, and I turned back around to the east upon request. He kept piling on other offenses I was guilty of and assured me I was going to get written up. I was dumbfounded and he was looking more and more like an undercover TLC cop with each passing moment.

He called someone to meet him at the destination and mentioned my violations. Was this a prank that would eventually turn into a mafia hold up? At the end he said, "sit tight", and stepped outside. I immediately got out too and demanded my $25.00. He was on the phone again and actually directed a real life New York State Police car over to our corner. The officer got out and wanted to know WTF was going on. He clearly resembled my passenger, who kept pointing at the partition, demanding I get a ticket. I mentioned he had not paid the fare yet. The cop pulled out his wallet and handed me exact cash, and told me to get lost. Then he grabbed what seemed like his younger cousin or sibling and dragged him away, referring to him by his first name, and visibly embarrassed about the whole scene. No ticket. No robbery. And I even found a fare headed back downtown.


Quick note to fellow cabdrivers:
I've decided to post technical taxi/traffic information on a separate blog.

Figured I'd spare the rest of my readers the irrelevant advise. However, if you drive in NYC otherwise, you may find it useful too. Not that I have any sympathy for private motorists. I wish only buses, bicycles, delivery trucks, and taxicabs were allowed in Manhattan. Either that or DMV requiring a special license to drive inside the island, attainable only if you display a heightened sense of consideration for everything around you, the ability to merge smoothly/alternately, and a commitment to make full use of every square inch and be alert 110% of the time. Obviously a lot of so called cabbies would lose their jobs too. A, this ain't for everyone b.


Wednesday, December 10, 2008

nomenclature of feasibilities



Cabdrivers never quite know where along a random route someone might appear with their hand in the air, and where they might want to go. It's fascinating to come home after a long shift and use one's list of all the passengers who occupied the back seat to create an intricate map. It's like GPS tracking at the TLC, only more colorful. For example, the map on the uppermost center of the collage uses brown lines to depict when the taxi's meter was engaged and blue for the vacant moments. That was a busy day, apparently.

I had my first 'double shift' ever on Monday. That means I got to keep the cab for 24 hours instead of the usual 'twelve'. Carl Scorza was one of my 42 passengers that night/day/night, and one my favorites ever. We were talking about how heartbreaking it is to think of all the people twice and thrice our age who were slumbering in the 7 deadly degrees of wind chill. Somehow we got around to the topic of art. He paints panoramas of our city for a living. I told him about my collage journals and he agreed that some of these galleries wouldn't mind displaying blown up versions of my illustrated taxi routes on their walls. It's only a matter of style pattern proliferation and some self marketing. But whatever. I'm not quite the business mind. I don't scheme or contemplate things too well. I'm more of a doer. A determined donkey with a limited arsenal of unharnessed will power, geographic savant syndrome, and the kind of innate bounteousness that would take a bullet for you.

The least likable fare of that shift was this conservative German Jew who entered the cab around Turtle Bay at 15:30 and said, "I live near JFK so get on the QMT." He engaged in an avalanche of emotional discussions on his cellular the entire 90 minutes aboard, and even shut the partition on my face when I tried to communicate. From what I gathered, his wife was in the hospital, both daughters at home with a fever, and his father-in-law was not satisfied with the $5,000 donation he had made to their synagogue that morning. He interlaced his English with some Yiddish and even French at one point. It turns out his destination was Cedarhurst, a tiny suburb just on the Nassau side of the border. I wasn't entitled to have refused him, but he had known just how to manipulate me anyhow. He proceeded to pay with a credit card, but somehow brought the transaction around 180 degrees while I was paying attention to his disconcerted spiel, and printed a cash receipt. I found out at the end of the night. I'd been cheated out of almost 60 dollars. But the fare that followed him nearly made up for it. From Long Island I'd gone straight to the central holding lot at Kennedy. There must have been 400 cabs ahead of me, yet I was out on terminal 3D with a Korean Los Angelino in under half an hour. A hotel in Teaneck (NJ) was his destination and his googlemap printout said to take the Whitestone to the Cross Bronx (perhaps the most congested 'express'way in NYC). My radio was scraping in and out of clarity so I'd have to do without the reports. I took the GCP over the RFK, up the HRD, and across the GWB. Miraculously smooth in spite of the afternoon rush. That fare came out to 98 after his generous tip. I turned in at 23:00 that night. Could have stayed out until 5 am. Oh well.

Friday, December 5, 2008

vestibule of lolligaggers

Every so often a cabdriver will run out of change because an unbroken succession of passengers pay with 20 dollar bills. Other times a cabbie might have accumulated a thick wad of singles, fives, and tens... to the point it don't even fit in the crevices of the cockpit or shirt pocket anymore. But when all you have is large bills, you can't pick up another passenger until you've parked and gone inside an establishment to break a Jackson or two, or maybe even a Grant. The hot dog and donut carts are quite often unwilling and it can take forever to find legal parking. So my instinct is always to jump out of my cab at a red light and bum rush every taxi on the block, which usually works after the fourth or so try. What I've discovered though, is that the nicest cabbies in New York are the ones from Tibet. Without fail, they're always ready to help. May their unique language and culture survive the onslaught of now almost 6 decades of foreign occupation. In this city there is a united nations of taxi driving. There are very few countries I haven't seen represented. I have close friendships with a Guinean, a Turk, an Uzbek, a Paraguayan, a Belorussian, an Algerian, an Honduran, and an Afro-Chinese American. We'll periodically call each other to warn of new police traps and bustling taxi stands. Or we run into each other at the airport holding lots.

If it were up to me, I'd be backpacking around the world right now. And that has been the plan ever since I graduated from high school. But no one on my mother's side of the family had completed college yet, so she badly wanted me to not waste time. I spent 5 years earning a degree and another 3 working odd jobs to pay off the loans. And now that the coast is clear, the economy is nearing collapse and my immediate family needs my financial assistance. So instead of using the taxi income to save for travel, I'm having to give every bit of it to my parents, so they don't go bankrupt. They can barely keep up with their debts and I feel as if I'm repaying them for having provided me with such a fantastic childhood. Meanwhile, my little sister is almost half way through college and plans to be the next Jean-Paul Gaultier or Vivienne Westwood. And she wants to utilize her fortune on improving the lives of others (including us), if only those filthy rich with a fashion sense still exist after she graduates.

Last week a Haitian woman who lives in the Pacific Northwest jumped into my cab at Kennedy airport. As we approached the Van Wyck Expressway I saw the total traffic standstill that awaited us up ahead. So I let her know that I taking the Conduit as an alternate. While trying to hear what 1010 am had to say about the L.I.E. and the BQE, so I could then choose between Woodhaven and Atlantic, she interjected with what would become a long metaphysical rant about using mind to manipulate matter. She more or less blamed my lack of spiritual strength for every thickening of cars we'd encounter. I do understand that our thoughts have more power than we give them credit for. Having studied Kabbalah for years, the concept of mind over matter isn't alien to me. But this woman seemed to lack a sense of humility about it all. She was almost conceded in her mannerisms, no matter how much I tried to not pass judgment. She instructed me to check out Ramtha and read up on the double slit experiment. Here's a cartoon video demonstration that effectively blew me away.
A couple days ago I was idling on Madison Avenue in the mid 40s. I always remain in the same spot when a passenger leaves. I jot down worthwhile observations or read a few lines for a minute, to advance in my book, and then glance at each mirror and window for prospective fares. If no one shows up within 60 seconds I'll merge back into the flow of everlasting fiberglass. But often enough someone does get in during that short span. In fact it's usually a better tactic than to instantaneously jackrabbit back into the continuum like most cabbies do. This particular time four suits from Chicago knocked on the shell. I popped the trunk and walked back to load their luggage. All four of them were so happy-go-lucky and wide eyed, but started scratching their foreheads when I reached for their bags. In such a routine operation, I hadn't noticed that I'd forgotten about some cargo of my own. Two dusty old chairs that I'd salvaged from a dumpster were occupying the large tub of usually empty space. As I set them out unto the sidewalk to re abandon them, these lovely Illinoisians suggested that I place the chairs on top of the luggage. "But they're dirty!?!" They consulted each other for an instant consensus. I was going to end up keeping the chairs that I needed for the table I 'd found weeks ago in Queens. You see my mother had donated much of our furniture to the college kids who moved into our old apartment in Brooklyn. So we had to re scavenge the curbs.

Jill, an investment manager, got into the cab by where the viaduct sucks Park Avenue up into the Helmsley building. She was headed to a doctor's appointment precisely where the viaduct ends on the south side. We crawled above Vanderbilt and 42nd for almost 10 minutes to go the 4 blocks. She said something on the phone, so nonchalant and ruthless that it reverberates in my head. "....so did we get Margaret laid off yet? We've got to that a.s.a.p. if we want to remain...." No remorse. No human being on the receiving end, on the verge of losing what we, in this society, base our self worth on. Don't take me for a hopeless altruist or even a bleeding heart. I am one of those who believes that our economy has been based on air. On speculation and debt, as opposed to something more substantial, like resources and brow sweat. Perhaps it will take a total meltdown for us to rethink our roles and our purpose in life. Speaking of learning to appreciate what you have, Chop Shop is the best film I've watched this month. It's about this homeless kid in Queens who makes it work by being really resourceful and he even helps his older sister out.

The other day I was waiting at the garage to be assigned a taxi. It was around 2:30 am and there were about 4 other drivers sitting in the lounge alongside me, hoping to get a head start on their day shift. I started chatting with an older guy from Bangladesh, who was enthusiastic to teach me everything he knew about the history of his country. The catchiest thing about his lecture was his repeated use of the number 3,500. That is how many miles lie between Pakistan and Bangladesh if you go by sea, which is what they used to do when it was one country, because India was enemy territory. 3,500 is also the amount of princes in the Saudi government and the amount of nukes possessed by India, if I understood him correctly. Back when his country was known as East Pakistan, he served in the Pakistani air force. But one day they put him in a concentration camp on suspicion of being a spy. Long story short, we all were assigned cabs that morning and went on to toil and compete for customers on the streets of NY for more consecutive hours than your average human being can handle.


Saturday, November 22, 2008

cartophilic cabbie(s)

A few who read my blog tell me that it's fragmented to a fault. Spits and chunks of thoughts splattered across loosely knit amalgams (paragraphs). Pardon me if this style of writing is less than articulate to sift through, but I don't plan on modifying it. And frankly, there happens to be a common thread if you sit in my boxers while you read. Letting you in on the world through my eyes. So let me sit in your boxers for a change. Write an update on your life and share it. I would like to read it. I have a harrowing handful of friends who have fallen off the face of my planet.

Wooster is my favorite street to jostle and clatter down. It's one of the bumpiest stretches in all of Manhattan. Got that 3rd world charm. Barranquilla in the heart of SoHo. A mixed moonscape of parched cobblestone, half replaced with lumps of asphalt, and further degenerated into clusters of bottomless potholes. But when the other streets get too plain and polished, I must look elsewhere for that besmirched inspiration to give me another electrifying reminder to live fully.

If I had to pick one luminary, it would be Sarah Chayes. I first learned of her one night in 2003. I'm allergic to television, except when PBS is on. So I joined my house mates, who were watching. Nightline was covering Sarah's newfound purpose, living in Afghanistan and serving all of humanity by helping people on the ground rebuild their war torn lives. She had been a well respected journalist on behalf of NPR for years, but had now decided to not just report on social injustices, but actually do something about them. She joined the efforts of an aid organization, and more recently founded an agricultural cooperative to produce viable Opium alternatives. Bill Moyers interviewed her this year and I am still as starstruck as ever. I can again return to intensely appreciating life for all it's worth. Every drop of water that bathes and hydrates my viscera. Every watt of light that illuminates my journal at night. Every potent rumination that comes into sight. Every split second hand eye thigh tarsal auricular excremental coordination. And most importantly, my innate doggedness. Sarah herself said, "I don't think that hope is relevant. I think determination is all that counts. You just have to try. It doesn't matter if you hope you're going to succeed or not. You have to keep trying." Is it OK for a 27 year old taxi driver to have a crush on a 46 year old foreign aid correspondent?

Mikey, a close pal of mine here in Nu Yo, happens to be a cabdriver too (turned him on to it). We both have a NYC Parks and Recreation Department membership and visit the gym biweekly to work out and shoot hoops, as a way to combat taxi dystrophy. Afterwards we engage in map buffing activities, like brainstorming mnemonics for museum mile. Running along Fifth Ave, across from Central Park, is a long string of cultural hubs that cabbies ought to know by heart. So we came up with funny phrases to address the code A-B-C-J-H-N-M-F, which lists them in order from north to south....
1. Museum for African Art
2. El Museo del Barrio
3. Museum of the City of New York
4. Jewish Museum
5. Hewitt National Design museum
6. Guggenheim
7. Neue Galerie
8. Metropolitan Museum of Art
9. Frick Collection.
His was "Any boy could jump high given no more friction."
Carly's (GF) was "Always be careful just have God nearby mother fu%#ers."
Mine was "After Bartholomew captured Jerusalem he got New Mexico fast."

A pair of Upper West Side moms and their boisterous children got in across from Rockefeller. Returning home from a birthday party, the kids slapped their little stickers all over my windows. Minutes later the moms paused their convulsive flapdoodle and reprimanded the kids, ordering them to peel the stickers back off. I immediately looked up from my chimerical road gaze and said, "oh, that's alright, let them leave it. I love (anarchic) decorations."
"You are just the nicest cabdriver I ever met."
Terminus (after 2 separate stops): $2 tip on a $12.50 fare.
That's a 16% tip. But they paid with credit card (cabbie is charged %5 fee).
That's 73 cents taken off my income. I get $13.77 instead of $14.50, which might sound like pocket change to you, but try calculating these losses across hundreds of transactions. It pays to be a nice cabbie. At least my garage doesn't care if I bring the cab back with minor scratches, dents, cracks, or sticker littered windows.

It's one of those rare moments when the taxi stand on 8 Avenue is depleted of cabs. I pull into the lane that I would have otherwise driven right past. Two garbage truck drivers step in on route to Chelsea's NYCHA. My only efficient option is to hover near the crosswalk until the timing is right (red signal) and then swiftly turn left unto 33rd from that 5th and furthest lane. The instant I perform this trick the two men break into loud jubilation. "He just pulled a triple cutoff!" Hastily I check my mirrors, misinterpreting their words to mean we're in the midst of getting pulled over. "Relax broth-a, we were just enjoying your dexterity back there cause we do it ALL the time. We drive (and collect rubbish) that way all over the outer boroughs. That's how we get our runs done." They turn out to be better tippers than most a suit and tie out there. And for the remainder of that shift I didn't rub eyeballs with any other jehus for lane seniority. Not from the realm of sanitation, nor deliveries. Just your common cadmium yellow torpedoes and one anomaly. A gang of pugnacious Harleys refused to allow me past their gastropodous entourage. Finally someone on the road with a bigger ego than mine (exception: NYPD).

The answer that I resent the most when I ask a passenger if they happen to have a route preference is "whichever way's faster". As if I plan on milking the meter when they answer no. But whenever I contemplate a policy of just keeping shut mouthed with internalized navigation, memories of refreshingly symbiotic brainstorms with effusive riders keep me from giving up on the immense potential of communication. Mixing the ample yet ultimately abridged wisdom of a hack with the commuter's knowledge of patterns in their circuits of routine is a recipe for immaculate cab excursions. But even then something can go terribly wrong.

Last week I was on the Prospect Expressway with a pleasant passenger who was headed home from the Flatiron to Kensington (BK) at 3:30 am. Our lovely Crown Vic workhorse of a space shuttle suddenly started shaking violently and the steering wheel became nearly unnegotiable. Slowing it down to a stop on the shoulder felt like trying to land an airliner with its landing gear paralyzed. The lady was really cool about it all as I made a 360 degree inspection of our overworked mule. No flat tires, no unevenness in the suspension, no external symptoms of anything. We agreed to coast the last couple miles with hazards blinking. The car would start out normal, but every 1/4 minute the vicious trembling would resume, even as we kept around 10 mph. Coming to a full stop was its only pacification. She was racking her brain for a round-the-clock repair shop, but I explained that the garage from which I lease it was solely authorized and responsible. We made it to her place and the tip revealed mammoth compassion. She tried convincing me to just have my garage summon a tow truck, which was an option. But the whole thing would take well over two hours and I had to get back in business. So I crawled cautiously all the way up Bedford and over the Pulaski. Those last few feet to the hydraulic lifts a mechanic took over and his dramatic signature pedal jerk finally made the front wheel fold on itself. He literally dragged the front end forward by sheer acceleration, but he had the whole problem cured in 45 minutes. Unfortunately though, these mechanics are so jaded and aloof that they have no interest indoctrinating me with the process of troubleshooting, which I'd sponge up in a heartbeat if only he were into Mohandas Gandhi. Learn as if you were to live forever and teach as if you were to die tomorrow (I bent it a bit).
ps: My big Bob Dylan revelation this week: It's 'lay lady lay' (not 'lady DeLane').

NOTE TO CABBIES:
Beware of the $115 for box blocking having recently become a non moving violation. The meter maids on E37th St. are busy handing these out to everyone stuck crosstown inside the intersection as you crawl through Park Avenue. My passenger's comment: 'That is such a cheap shot'. I've seen this activity in one other spot: 3 Avenue crossing E56th Street. The two rightmost lanes get jammed with those headed to the Queensboro. The meter maids have a field day here.

THIS WEEK'S SHORT LIST OF RED LIGHT CAMERA SIGHTINGS:
1AV across 63rd: red light cam (although i never seen it flash)
This link contains a long list of some other spots

Friday, November 14, 2008

To travel on a shoestring.....











.....is the ultimate purpose in life. Or at least the best way to discover its meaning. I am devastatingly disappointed when I look at this map. By now I should have seen at least 50% of the world. Daily I have fleeting thoughts of just running away from NYC with nothing but a toothbrush, a journal, and a change of clothes in my backpack. One of these days. Perhaps when my DMV points reach their limit and my license gets suspended. I'll simply pack up and walk the docks in search of a ship that would allow me to cross the ocean in exchange for keeping the bathrooms clean or something. And once I get there it'll be nothing but hitch hiking, scavenging, odd jobs, and couch surfing through as many countries as humanly possible.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

gravy trains and fierce loyalties

An azimuthal equidistant projection, centered at the North Pole, between two olive branches. That is the flag of the UN. What I wonder though is: who raises all the other flags every morning. Each time I drive past the complex, I can't decide if each nation has someone in charge of this daily ceremony, or if an anonymous team of blue collars is dealt the task. Is it done in unison, all 192 member states along the colorful corridor of flagpoles? I always forget to ask when a foreign delegate gets in my cab.

This week I picked up a book that I had given up trying to read years ago, because of time constraints and random circumstances. Now I feel bad for having neglected Jay Griffith's magnanimously omniscient writing. Some of my favorite chunks so far have been these:
"Time is not measured in hours but in experience."
"Only those who live not in time but in the present are happy."
"Sea Horses mate at full moon and it's the male that gets pregnant."
"Modernity knows the strut and the fret but not the hour."
"Time is highly political."

It was almost 5 am on Water and Pine when an Irish bartender stumbled out into the street. Nearly choking on his own drool he just barely sputtered directions at me. "Brooklyn Bridge. BQE to Maurice Ave." We got off the highway in Maspeth (Queens) and he kept saying, "left here". But there was no left to make. "You mean right?" He just got louder with his left rant. So I pointed to the right at the last second and asked, "this way?". He agreed buoyantly, fading in and out of consciousness. When we stopped at his duplex he opened the door and literally fell out unto the curb. The red flags inside my head had begun to tatter in the wind. I walked around and got in his face with an outstretched open palm. You owe me 24 dollars. "Alright, alright don't be a prick about it." He only had 11 in cash, 7 ketchup packets, a wad of napkins, a set of keys, and no CC. So after checking his emptied pockets 5 more times he had me follow him inside. When he turned on the lights his girlfriend laid half asleep on the couch and the dog had ripped apart countless random objects that were strewn about the floor. He made her go into the back and get money. This entire scenario reminds me of the time I tried to help my phlebotomist crawl out of her depression. An impromptu camping trip to the beach ended up inside a pitch black trailer home littered with mounds of dog shit that I got all over myself while trying to sneak out.

Five ladies from the UK giggled and gawked at my traffic maneuvers, all the way from Le Parker Meridian to TGIF. Just like their hotel's motto, they are "uptown but not uptight". And it was TGI Sunday to them. And it's true.... not all of Great Britain is cheap. These ladies tipped handsomely.

Out of the blue, my mother began screaming at me from inside her bedroom. I ran over to see her watching ABC news. She scolded me for always offering to make sure people's unwanted electronics end up away from the landfill. I try to be some sort of quasi eco-warrior but today the TV is saying that electronic recycling has a very dark side. It all ends up smuggled to China, where people in slums melt it down in exchange for $2 a day and a slew of ailments. Once again, the only true solution is reducing rampant consumerism and not being so naive all the time.

At the age of 14, my dad and I were traversing a darkened parking lot after our tennis match in the lit courts of a park in a suburb of Houston. A light in the night sky caught our attention. We watched it for a quarter hour as it made extraterrestrial movements. Hovering, then shooting across in a straight line, then shifting directions at unbelievable angles. It was too far away to reveal any structural detail. Just a white blob, slightly larger than that of a visible planet. Nothing is impossible to me. I used to borrow UFO books from the nonfiction section of the library as a teenager. The whole topic's been put on the shelf for years now though.

I didn't always have a job that I felt belonged to me and I to it. Being a yellow cabbie in NYC has indeed been my longest lasting and favorite source of employment. But it's only been that way for 25 months. Before that I had been a truck driver for a residential moving company in New Jersey, a bicycle messenger on the streets of Manhattan, a produce van deliveryman for a warehouse in Miami, a remodelation debris grunt (manual laborer) on oceanfront condos, a shelver/page at a public library, a graveyard shift custodian at my own university, a pedicab peddler (bike taxi) in West Palm Beach, a helper electrician digging trenches, assistant to a wheelchair bound nursery/metal shop owner, a nursing home companion, a silk fabric art exhibitionist's assistant, and last (and least)..... when I turned 16, my first job ever was at McDonald's. I've come a long way from $5.25 an hour.

CAUTION to NYC taxicabs:
new rule: no left on 40th off broadway.
new red lite camera: 9 av crossing 26th

NOTE TO ALL:
Take a moment to sign the petition at www.donotmail.org
and prevent telemarketing calls on your cellular by dialing 888.382.1222.
Follow the automated prompt for your 10 digits, or just get rid of the damn device.

Monday, November 3, 2008

mosaic of tautologies

Member FDIC don't mean jack squat. The car wash restroom on W24th has a sign that says "This bathroom is available to all who need it". You must always put a dollar in there to help maintain the cleanliness. And they do a commendable job of it. It's the most community oriented thing in all of Chelsea. Aside from the gracious proliferation of public relief zones (star bux), an accessible non profit restroom in Manhattan means jack squat and much more.

Not flossing greatens my risk of heart disease, but my arm wrestling match against languorous apathy itself is dwindling in most aspects of my life, aside from the fact that I militantly pour heart health Emergen-C powder into every glass. Lycopene and mineral ascorbates to counter poor hygiene and lack of exercise? Atrophy from perpetual operation of a yellow cab.

Don't go one inch past the white line when approaching Avenue of the Americas while westbound along Canal unless you want a 5000 cent postcard in the mail. If you encounter a street hail, esp. an individual standing snobbishly smack dab in the middle of the street and not budging over as you angle and decelerate, then ever so slowly coast right past them as they follow frantic until snuggly curbside. They have no right to obstruct the flow of traffic for self-absorbe
d purposes. And half the time they will turn their head and hail the next taxi.
Which weeds out those who have no cognizance of public safety and most likely no appreciation for any driver. Move on, they aren't worth the hassle.

Can't afford to do that, you say? Hard time fishing for passengers as it is? Well, I have a formula that works for me, any hour and anywhere in Manhattan, and parts of Queens and Brooklyn. Just go straight ahead until 2 or more vacant taxis are cruising in front of you. Once you spot a plurality of lit roof lights, turn off at the next street. If someone on that block is coming out of their building, you'll be the first available cab. Otherwise just turn again on that following avenue, which often gets you dibs on that block as well. Repeat step one and two over and over. This gets the goods. Believe me. There's nothing more detrimental to a cabdriver's income than to sit in an ocean of empty cabs. Avoid drag race chicken fights. Make the dough and get the hell home. We don't burn fossil fuels for the fun
of it. And it ain't just for the hell of it that I'm adamantly against splitting atoms and creating other high level waste.

Regionalism can get sort of silly sometimes. This week Katy Couric corrected her guest on the pronunciation of 'Nevada'. She made him say it like 'vast', not 'far'. I looked into it and discovered that folks out west believe Katy's correction to be appropriate. I doubt any Nevadans will read this, but 'nevada' happens to be in Spanish (Espanol). It means covered in snow. Hence, the Sierra Nevada (mountain range in California) literally means 'snow-covered hills'. And Nevada is pronounced like Dada (art cultural movement), not rat or mad hatter.

I really do try to withhold from judging others, especially when they're passengers in my cab. People have their reasons for tipping the way they do. But with every new fare, I automatically begin to compile a picture of their socioeconomic status and personal value system out of what I piece together from a conversation, the rear view mirror, or the price tag for an event I'm taking them to. Last week I brought several groups of people to the convention center and back, so they could pick up their runner numbers to put on their abdomen during the NYC marathon. I learned that it costs $177 ($232 for foreigners) to register in the race. Based on that, I'd say the Californians were generous tippers, but the Englishwomen were cheap scoundrels. It's not like these ladies came from London's east end and have spent their entire lives saving up for this.

I just finished reading a fabulous zine:
WORLD DOMINATION THROUGH DUMPSTER DIVING #19.
It features an article called YOU DON'T DESERVE BRAIN CANCER.
YOU DESERVE THE FACTS. Amy Worthi
ngton reveals cell phone industry secrets and makes a connection between it and the endless civil war in the Congo. This was published in 2003 and since then the violence in that country has all but disappeared from the news. Ironically, only days after I read the zine, this unique slice of human misery reemerges in the mass media.

I had a recent rider from Albania whose name (Fiutra) means butterfly in Shqip (her old Balkan language). She's especially memorable because she said that when she tells people that she's Albanian, they say oh you're from the state capital (Albany). Another conspicuous rider was a Scotsman in a suit who's traveled to all the Central Asian nations on behalf of the beer industry. He's having difficulty resolving his visa here because his passport contains stamps from Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrghystan. DHS don't like the fact that he's tasted authentic home brews around the world. And in yet a third illustrious fare, the Jennifer Aniston lookalike had you stop by a sidewalk cart so she could buy her 15 month old a hot dog and got one for you too. That never happens. Who ever wonders if the cabdriver is hungry? Then there was the German couple who just disembarked a cruise ship. Their only 48 hours in NYC were looking very pluvial. I came up with the most cliche idea for that: MUSEUMS?. "Boring", they murmured defiantly. Right then I had a clairvoyant moment. I knew exactly what they'd like to hear. "Did you know we have a MUSEUM OF SEX in NYC?" Their eyes lit up as they pulled out a pen
to write down the address. That tip that would manifest into another pleasant tip as we pulled into their hotel.

As a cabdriver it's alarming to discover how little people actually know about the miseries that entail our profession. $110 to lease the cab for a day and another $40 (way less than a couple months ago) for gasoline. Roughly half the shift goes by before we actually begin earning an income. We drive anywhere from 12 to 17 hours a pop, in circles, through some of the most temerarious traffic on the planet. The odds stacked against us are twice as tall as the Empire State Building, and still we manage to make due. If a passenger shows interest, I'll speak their godforsaken ear off about it all, as they lay there in astonishment, wide eyed and open mouthed. More questio
ns flood their heads and the answers keep churning. God bless us, the yellow children of Gotham. I think the exact number of human faces we see in a year's time is greater than any other line of work, simply just from ceaselessly scanning crowded streets with eagle eyes while maintaining a thirty mile an hour peripatetic.

WARNING TO N
YC YELLOW CABBIES:
There's quite often a speed trap on the FDR North, just before you go under the Brooklyn Bridge. If you enter where South Street ends or off the 9A underpass (tunnel), do not go a single MPH over 40. Everyone floors it here because it's the
very beginning of the highway. A cop stands in the shoulder just over the hill. Only other radar gun trap I've seen in NYC is SB on Cross Bay Blvd. as you enter the residential zone of Broad Channel the limit plummets to 30 MPH and an unmarked hides in the median. On the opposite side of Queens, when WB on Astoria Blvd do not make a left on Crescent St. from 7 to 10 am. One of those little golf cart-like interceptors is busy around the corner. And in Manhattan, I'm pretty sure what I witnessed had to do with that far left lane on Broadway as you're about to cross 14th. It says on a sign and on the ground that you MUST turn left. Taxis break this rule 50 times a minute. Well, I saw folks getting pulled over systematically on that southeast corner one day last week. Must've been that rule being enforced. That's all for now.










Wednesday, October 22, 2008

bailiwicks and bivouacs

Read (rap) these homemade lyrics to the beat of this INSTRUMENTAL :

Self appointed guardians of the status quo
Plainclothes detail struck with its own ammo
A deported Dominican at Queensbridge station
only tried to avoid some Metro card inflation

But who's a cabdriver to judge the situation
Roles would undergo weekly rotation if we had our way
Bus drivers, traffic agents learning empathy the hard way
Chess matches manifest in brain cell expulsion via urination
Without pointing at an empty bottle like taxi percolation

Cops hide out by the south exit ramp with a perpetually painful paper fine
For those coming off the FDR unto Houston without stopping at the sign
Little kid in the cab asks his mom: 'is it better to be early or on time?'
And when we arrive he asks 'are we late?' you know he's in line...
Phenomenal we're malleable as clay and yet some other mom allows her child to play
with the backseat GPS screen during payment with a credit card
and almost beats the fare by denying cash confirmation with no regard

A Chicago businessman bounces out of hotel 41 and hasn't had breakfast thus far
Cabbie asks if he wants to grab a slice as they roll passed the 99 cent pizza bazaar
Odd questions like this hurled from the front seat make a square feel awkward as fuck
But hey eccentric hacks can have exceptional knacks and still deliver the hurried puck
Just figured it made sense to sacrifice 10 seconds and undo two famished bellies
But this suit had no trust that both the means and the end could be smooth as strawberries

There's no shortage of white collar criminals, they're practically everywhere
Beijing reroutes water from thousands of miles and it's a loss that the farmers bare.
Four elder intellectualists crowd into the cab on their way to an art museum nearby
One of them compares collage journaling to visual hip hop, which nearly makes me cry.

On the next post you'll see a list of traffic regulations for each Manhattan intersection
and a list of all the other jobs that I've had since the age of 16 and their effects on my soul

And a list of peculiar prerequisites for the soul mate I haven't met before.
It's been plenty of years since I've had to find myself looking at the front door.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

no margin for error

Azerbaijan votes but there's no pluralism. Hindus and Christians in India force conversion upon each other. 40% of the world has no access to proper toilets. But all you can do is complain about the people who ride in NYC taxicabs. This pompous prick in a corporate suit walked across 50th street and pulled on your door handle as you pulled away, after writing a note in your journal. He was like 'whoa!' (applied to horses) and you braked abruptly. Stuck your head through the window and told him he should speak in advance... say "taxi" or something, you know? But he found this offensive. "Know what? I'll find another cab, idiot!", he slurred in a loathsome fashion.

They think taking a cab is like checking into a vacant restroom at Starbucks. No need to recognize there being an actual human behind the wheel. You're like a commode, available to hold his ass when he needs to go (somewhere). It took a lot of discipline not to step outside and swing at his face. Your NYC hack license is far more valuable. But this scene reminded you of another instance a few nights ago when these 2 married executives got in and wanted to go anyplace they might have luck getting laid. "Our wives won't find out you facilitated this. Just help some geezers out. Somebody's getting rammed up the ass tonight (LOL)." Only difference in treatment of the cabdriver was that the latter were drunk. Therefore, the patronization came in a lighter form.

Every time you're stuck in Second Avenue traffic around 8:30 am (where are you not stuck at that hour?) and explain to the passenger that it's the Midtown Tunnel jamming things up, they say, in a malapert way, "but why would people be leaving to Queens right now"... as if you tried to pull a fast one over their heads. "No, I'm talking about the influx."
"Ohhh, I see what you're saying."

It'll be hard to forget this one elder aristocrat who hailed you down by the end of W23rd. She wanted to take the 6 train back uptown. You hadn't even crossed 9th Ave. when she began asking if you thought it's good exercise to walk across town. It was one of her only times ever coming this far downtown. "Well of course it is".
"But I don't see any good clothing stores around here".
"Sure there are, haven't you heard of Ladies Mile?"
"Well, so show me then".
You made a left instead of continuing towards the subway station.
"What kind of shops are you looking for?"
"Top of the line, high fashion".
So you begin naming off the storefronts and when you say Eileen Fisher she perks up and squeals for you to stop right here, this instant. The fare is $5.70 and she dishes out 6. No other cabdriver would have treated her with such genuine consideration the entire length of the trip. Yet if you compare her tip and the average price tag inside that place, something ain't right. Perhaps if you were rude she'd ask for three dimes back.

When not driving the cab, you teach Yoram (your dad) computer literacy skills, like how to attach his resume to email in response to ads online offering employment to experienced electricians. He's got a job, but wants options in case the economy grinds to a halt. You also get him a web cam so he can keep in touch for free via Skype with his sister in L.A.. She (your aunt) happens to be among the most incredible artists on the planet, in the realm of collage journalism. An inspiration to those who try to place meaning on the subtle contradictions of life. Dad is so adorable on the lap top. In a short span of time, he's gone from nothing to picking up his pouch of coffee and typing up a map search of its distribution warehouse in Paterson (NJ). Both of us are interested in exploring this the 2nd largest Arab American population outside of Dearborn (MI), and bringing some authentic Baklava back to Queens. What's that? Astoria, right. You 're left with a picture of the first night in months you went out with old friends. Cabdriver with a social life. What?

Monday, October 13, 2008

extolling brusqueness

The driver's lounge at your garage turns into the scene of belligerent feuds between our browbeating Russian dispatcher and a handful of west African drivers, over adjustments made in the daily lease rate and early bird special, as well as whether he's fibbing about the commission having threatened him with summonses for allowing us to surpass the 720 minute continuous vehicle operation limit.

Upholding your idea of what is a good cabdriver, you tune into the traffic report nearly 15 times an hour, in case someone gets in the taxi who wants to get somewhere affected by roving construction, an accident, or just plain volume. In between, the radio blares out snippets about the potential for solar powered desalinization plants to cover the world's deserts and the theory about terrorism being a symptom of alienation (and degradation of the environment being its cousin). You take this extracurricular taxi idea home by using Google to compile upcoming NYC events, planned street closures, and the schedule for Javits shows as well as cruise itineraries at piers 88, 90, and 92. This is recommended for all cabdrivers to do if they want more lucrative shifts and/or care about improving the yellows' reputation for conscientiousness, or lack thereof.

Got your fix of Autopanethnic news via Caracol (Colombia) and Mabat (Israel). After the recent riots in Akko, an Arab apologized for driving through the Jewish quarters with a loud radio during the strict holiday of Yom Kippur. But no record of a Jew apologizing for hurling stones at him and his little son. Your latest You Tube fixation lasts an hour. In those 60 minutes you and dad watch clips of near catastrophic airplane take offs and landings. Dad injects his engineering background into every scene in attempts to explain what went wrong.

A landscape architect from Argentina in lavish Oxxford suit over drank and lost his cell at one of the bars. It's 4 am and he wants to know how much you charge to Orange (16 miles into NJ). "What the meter says, plus double rate from the state line, and tunnel toll." He says never mind and begins to exit (as if you resemble a con artist). Wait, what did you expect to pay? "It's always $100." You guarantee the meter will total out cheaper and even let him call his phone with yours. 25 minutes later the bright red digits read $80.10 and he hands you 120, smiling and staggering out into a dusky October dawn.

Chip came for a ride in the cab last week, but it was too close to the 5 pm shift deadline. Instead of cruising in search of itinerant people to give him a feel for this magnanimous profession, we had to return over the Queensboro bridge to drop off the cab. Chip looks healthy even though he complained of Candida complications. He stuck to his ironclad diet in tupperware while we had veggie burgers and onion rings at the local diner. Speaking of the 5 pm shift cutoff: it sometimes calls for maneuverings and negotiations to maximize time, space, and monetary efficiencies. For example, it's 3:30 pm and a mom/son duo from the Satmar sect wish to go over the Billy bridge to prepare for the sabbath. You can see inbound traffic backed up beyond the horizon, so it seems like the end of your shift by default. Who would've ever thought these last 90 minutes would see so much action though. You begin up Bedford Avenue towards Long Island City a little bummed out at having been booted from Manhattan so early on, yet too late. But then in the heart of hipster district a girl jumps in and requests Fort Greene. From there it seems best to use the Manhattan bridge, which nearly never sees a jam, and work your off-duty Queens bound again. On the corner of Tillary and Flatbush stand a crew of young Spaniard tourists awaiting a lift back into the island of money. And then another instant turnover further uptown that leaves you a 1/5 mile from base. What a chain of luck. An extra $45, all thanks to the hub at Williamsburg.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Autumnalities

Peruano father and son duo stand by their '84 Toyota van wagon, holding cables up high to an audience of frenzied autoists on 8 Avenue. You pull right in to give them a jump but nothing works. They coyly inquire a ride to Cobble Hill, if their 150 pound floor finishing machine fits in the trunk. The three of us barely manage. Meanwhile the radio blares about the jihadist diaspora, closet quranophilia, and auto-erotic asphyxiation . We return from Brooklyn to exhale that the meter maids have only now begun their rounds around the block.

SNL's use of the VP candidate for humor hits home when Couric asks Palin about her visit to NYC.
"Well, there were some funny moments. For instance, I had 15-20 false alarms, where I thought I saw Osama Bin Laden drivin' a taxi." I am later relieved to discover she didn't actually say that. Many of my passengers have been bringing up the election in the cab, and always end the ride with that question: where's your vote going? Well, I'm so over the incessant bickering both sides keep aiming at each other. And I have no party affiliations. I can't stand the smooth plastic politician, nor the backwoods anti cosmopolitan blur of an opposite extreme. I'm a registered independent. An essential issue for me is that we stop using fossil fuels and nuclear energy all together, no matter how costly it is to our lifestyles of convenience. That's not going to happen under either administration, but at least Obama understands somewhat. And Biden takes the train home everyday, which I can look up to. My other concern is war. Again, there's one side that's at least aware of the utter stupidity. Nobody 'wins' such a horrendous activity, and ironically it makes the threat of terror more so. We're not dealing with kindergarteners in need of some rearing here. Hello? And still our beloved GWB utters not a single phrase about the Millenium Project at his UN general assembly speech, yet mentions the word 'terror' 32 times.

Geographically peculiar news bulletin of the week: Somali buccaneers capture Ukranian vessel delivering military gear to Sudan, via the Kenyan port of Mombasa, to be used against rallying refugees who keep pouring into Chad. Such interconnectedness.
I've been studying Mediterranean demographics and cartography in preparation for an adventure this spring. Not sure if these countries allow one to pass through without a return ticket. I think sufficient bank funds are a viable alternative. If anyone has hitch hiked through southern Europe, please share some info. I leave you with this nice quote: 'A good cabby has the sensitivity of a fine butler.' -Mr. Vollo.


Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Highlights from July and August

1. An upbeat elder double date out of eastern Washington state ask to go to the West Village from SoHo.
2. Roadwork, condo construction, and film production perpetuate the nightmares of traffic nonflow.
3. A single, middle aged New Yorker heads over to sign adoption forms for an Ethiopian infant. The honored cabdriver credits her with kudos for her wisdom.
4. Brisbanite of Polynesian descent proudly fulminates Qantas as the only airline free of fatalities.
5. Guitar and vocalist for the rock band 'Betty' rides aloofly backseat from ABC to NoHo.
6. Swiss suit shares tales of hitchhiking from Venezuela through the Amazon.
7. Swedish duo get a royal tour from the Regency hotel to Atlantic Yards via scenic FDR drive with a view of four monstrous bridges. The boy wants to find "street wear", so the cabdriver recommends Fulton Street mall.
8. Russian lady whose husband is an absent Turkish sea captain has me carry an a/c unit up 5 flights for a generous tip.
9. Peruvian nanny and a little boy communicate so adorably on the way home from a Zionist private school. She shows off the few words in Hebrew she's learned.
10. It seems no one in NYC is ever interested in improving their alternate merging skills.
11. Paid a visit to the mud puddles of the Willets Point district, haggled a bit, and replaced broken automotive glass that some Brooklyn teens must have practiced on.
12. Took my Houstonian cousin on a camping trip to the Catskill mountains.
13. Joined the Parks & Recreation Department here in NYC and I've begun using their gyms/indoor pools about three times a week.
14. Moved into a small apartment in south central Queens with my parents in order to save money to travel the Mediterranean on a shoestring late this winter. They're in their 50s and the thought of them aging never crosses my mind. Occasional moments of concern do emerge, but then passengers pass through my taxicab to demonstrate that health and age don't have to be codependent. Merialis, a 67 year old superwoman who just attained her black belt in karate, serves on the Connecticut board of ecotourism. And a guy my father's age, who piles his bicycle in my trunk, pedals in daily from Sheepshead Bay to work in Manhattan. Today his wheel caved in on itself. The spokes must've been loose for too long and he hadn't known to tighten them. Unlike in the Bucket List, these folks actually mend their adventures into their daily routines, not some last minute punch list. Mine is going to be Portugal, Morocco, Spain, Croatia, Albania, and Greece come February or so. Then Palestine, Jordan, and Egypt. And a return to the states via Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Austria, Germany, Holland, France, and Britain.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

He pushes fruitcake elucidations of the Gotham

Juxtapositions of ethnicities that sit in the taxicab on a daily basis amaze me. And even more befuddling is when months go by without a single Filipino passenger, and then four pop up within a week. Mind you that 62,058 of them live in NYC. One of them was an adorably diminutive, yet thoroughly sagacious gastroenterologist on his way to BIMC. The second, an iron willed secretary of an important surgeon at Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, who spends every last nickel sending her child to the best school in Manhattan. The third, a charismatic sculptor whose day job is interior design. The fourth, an older and much less Amerissimilated agent of Manilabound tourism at the nonprofit building which houses the consulate. She lives walking distance but was running late that day. A sprinkle of vexillology to top off the paragraph: flag of Phillipines and Czech Republic are astoundingly similar, considering they have nothing in common, cultural nor geographic. Same for Indonesia and Poland. It's as if Oceania and Eastern Europe were destined to be each other's parallel alternates.

Motoyuki, a ship engine salesman from Osaka, entered the cab near Chelsea Market and explained that his name means "being honest" as we careened towards the WiFi hotspot of Murray Hill. "That was fun", said an older businesswoman en route to the NY Yacht Clubhouse. The otherwise 20 minute cab ride up Avenue of the Americas lasted 420 seconds at 6:30 am. It pays to rise with the sun when surface transportation is your mode.  
   
A retired NYU administrative staffer fought her way into the cab as a brisk breeze blew. She claims to know every nook among these urban canyons where the angles made by the crisscrossing of several streets combine with open air squares to create acute drafts of wind that have been known to knock people down. She's keen on these micro jet streams since a hip replacement sensitized her.   

Four suits on their way to the Apple store by Grand Army Plaza, speak in tongues and act like they're preparing to jump out of a helicopter and into a battlefield, assigning each other roles. Something about the mayor confronting someone over buying out the Wendy's Corp. You drop them off at some sort of live, televised press conference. They beat around the bush when you inquire. "Come pick me up later. I wish every cabdriver drove like you." 

A tax lawyer, whose obscure accent is a blend of the Queens he grew up in and the Ireland his father who raised him is from, warms up to the psychologist cabdriver you bring out in yourself and shares what plagues his mind: "My job is to help rich people get richer (in court). It's morally corrupt because they just sit on it like eggs, while people with less who strive to succeed and do the right thing have no access to fair and square distribution of wealth".

I love how much easier it is to talk with someone about their hometown once you've swallowed a good book about that region. I remember as a little squirt borrowing the straight, dry lists of factual trivia from the library. Nowadays I seek out endearing sociopolitical stories in order to touch the more human spirit side of my favorite subject: geography. So I just finished this book, which has made my conversations with Brazilian passengers all the more alchemized. I'm unto another one now, about how this guy escaped hell on the fringe of his continent and started over in New York. However, I'm bound to run into more Sierra Leonese cabdrivers than back seat passengers. Still, no less potent a dialogue. 

The turbulent state of our economy has shown its face in my cab these past few weeks. Many passengers on their way to job interviews after getting laid off from big shots in the financial world. Not sure where their next pay check might come from. Yet too much in denial to admit that a cab ride is no longer in their budget. The manager of a Starbucks in Midtown had me reverse the cab until it lied near a storefront covered completely by newspaper, cardboard, and tape. Inside was the hollow skeleton of what used to be a cafe. She was shocked by the thrill on my face when asked to help load some boxes. I'm in desperate need of less mental exercise and more perspiration, as muscle atrophy and spinal paralysis looms amidst 240 hours of car seat posturing. So we delivered a full cab load of coffee shop paraphernalia another location that isn't going out of business and I was rewarded with an iced Macchiato.       

In enters a 'friendly' man who until yesterday was a diamond dealer, and is now in search of a new 'career'. Thanks for the 10% tip. It really demonstrated your appreciation for my willingness to take you six mangled, gridlocked blocks in the opposite direction as my garage, where the cab was due back in 15 minutes so that the night driver (who has 3 children to feed) could start his shift. Remember my off-duty lights were lit, doors clamped shut, and I decelerated only because your face was moaning in agony and your finger was pointing towards Brooklyn. You even blasted the synthetic air that gives me migraines on this gorgeous, no-where-near humid day of 81 degrees and gas is at $4.33/g.. I feel like I got manhandled by you in half a dozen different ways. Where'd all those diamonds go? People only keep what they give. Therefore we're losing nearly everything. This man had got so sympathetic with me when I mentioned that dad is Israeli. He even shared his handful of distorted Hebrew phrases for a few moments. And your mom? She's Colombian. Oh. Awkward gap. Take it all back. Nothing against latinos. Just lost the mutual Jew 'contact high', that's all. The only way to correct having humiliated someone is by being humiliated. 




Saturday, June 7, 2008

itinerant irrefutabilities

Far away from ever being the victim of an existential crisis. That's you. The dawnielitoic beings have arrived in a grease capsule to work on a vegetable farm in Virginia. If you could reclaim the freedom you once knew, you'd be there in a pulse throb. Farming is one of those dharmic human doings worth having your ignorance deplored about. But here you are in the city without a way out, for now. So into the taxicab we go for another hundred mile cacophony of scribbles on the street map of your life.

A pair of 'Ash the Berber' types, but Irish, tip selflessly for a smooth ride
 from the Bowery to West Fourteenth.
A humorous old man travels crosstown to the diagnostic imaging place. One of his jokes: "...a cabdriver speeds up and runs a red light. speeds up again and runs another red. does it a third time. then approaching a green light, he outright sits on the brakes. why'd you stop here of all places? because you never know when there might be another cabdriver running the red light." Don't know about you, but that had me laughing hard. In enters another old man, but in a sharp suit and with no signs of decrepitness, he requests a ride up to Spanish Harlem. As you drop him off in front of the GoSo office, he gets awfully hubristic about his role in reducing recidivism among young men.  

A wise young lady who reminds you of Daina Thomas just has to go a few blocks along E 72nd. Says she likes to interview cabbies and asks for your feelings over the credit card machines. She's collecting a rainbow of hackney responses for a letter she'll be writing the mayor. It's a tradition she has kept up ever since Mr. Dinkins himself actually wrote her back in 1990. You get political with your next passenger, a slick Egyptian buck, over the 
unethical behavior of most governments for the sake of monetary comfort and complacency. One thing in particular is strongly agreed upon: "rather be homeless on the streets than to know someone died because of me." And the next fare is an Asian-California girl who just spent months touring the country to organize rallies for the Hillary campaign and is a bit bummed about it being over. And then a Jersey couple whose family is visiting from India try real hard to negotiate a flat rate to Niagara Falls and back, which is impossible to do in a dozen hours, and they wouldn't want to embark at 4:30 am anyhow. But there's no getting through to them.   

An engineer who just returned from erecting a skyscraper in Dubai catches a ride from the Flower District to his one night crib while boasting the fact that Antarctica is the only place he hasn't been. It could have been a fascinating chat, but instead you drown in his vainglorious hypnotism. You yell something at someone through the window just to break up the stale monotony of his voice. You head back downtown vacant and available until an elder  Italian Jew and his alert little granddaughter step in, bound for the salute-to-Israel parade. He tells his tale of driving a retired 1970s NYC Caprice yellow cab through  24,000 miles
 of Latin America and beyond. Next in is a modest guy who looks like the helicopter pilot on Airwolf, the 1980s TV series that was among a handful of afternoon anesthetics your mom was clever enough not to let you watch too much of when you'd come home from school. He said he'd look up the resemblance on You Tube. Side note:  If a Benz or BMW driver gets angry when you cut him off with your yellow cab, tell them "hey, I've got to earn my swanky beamer too. Ya know?" (ya right).                 

To get home and hear your sister recalling her great day at the summer internship  makes each grueling shift worthwhile. You accidently hooked her up with this spot while being the random yellow cab that stopped when the fashion wizard's business partner hailed his hand up high a few weeks ago. It's going to look so good on her resume.
Synchronicities happen often enough to keep you ceaselessly humble, but only if you're outside the mental bubble enough to intercept them. I leave you with 2 outs
tanding photographs a Viennese friend took while riding in the cab.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

tzeubim anahnu

5 am in the city of New York. The Brooklynites are still asleep. But on Ladies Mile there's a eurofemme duo bound for home (the East Village). They chat back seat in English by way of two differing accents. Perhaps Deutsch and Francois? Self eject and in enters an athletic missy who goes 50 blocks and disappears into a subway pit. Scratch my head and then oh, it's also an entrance for Equinox. The 3rd fare's a redheaded boy in a sharp suit. Jumps in at Kell's Hitchen and off we go to FiDi. Soon as he says "best way is to stay on 9th and take Varick", he apologizes and says "you probably already know that". Cabbie's reply: "Comparing notes! That's a fantastic idea. Especially during rush hour." 

#4 is a short fare. Chelsea to St. Vince. She's petite, polite, and tips 75%. #5 isn't noteworthy. Neither is #6. Just bland, dried out suits. And then a guy gets in slobbering voraciously on a red apple, so I'm thinking: yes, this one's laid back. But no. He immediately freaks out about the rubber cushion lining that's sticking out of the door frame at him. "I'll let the garage know to fix that this afternoon. It's always one thing or another with these cabs." 
"I SEE THAT" (why the wise guy attitude?) 
And I can't say "go find yourself another taxi" cause sis needs monthly MetroCard funding, art supplies, lunch money, etc. and mom/dad need support getting through their mortgage woes and homeownership gone criminalized in general. 

Midmorning four suburban housewives climb out of the Long Island Railroad staircase and have tickets to their favorite syndicated American TV talk show. Giggling the entire ride up about every idiosyncrasy they can spot from their window view of my beloved human circus of a city, they join a monotonous herd minded line at ABC studios.    

A blond euroman in an immaculate suit you wrote off early on in the trek (Theater District to Museum Mile) as being sterile and aloof, turned out to be so neat. As we traversed across 96th Street, under Central Park, for the last leg of the journey, he asked me if the narrow sidewalk is bicyclable. He took a cab this first time in order to scope out the prospect of a two wheeled commute, soon to be his routine. Excitedly, I recommended the circuit that runs within the park's perimeter, which is a whole lot safer and surrounded by the fragrance of trees. He mirrored my enthusiasm instantly and his seeming pompousness melted entirely. Silence ought not pervade the space between cabdriver and passenger unless an official indifference has been formally established. 

Then from one part of the Upper East Side to another, this euromom and her two gringosified children sit tight as we weave, squeeze, wail, swerve, and honk to lessen the shame on their faces for being late to an appointment. "Story of my life", says the adorable Scandinavian mother. 

A straightshooting yet tenderhearted suit guy has you take him from Turtle Bay to FiDi. He's understanding of the little manifesto you mumble to him when the lanes that feed into the FDR above 34th St. get real backed up. "When my last day as a yellow cabbie arrives and I'm stuck at this spot, I'm going to drive right over that low concrete slab that divides ramp road from highway. I either won't need my license anymore anyway, or I'll slip away undetected and be able to brag about it to all the sucker motorists. 

Shortly after that fare I encountered another, from Two Bridges to Bowling Green with a suit feller so extremely square that I'd label him an eccentric for gawking at every perfectly comprehensible phrase I uttered, like "I'm going to take South Street unless you have a better idea." As if my kidnapping of him was underway. 

Some dude holding a loaded laundry hamper hailed from a Greenwich Village curbside. As you extended your wing flaps outward and steered the wheel in at him, a mack truck slowed from 30 to zero in 3 seconds and signaled a right turn, which instead of making, he pulled over in front of your client all angle posed like a cop car at a scene. As you hovered forward to pull in a head of it, the dude nearly destroyed his own flip flops trying to run out into the street with his heavy sack and get your attention (which he already had). Once inside, he said, "can't trust those trucks". Your reply: "tell me about it! Just last week one ripped my side view mirror off, left it dangling by the wires scraped some paint, and proceeded to take off through heavy traffic, like nothing had occurred. You followed it and used the next red light as a stage for dialogue. 

I had the honor of transporting the MoMa cafe's Trinidadian chef with boxes of fresh produce from Union Square to the 54th St. loading dock. She is so hardcore and awesome. And towards the end of the shift I had the pleasure of taking a dentistry professor to the main NYU and we exchanged tidbits of etymology. He taught me that pediatrics comes from babies having their foot in their mouths. I in turn taught him that vexillology is the study of flags. Important word for someone who grew up memorizing those of every nation and their geo
graphic outline.          

                          
                                                                                               

Saturday, March 22, 2008

neripheral potoriety

Good Friday at four in the a.m.. A plastered monomaniac hails my orange yellow streaks to a halt on the cadaverous streets of Nolita. He wants to go home (Pattery Bark City) and then requires hands on assistance with touch screen and visa swipe. I hand him his receipt and help him out of the cab. He says "I love you man" and hugs me insalubriously. Taxi remains vacant until a sudden swarm of cabs directly in front of me quickly clot up 11th, as people pour out of webster hall. One late-teen Latin-Am kid with a robust New York accent steps in and corroborates 172th by Wort Fashington. After a silent ride up the FDR, I utter the only phrase of the night: "If I'd been raised up here, I'd have spent my childhood walking across that majestic bridge." He responds flatly, "why?". Different worlds. Two fares later the sun is beginning to pop out from under Nuffolk and Sassau counties and I give this grandiloquent hipster a ride out to White Slope. "85% of cops are sociopaths. NYPD pulled me off the subway and cuffed me into an ambulance to central booking in Brooklyn for an open container the other night. My dad happens to be a top notch attorney....". I'll agree with him on one thing for sure: Cops have the tendency to be unreasonably spiteful, and that is quite frankly so unprofessional of them.  

As dawn transforms into a full fledged weekday morning on the streets of Manhattan, I have the honor of transporting one of the friendliest passengers I've ever (16 months) taken, clear across 57th from east to west. We discuss a range of ideas in a truly peer atmosphere, whereas most professionals of her stature would have come off at least a tad bit patronizing. Turns out she's with that mag and we marvel symbiotically at the way the futuristic glass tower she works at stems right out of an old landmark building. It resembles a truncated version of Seattle central public library's architecture. As noon approaches I spot a large tribe of confused upscale Korean families trying to pack unto an eastbound hybrid SUV cab on West 23rd. Some of them pile in with me and ask that we follow the other. Their daughter wants to study art in NYC, and we dive into a language barriered, yet utterly animated chat about how art for the sake of expressing meaningful human urgency is so unexpendable. They pass around my collage journal of maps that display the route of any given day shift and brief accompanying descriptions of the wide passenger spectrum.               

As the afternoon matures, my fares remain somewhat noteworthy. Four dude boy tourists from Quebec hop in near FIT and ask for Chinatown. "The real one with alleys that smell of fish and vegetables with no english names?" I try to seduce them, but of course they're only interested in fake trinkets on Canal Street. Next a posh waitress from Solita to Murray Hill, who tries to hide a pooch in her coat, until it starts to squeal. Her cellular discourse lasts the entire trip, and is about the fish cutter at the restaurant where she works, who died of cancer and his family can't afford a burial, so everyone is pooling their tips, and it's SUCH a drag.    

The last chain of fares begin with a cute young orthodox couple from Mt. Sinai to way the F out in Boro Park. We see a jam on the BQE from across the river and our mutual brainstorm leads us away from the bridge, through the tunnel, and down Hamilton Avenue. After maneuvering along back roads to avoid traffic, making good time, and serving them with a smile, they painstakingly add 70 cents to a $41.30 fare. It's OK tho, cause I get to witness the rambunctious extent of an ongoing Purim pandemonium on every block. And my sweetest Brooklyn dream unfolds when that first fare becomes three or four more non-Manhattan fares. Like an outer-borough pinball machine from Kensington to Midwood. Then the Gowanus to Sunset Park. And finally from Atlantic Yards to Bushwick. On the way back to the island of money, two signs catch my attention: "Eco-accountability" and "Love your neighbor preemptively". 

Friday, March 14, 2008

livelihoods

I've got a new cell# (718)614-0181. Free front seat on-duty taxi tour of n.Y.c still available. Call to book a ride any day (but Sat.) btw 5 am and 16:00. Notify one hour prior to arriving at Union Square for pick up by Gandhi statue.

Another reminder if you're a New Yorker:
Tomorrow (Mar 15) from 9 to midnight at Sultana's on N.4/Bedford in W burg 
you can dance to Tunisian + Moroccan music for free (and live Sephardic band).

Some highlights from the yellow cab:
#1. An oddball in his early 20s uses my services to go hunt for the glossy black land rover that his boss left parked in front of a bus stop, across from a see and be seen bar the night before. We circle around thrice and even check the side streets until I convince him that it's probably been towed to the NYPD pound. He slides a debit card that his boss gave him to pay for the fare and punches in a tip on the back seat touch screen. Total: $107 (for 12 minutes of pecunious ballyhoo for easter egg reconnaissance via taxi). The kid explains that his boss is perpetually wasteful and so he wants to safeguard some wealth under the wings of a worker. Finally something makes up for the hundreds of non tippers and various traffic/parking fines I've accumulated. 

#2. While inching along 9th Avenue in the lower 40s, and catching 2 to 3 lights per block through a dawdling impasse, my eyes follow this mail carrier who methodically stops in front of each passing pedestrian and toots a little bicycle squish horn that is attached to his push cart, smiles wide and says 'how's by you today'. And in between, when he's got the sidewalk to himself, he wails away on that bugle like a 3rd world megaphone in an open air market. Not one person manages to hold back a grin, nod, chuckle, or hoedown.

#3. A couple of spunky mid aged suits absorbed in chatter the entire trip from TriBeCa to the Theater District speak in amalgamated tongues except twice when they caught my attention:             
A) "That's so Bear Stearns. That is so, like, kitchen sink. Totally man."
B) "You're asking ME if that's being too greedy?"
C) I wish I had an iTalk so I could let you listen to how opinionated many passengers were about Mr. Spitzer this week. And I didn't even ask for any. It's how they broke the ice with me. Since I don't care so much for the details concerning that, I won't recall how
 folks reacted.

Monday, February 11, 2008

Esophagus Soup

Eleven degrees and atramental at six am. Taxi murmurs motionless at a red. I gaze at the 192 flagless poles of the UN headquarters. A discreet duo of corporate pigeons abruptly pop open the back door and shove their shivering bodies into my clement cacoon of a cab. "61st Street, the L.A. sports club, please driver." Gyms are good places to thaw out your bones. A few fares later I pick up an 'easy come, easy go' Boriqua woman, who explains her role as 'medical biller' for much of the ride from Hamilton Heights to the hospital in Lenox Hill. Clerical and quite boring. Just as she boasts being in charge of the cardiovascular division, two people call in, directly to her cell, that they're unable to emerge from under warm blankets and are opting for a sick day. Her sighs are of understanding though, as we careen down Amsterdam Avenue. One fare melts into another as this scruffy dude from Ukraine, in Carhartt overalls, has me take him to the district of galleries. Then the man who steps out of an animal clinic and says his hometown of RI is a mafia state, while holding a dog who's soon having adrenocortical carcinoma removed. Right beside us a white lady cop pulls over a white lady in a compact car for not wearing her seat belt. Rare combination. A couple miles further up an agent from Department of Transportation pulls alongside some Con Edison trucks on Avenue of the Americas that are stationed on the middle two lanes, clotting up the flow of traffic with uncovered 'manholes' and orange cones. I watch as the agent snaps harshly at their perpetual cigarette break. They snap back with union rhetoric. All in a good NYC day shift.    

Thursday, January 31, 2008

Que Berraquera

At the end of a grueling midmorning crosstown ride, don't make the cabdriver proceed into your block if it's only three doorways down from the corner where another passenger awaits service, and you have no heavy cargo to unload. This can make an enormous difference in the cabbie's daily total. It's all about the turnover rate. Never mind the tip.


A retired news photographer hailed me on E 72nd and the whole way over to Hell's Kitchen his memories of chasing after structure fires, homicide scenes, political rallies, and celebrity sightings are regurgitated by our urgent maneuvering of the avenues. Seconds after he steps out, a gypsy lady gets in and wants Lincoln Center. What starts out as a smile quickly turns into an avalanche of slurs and sounds of coke being snorted, and ends with the seat cushion being hurriedly slapped clean. And she remembers to pay the fare. 

After witnessing an elder entrepreneur from Mali get refused by three cabs just above Times Square, I welcome him in. He's headed back to his African art gallery in westernmost Chelsea and speaks of fighting to keep the home he owns in an increasingly Hebraic neighborhood across the Hudson, where they pay a third of the property taxes in order to cleanse it of 
its gentiles. Later on an ambulance runs me off the road as I escort some web designer from his office in the Flatiron district to his apartment off Wall Street. We joke that its driver must have spun and scratched many a turntable record, telling from the unctuous styles of his siren blares. 

If I preoccupied myself with finding a lawful parking spot at each urge to urinate, I'd literally be making single digits an hour. So instead I stay on duty until a metered space materializes. With a 200 minute long bloated bladder I pull into a vacancy on Bleecker and drop quarters into the pole. The manager at Manatus refuses to allow me relief because I'm not a customer. He sees my taxi in the window and I remind him that I'm the customers' transportation. Find out who finally lets me pee.
 
Every now and then a passenger
 wearing oversized headphones enters the cab and voices their destination in accidentally high decibels. And for the remainder of the ride it's the same with anything they feel like saying. Amusing and simultaneously obnoxious. Then there are those riders who make my day with comments like: "that was the safest, yet fastest taxi trip I've ever had. Got there in record time, and my pancreas isn't in my throat." Sometimes my own mother calls me up to see if I can take her shopping for Kosher products in South Williamsburg. We always try out new stores, but the Satmar community rarely fails to leave her feeling alienated and unwelcome. You'd think they'd be into people buying their theosophical food. Go figure.  
  

Saturday, December 29, 2007

Gimme 22 minutes, I'll give you the world.

Before I go into tales of cabdriving, I'd like to invite my dearest New Yorkers on a bicycle adventure this Saturday (5th). It's my only day off. A friend and I plan to pedal through Flushing Meadows Park, stop by the Queens art museum, ride over the GW/Bayonne bridges for great views of NYC from NJ, and board the SI ferry back into town. I have an extra bike. Get in touch.  

This past Friday I drove the PM shift for the first time. Just wanted to get a taste. No plans to make it a habit cause my body gets better rest at night. First fare a Dutch couple I mistook for Scandinavians. They taught me the correct pronunciation of Brooklyn (Breukelen) and swapped spots with a traditional Texan family en route to a sybaritic restaurant on the UES. The aging macho father sits up front, annoyed at his newly married daughter's back seat inquiries: "Dad, do you want to visit the cigar bar after dinner? But first we have to find out if blue jeans are allowed." They're in for a disappointment. Soon the roles are a switched again, with a sumptuous, semi-elder French mossback couple entering and uttering a single word: "Peninsula". Nightly rates at that place and the size of my tip are like night and day. I guess its exact address should have been in my rote memorization, along with 40,000 other locations. Or perhaps I should have gone to taxi school in London, not Queens Plaza. I'll remember places I can relate to. So, no, saying "it's by abercrombie & fitch" doesn't clarify anything. I swear it's so much more fun, less time consuming, more spiritually rewarding, and just as lucrative to take two working class women to the nearest subway station from their alphabet city housing project. After that it's on to some intoxicated dude duo that stumbles out of a busy club and politely request Penn Station. All trip long, one deplores the other for having made out with someone who had an ugly face. "Yeah, but the rest of her body was nice." Blah bla bl b. Time to go back to NJ, boys!  Then at around midnight this pre-adolescent was operating his remote control taxicab right out in the middle of a heavily trafficked strip along St. Marks Place in the East Village. From the safety of the sidewalk this kid navigates the little toy car back to the curb , narrowly avoiding it getting crushed.  

Final fare of the night was by far the best. At 3:39 am an old Polish lady headed home to Maspeth (Queens) stood at the corner of 6 Av and 28th. Her coworkers from the largest department store in the world had just treated her to a few drinks. She had her head poked through the partition the entire ride as she chatted unscrupulously with me, comparing her miserable 75 hour workweek with mine. Laughing ferociously at the mutual list we assembled of similarities between customers at Macy's and typical taxi passengers. Wish I had a grandmother like that.         
           
On Thursday my friend Cassandra, an upbeat schoolteacher from Florida, rode along in the cab with me and had a great time sightseeing New York as we delivered people all over town. She had considered riding one of those double decker bus tours, but discovered this was much better for plenty of reasons. Around two dozen acquaintances have taken me up on my "on duty taxi copilot" offer since last winter. Don't wait too long. I might be retiring from the taxicab profession as early as early this autumn. Outside of hacking, my life has revolved around trying to deplete resources in the kitchen so they don't rot in this apartment that is devoid of all its residents for nearly three weeks, except for the one solitary cabbie who stayed in town. Also, I'm serious about memorizing the lyrics for that song "They want EFX" by DAS EFX, to use as performance art in social situations where the air needs slicing, like bread. Ever heard that song. So intricate. 



Saturday, December 22, 2007

somnambulance

I must start keeping tape and scissors in the glove box from now on, because I love the idea someone had of posting an article on the wall at the JFK taxi hold that's relevant to cabdrivers, and watching them crowd around in a half circle and hullabaloo over its implications. The one hanging up this week was about undercover TLC enforcers hailing cabs just to see if we deter them from swiping a credit card. At 10 am the lot had 40% capacity and 'regular activity'. But still it took until 12:30 to get into a terminal. Too long of a wait that results in sub-minimum wage earnings by the end of the shift. 

The young English couple I drop off at Millenium Hilton graciously add $10 to the flat fare, and switch places with a post-teen j.a.p. who is late to her afternoon shift in the Garment District. After stepping off the East River teleportation device unto 42nd, which vacuums the taxicab westward in 400 seconds, I let her off on 6 Av, and point her in the right direction. No need for either of us to agonizingly endure that specific crosstown street (39th) she had first requested. It only takes a couple seconds of pep talk for her to agree that 792 feet are completely walkable. Moments later Times Square yields a pair of Spaniards on route to the liberty tours heliport for an insanely priced panorama of New York. And just down a dusty road in far northwestern Chelsea two Germans hop in, needing to be rerouted to the other helipad, way downtown.  The meter prints its final receipt of the day and, like divine geo-synchronism, the bridge home to Brooklyn awaits just up ahead. 

With one red light on Water Street left to sit thru, I watch dozens of stranded people waving at me, and all the other off-duty cabs around. I roll down the window to ask the plainclothes lady nearest to me if she's going to Brooklyn, cause I'd take her free of charge. The only opportunity all day to bring carpool/ridesharing ideologies to life and she shreds it to pieces. "I'm a cop", she boasts. "What's your medallion number, I'm reporting you." It's true the TLC does make it illegal to ascertain a passenger's destination before they get in. However, that rule exists to keep drivers from being pick-and-choosy about fares throughout the course of a shift. Because everyone deserves to go where they need to go, regardless of distance (within the 5 boros). But between 15:30 and 17:00 it's a whole other ball game. Cabdrivers MUST return the cabs to their respective garages so the night shift can go out. This is when it is essential that people on the streets of Manhattan understand something very clear and simple: negotiating patiently until you match the direction you're going with that of an off-duty cabdriver is the ONLY way to keep the first part of an evening rush hour from paralyzing NYC. Or do you like the 3rd world conditions? If so, keep dialing 3-1-1 like righteously ignorant gringos.
 

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

This one hit me like a brick.

"I do not understand how a government agency can require a privately owned business to accept anything other than United States Currency, or a government voucher. In my opinion this is a dangerous precedence and I hope that someone will pursue this issue further. If taxi companies choose to accept credit cards that is one thing. The government should not be forcing anyone to do business with VISA, MasterCard or American Express. This is outrageous."
— Posted by SF Taxi Driver
(EXCERPT TAKEN FROM COMMENTS ON http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/ )

Monday, December 10, 2007

I'd rather live in Sunset Park

A combination of radioactive diarrhea and wet, quasi-frozen street surfaces kept me from opting for 2-wheel transportation today. Besides, buses allow for further readings of The Brooklynites, an awesome book with images of 'random' people who live in this borough and captions that capture their voices. And now we dive into that yellow cab. Fastforward the reading tempo: This matter-of-fact kind of person asks to be delivered from the spotlight of a street lamp in SoHo to an underground parking garage in NoLita. It's a 2.5 minute long fare that might seemingly exasperate a cabbie, but to me it's nothing less than the first trip of the shift, a great warmup calisthenic (12 hours yield 20 to 35 fares total). Then a suit comes bouncing smugly round the corner. The moment I turn left, his grin makes sudden sense. He's beat someone with lots of luggage, to my taxi. There goes an early airport fare (extra miles mean meter multiplicity in pre-cockcrow trafficlessness). The next 4 uncarpooled fares (ecological karma descending fast as the ascending national debt) materialize as 4 sterile suits. All display similar behavior: a gray area between 'best bud' and genuine prick. One tries swiping his debit card over and over while the bellman opens and closes, and opens his door in utter confusion. Another standoffish, but potentially flamboyant suit is expedited from Battery Park to Central Park South.

I love how after a certain hour the suits are all in their conference cubicles and everyone hailing a cab from that point on is a character of some sort. An elder whose life brims with synchronicity and she glows because of it. The Guatemalan futbol fanatic who brings me up to date on global preparations for world cup 2010 in South Africa. An rt gallery assistant who promises to teach me Mandarin. The Scottish dancer on crutches who lies on the phone about being 5 minutes away for her doctor's appointment, and the FDR Drive that facilitates it from being too far from the truth. Some down-to-earth guy with a feathered hat. An immaculate expedite (minimal use of brakes for any reason and wise grid navigation by maximizing use of traffic light patterns) of a young lady from Essex Market in the LES to the Film Forum in NoCa is rewarded with an 80% tip. An NJ girl appreciates the bright blue jacket compliment, which I spot a 1/2 block away. It's the 1st time she "successfully hails a cab from across 14th street like that".

Finding myself surrounded in a sea of empty cabs with numbered roof lights brightly lit is like having my tail between my legs. Independent, yet humiliated... and seeking to go off on a tangent, ASAP. Technical tip for fellow cabbies: cruise up the Bowery from Delancey to Houston for droves of art zealots exiting this recently opened venue. That one goes out to Aziz, the Moroccan cabbie I met at LGA, who's trying to write a better guide for NYC taxi drivers than the one that's currently offered. He confirmed the intuition which led me to believe that Arabization of northwestern Africa was heralded by the Yemenites. But that does not take away from the fact that the world's greatest accordionists and Salsa musicians are Colombian. And don't forget: no left turns from 57th unto Broadway between 8 and 19:00, unless it's Sunday.

Friday, November 30, 2007

Q) Where are you from? A) I'm from my mother.

Bobo, the apologetic Haitian dispatcher reports zero taxi vacancies this morning. "You don't believe how many drivers I send home already." It's looking like Sabbath is forced to be my 6th working day again this week. It's the peak season in which cabbies maximize their turnout. Days leading up to this have had the widest range of revenue. Anywhere from $30 to $230 in the pocket per shift. Boiled dogs in the lunch bag save a Lincoln from those sidewalk carts .

Noteworthy/heartwarming riderships this week:
An older businessman mutters "happy holidays" and hands me a Hamilton for a $4.10 fare. An upbeat mid age suit eagerly points out Tavern on the Green as the secret shortcut (I never knew about) to avoiding Columbus Circle bottlenecks. A Mexican florist going just two East Village blocks with cardboard carrying trays containing efflorescence that cover 100% surface area back seat and trunk. Some fuzzy French dude in a furry trenchcoat: says he's counting his cash when I 'mistakenly' ask him what book he's reading. The fidgety Italian couple, late to Conde Nast and in need of a lecture: sitting in traffic with the meter running is not as lucrative as it might seem.

The easygoing Californian exhibitioner from Javits Convention Center to Penn Station while everyone else in line was an obvious airport fare. The wide eyed no-English Chinese kid whose jaw was in his lap as I delivered him from the Manhattan Bridge to Borough Park in supersonic speeds, rebounding to Boerum Hill so the night driver can start on time. The prosecutor of organized crime that I couldn't see at first in that thick pre-dawn darkness, until his pale hailing hand stuck out inches from my cab. The clan of proud Boriquas and their conga drums rolling around the trunk as I Willieburg bridged away from the LES. Clerk of an architectural firm who chats about DOT's lack of utilizing known traffic patterns to solve problems.

Early Sunday morning drunk professional who hides it well from Flatiron to Astoria, followed immediately by a Roosevelt Island bound fare with an odd language on the cellular, and then a Brette Favre look-a-like back to Manhattan, closing a lovely circuit all before the sun even comes out. The undocumented supermarket employee who realizes he forgot a lawyer's form that allows him to be seen at the doctor's appointment in Bay Ridge. I expedite him all the way back to Bronx and then Brooklyn. I browse the atlas for 95th street, spot it in Brownsville, but later learn of the huge mistake. It's the other 95th. The one by the Verrazano bridge. A journey in which I lost money, disengaging the meter, for it wasn't his fault. The whole ordeal due to the fact that he was struck by an SUV while on his bicycle last week.

And a few random tidbits... an Access-a-ride bus blocking the taxi stand at port authority during rush hour and the orchestra of horns that blared behind it. The six o clock hour with 96.7 FM, an unlicensed station, broadcasting jewish pirate radio: debates in hebrew with arabic accents and ashkenazi ones disagreeing on everything, but the reception is bad.
Later on in the day I witness a man's green cloak get caught in the sliding door of a Sienna mini van taxi across the median on Park Avenue. Slow motion moment when the light turns green and he gets violently yanked to the ground. Something inside says he probably needed a good reality check like that.

Each dawn I pedal my red Peugeot or hop on the B38 down Dekalb to Flatbush and walk over to the taxi garage. Afternoon same deal. Radio says it takes 3L of H20 to create 1 bottle of bottled water. There are only 31 or so female firefighters in the FDNY. Regular unleaded holds steady at $2.25/gallon.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Monday, November 19, 2007

Una Gran Manzana

Bushwick was the first neighborhood I called home when I moved to New York. And in that same corner of Brooklyn is where I found housing affordable enough to establish a suitable address for my little sister, her two schoolmates, and our mother... all new transplants from Florida. Living under the same roof since August, we've adapted well, and maximized the occupant capacity with the arrival of my father. It's a commonwealth consisting of three college students, an electrician uprooted from the tropics thanks to economic upheavals, a social worker/housekeeper who can't live without her adult children, and a yellow cabbie who has postponed world travel plans to provide the aforementioned people with general sustenance until they can stand on their own ten feet. It's been seven months since I jumped back into the taxi profession full force, and a lot has changed since I first got my hack license (last year). GPS is now in the cabs and well, every handful of shifts feels like a half decade's worth of hands on experience with a vast spectrum of socioeconomic anthropology and urban clockwork in this unique city. I keep a notebook of mentionable adventures and serendipities encountered while on duty, which I plan to share on this blog, inspired by fellow cab driver Melissa Plaut, who posts her stories on www.newyorkhack.blogspot.com 

So here we are, embarking on our first full winter season ever as a family unit. We've come along on a counterclockwise rotation around the nation. From L.A. in 1984 to Houston in 1993, to West Palm Beach in 1998, to a post 9.11 big apple. And all the while there was nothing I wanted more than to circle this planet on a bicycle (so to speak). The first rain check that got in the way was college. Then it was paying off college loans as 'steadfastly to avoid interest' as possible. A quick glimpse of South America and now it's back to work, cause I won't allow financial trouble in the family to prevent my little sister from going to the best university for the field she wants to study. And now matters are made worse with the advent of higher monthly mortgage payments and a recession in Florida that is making remunerative employment scarcer for working class people like my parents. Luckily, being a yellow cabbie in New York is so magnanimous and temerarious that it eases, or numbs the psychological burden of a seventy some odd hour workweek. Upcoming entries will zoom in on genuine moments inside (and outside) the 13,087th taxicab as it expedites human beings uptown, downtown, and across town.     

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Gil Avineri
Brooklyn, NY, United States
nomadic collage journalist currently driving a taxi in NYC in order to help younger sister through college, keep parents out of bankruptcy, save money to travel, and collect a solid grasp on human consciousness.
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