Yesterday I confused the voice of Phil Hendrie with that of Keith Olbermann on the am dial. Some cabbies will tell you that the best thing about their shift is eccentric late night and weekend radio programs. Some passengers will get in at Third and Atlantic in downtown Brooklyn and tell you they're going by the Williamsburg Bridge. McDonough and Patchen to be exact. That's deep in Bed-Stuy. Nowhere near the bridge. You'd be taking them the wrong way if you knew no better. About half way down Lafayette they say, "oh, you must live in Brooklyn since you know where you're going." That's also why you know they're bluffing. But you also understand that they're only trying to avoid a refusal. All of Brooklyn ought to be as fair game as Manhattan to all yellow hacks. Let's get that through our thick skulls.
Dear Taxi TV: is it really necessary to play the Smurfs movie ad thrice a fare? That's about 90 times a shift. Dear Gas Station TV: is it really necessary to play M.I.A.'s NY lottery song half a dozen times while I fill up my tank? That's 36 times per an average cabbie's week. I already have a scar tissue lump on my scalp from running into a low basement staircase ceiling in order to avoid a parking ticket after helping a passenger carry several suitcases in from the trunk. I had allowed him to substitute my cab as a residential moving company. No good deed goes unpunished. Like the girl who hopped in on the Lower East Side, going to Carol Gardens at 02:00. As always, I took the quickest route. But repairs on the Brooklyn Bridge have half of it shut down late at night. Since it was my first time using the temporary contra-flow, I had to double check the proper ramps on either side. Sure enough, the traffic agents standing there glared at me with disgust instead of answering my inquiries. Isn't that what they're there for? Why all the unconditional hate?
