Anonymities

This man, ex-governor of New York state, hailed my cab on Columbus Day. He was only going about 20 blocks down Fifth Avenue and I didn't utter a word. I didn't want to embarrass him. Then again, I've been told he's over the whole scandal and that he now has his own CNN show. I just want people to feel comfortable in my taxi. If celebrities want to get noticed, they go to L.A.. If they want to feel anonymous, they stay in New York City. So you're Eliot Spitzer. So what?

What's ironic is that the man who took his place, Governor Patterson, has vetoed the amendment that was passed by both congress and senate, making it a felony to assault a taxi driver. He thought the legislation was too complicated. WTF? I wonder if Spitzer would have vetoed it too. I didn't feel much warmth from the guy anyway.

Two Shifts On A Single Map

SHIFT #1..........................................SHIFT #2

Friday 4/30/10................................Saturday 5/1/10

10 Hours= 5:30 to 15:30................ 11 Hours= 4:00 to 15:00

100 Miles for 32 Fares................... 160 Miles for 29 Fares

$150 Net from $313 Gross......... ....$250 Net from $412 Gross

$105 Lease/$33 Gas/$16 MTA Tax........$105 Lease/$42 Gas/$14 MTA Tax

10 unique situations..........................8 unique situations

UNSOLVED ETHNOLOGIES

I enjoy guessing exactly where and what purpose a passenger is off to when they provide a block or intersection as their destination. Call it creepy. I like to think of it as field work anthropology. A pleasant man in a fancy suit hopped in on Park in the 60s. He requested Fifth between 27 and 26th. Are you going to that building with all the chandeliers in the brightly lit lobby? No, I'm going to the not-so-fancy building across the street. Upon research, I found that it is the NY MarketCenter, 20 historic floors with over 200 showrooms for trade shows from a wide range of product categories. I'll leave it at that for now.

ONE'S STRANGE URBAN LANDSCAPE IS ANOTHER'S WORKPLACE

Just before 9 A.M. a Mexican man hurried out of Grand Central Terminal and approached my window very timidly. It's the second time in two weeks I got a fare to the Mexican Consulate with under 10 minutes to make it there on time for a crucial appointment. I think it's important for cabdrivers to know where it's located and the fastest way to get there from any other point in Manhattan, especially from the transportation hubs they are most likely to come out of. I was on Vanderbilt and 43rd. The consulate is on 39th between Park and Madison. Walking distance, but not if you're clueless. I shot down 43rd, hung a left on Fifth, another left on 41st, a right on Park, and a right on 39th. Voila! One minute early. I had thought about dropping him off on Madison, but he might have gotten lost again.

PASSENGERS FROM LIBYA ARE AS RARE AS THOSE FROM CAPE VERDE

Just before 10 A.M. I was hailed on Eighth by a casual Libyan man named Kamar. He just wanted to go across town to Second Avenue. We conversed about the similarities between Judaism and Islam. I loved his North African accent and he loved my openness. I wonder if he knows that Barnes and Noble flies a flag at the entrance to their bookstores that is identical to that of his country: solid green. Later on I picked up a young lady from the above-mentioned islands off the coast of western Africa. I could not, for the life of me, guess her origin.... something I'm often good at. She herself said people ask her if she's Asian, Latino, etc..

FOLLOWING RULES FOR TAXI DOWN TO THE TEE

Minutes later I was on 43rd and Lexington. A woman was hailing on the west side of the street, which is a big no- no for cabbies between 7 and 1 P.M. I motioned her to cross the street over to my side and to my surprise, she complied. I explained about the anti-taxi signs in the bus lane and she completely understood. She agreed it has become much more common to see cabs pulled over by the police. I hope she spreads the word about crossing the street to hail a cab there.

UNDERSTANDING EXPRESSIONS IN ENGLISH

Even though I moved to the U.S. when I was four years old, I never really learned all of the expressions people use in English because my immigrant parents never used them, nor did my mostly immigrant peers growing up in ethnically diverse parts of L.A. and Houston. I've learned so many new expressions in the last three years, simply from hearing them used in the backseat of my taxi. One lady on her cell phone said, "It's water under the bridge." I initially guessed it meant that 'it' was where 'it' should be (whatever 'it' was). I later discovered (on the web) it means something in the past and no longer important.

THE BEST SHAWARMA IS ON THE TONGUE OF THE BEHOLDER

A family trio on their last day visiting from Ramat Gan (suburb of Tel Aviv) claimed that the Shawarma at Bereket (Turkish spot on Houston Street) is even better than the heavenly stuff on the street back home. I found that hard to believe, so I tried it myself. The Turks call it Doner Kabab, even though it's the same exact thing: meat shaved off a rotating spit. I try to limit my consumption of meat, since it has a negative impact on the planet, but Shawarma is one of my Achilles' Heels. Bereket turned out to be alright, but not as great as the Israelis made it out to be. I've always gone there for Falafel, which they do really well. However, my favorite spot for Shawarma remains the new place on Second, between St. Marks and 7th. It's called Cheep's and it's only $3.75 for a loaded sandwich. That's an unimaginable bargain in NYC, and DELICIOUS!

APPLYING SKILL ORGANICALLY

Just before noon I picked up a guy at Macy's on 34th. He was in an incredible rush to get to 19th and Sixth, and he understood that no left turns could be made until Ninth. He said, "just do your best and I can run from nearby if that's easier." I took Ninth down to 22nd, made a left, and dropped him off at Sixth, so he could run three short blocks. 18th Street would've swallowed more time with all its delivery trucks. This was accomplished in five minutes flat, and was met with a compliment: "You're an excellent taxi driver." Always nice to hear.

ON DUTY IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE

My sister called frantic and in need of a favor. She's at the end of her third year at Parsons New School for Design and she might just be the next big name in fashion. She needed her final essay edited for grammar and content within the next hour. I always carry my little netbook in the cab, so I pulled into the taxi relief stand on 16th, by Union Square. Sure enough, there was free WiFi on that block, and I was able to revise her paper and email it back to her.

CAB RIDE TO MEET WITH A CELEBRITY

I nearly never get anyone famous riding in my cab. I do, however, come within a degree of them. Around 1 P.M. I picked up an eccentric New Yorker in Midtown who was on his phone the whole way up to 77th and Columbus. He was debating over which snacks to serve at some event. He then said, "I am going to meet up with John Fraser right now." Upon later googling the name I discovered he's a renowned chef who owns a restaurant precisely on the corner where I dropped this guy off. I've had world-renowned chefs in my cab before, but I never caught their names.

COAST TO COAST TO SEE HIS DAUGHTER

The last fare of the day was a moody guy who visits his teenage daughter in L.A. bi-monthly. He didn't seem too happy with his life, but I think I managed to uplift him ever so slightly. Since it was already 2 P.M. on a Friday afternoon, we took the local Brooklyn route to JFK.

FROM SHIFT #2

I was taken to work by a cabbie from Uttar Pradesh who has hacked only 1 day a week for 8 years. He spends the rest of his time as a termite exterminator.

A BACHELOR'S DEGREE DON'T MAKE YOU SMART

My first fare was a polite (but drunk) couple who came off as Columbia grad students. They had me transport them from Chinatown back to their uptown abode just after the bars had closed. They tried to pay with a credit card, but the transaction wouldn't go through. I gave them a cash receipt upon cash payment and she asked if she could have the receipt for the first transaction too. "It won't print out because it didn't work," I said. She got real nervous, as if under the impression that she had paid twice. I guess there are some crooked cabbies out there who tell you the credit transaction failed, even after it just processed successfully, so that you pay them in cash as well, essentially doubling the fare. She stumbled out all worried and said she would figure it out in the morning. I hope she figured out that there is nothing to figure out. And it was already morning, by the way, in Morningside Heights.

For those of you who constantly anticipate this happening, know that the great majority of cabdrivers are honest people, regardless of how rude they might seem to you. Driver rudeness comes from overworked jadedness so don't take it personal. If you have to swipe your card a few times before it works, there's no reason to believe it's charging every swipe. Only one successful swipe is possible per fare. If your card is declined or unreadable by the machine, don't assume the driver is secretly scheming to make you pay in cash. Both the cheap machines installed in our cabs by entities we have no control over, and the cards themselves, are unreliable and not in any way our fault. Try to have cash as a backup if you jump in a cab, and please be aware that if you end up making us wait for you to try all of the cards in your wallet or purse, or make us drive around to find you an ATM, the lost time is directly hurting our income for that shift, so tip accordingly.

SLEAZEBALLS GET FREE PIZZA

Another drunk fare entered the cab in Hell's Kitchen and asked to go to a pizzeria on 14th because a gay clerk works there who has a crush on him and always gives him free slices. This guy reminded me of my friend Cormac, but chauvinistically opportunistic. He spoke of the gay clerk the same way he'd speak of easy girls. Cormac isn't like that, but a doppelganger nevertheless.

NEW JERSEY! KNOW YOUR WAY HOME WHEN DRUNK IN NEW YORK

From that same spot two drunk teenage girls got in and asked how much to Jersey City. I said what I always say: regular fare to the tunnel and then double rate, plus the toll. They seemed clueless about directions once inside Jersey, so I held my breath for what might come next. Luckily, they accepted the PATH train alternative. I dropped them off at the Christopher Street station. Later I noticed a South African driver license in the backseat that might have belonged to one of them, but the picture didn't match my memory. Regardless, if you know anyone by the name of Melissa Coton, who left her ID in a yellow cab, please refer them to my email address.

SERVING THE HUMAN BEINGS OF BED-STUY

Because God only know how much they already put up with. Just before sunrise I was returning from a fare out to deep Brooklyn when a black woman and her three children (one an infant) hailed me on the corner of Bedford and Fulton. It's uncommon to be hailed by anyone in that neighborhood, much less a mother with her kids at dawn on a Saturday morning. I have no doubt in my mind that 99% of the other yellow cabs coming down that street would have flown right past them. I'm so glad I was hailed by them because I love serving the under-served segments of my city. To the Ridgewood border they were headed and I rounded the fare from 12 to $10, which she gracefully accepted, appreciatively.

HIPSTERS SEEK YELLOW CABS ON CERTAIN BLOCKS

I've had such good luck coming down a certain street after dropping off anywhere east of Bushwick Avenue, that it's become my routine route of return toward Manhattan. The Mckibben Lofts often have a steady stream of all-night party-goers exiting its doors. Whether they're waiting impatiently for a car service or walking to the L stop, they'll hail me if I roll by. This time I had two foreign hipster ladies, one from Italia and the other from Ecuador, on their way to 92nd and Madison, a $23 fare that most other cabs would have missed in their incessant race back to Manhattan. Why pay the return time and gas out of your own pocket?

DO YOU KNOW OF A GOOD PLACE?

At 7 A.M. I picked up a Montreal documentary filmmaker at Times Square. She's here to interview an elder Jewish writer who survived the Holocaust and she had stayed up all night to organize all of her information. She was headed to breakfast in the Village so she could stroll through Washington Square Park afterward. It's the second time in a couple months that an out- of- towner has asked me to recommend them a diner in the Village. What else but the Waverly? It's either that or 7A Cafe.

AN UPTOWN ROLL ON A SATURDAY MORNING

Downtime? What's that? At 8 A.M. I picked up an Inwood fare in NoHo. Along my return through Hamilton Heights I picked up another Inwood fare. Upon dropping that one off, an East Village fare hopped in. That's what I call an Uptown (and Downtown) roll. $32, 14, and 37.... back to back! And then right before 10 A.M. it happened again. I picked up an Upper West Side fare on Canal Street, and from there I didn't move an inch before a Brooklyn Heights fare hopped in. From that destination I had a lad with 15 minutes to catch the Bolt Bus on West 34th. Right on time! Those were $19, 31, and 25.... back to back! That's how you make $250 in 11 hours. A mixture of luck, intuition, talent, swiftness, and charm.

Go for a swim in the Florida Keys or anywhere along the Atlantic coast of Florida while you still can.....

Photo Credit: NASA's Terra Satellite/ The Huffington Post

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.

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.

Idle Hands and Sestural Glips

(spoonerisms are often used in the titles these postings are given)

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.

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.