Dream Home Among Many

I would love to live in one of these, some of the time.

My ex-partner wanted to help me build one.

FREEGANISM

When I moved to NYC in 2006, some of the first friends I made were part of something called the Freegan movement. I had arrived from Florida with nothing but an old bicycle, a map, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a sleeping bag. The first two weeks I spent nights on park benches and cardboard in the nooks of buildings. The second day here I found a job in the Village Voice classifieds. I delivered envelopes and packages on my bicycle for Champion Courier. They paid $3 per item and since all the nice runs were given to seniority, I was averaging around 6/hr. Far below minimum wage, but an exhilarating introduction to life in the Big Apple.

One day I happened to be fixing a flat in the Garment District when these two kids from the Freegan Bicycle Workshop walked by and offered me some donuts they had just scored on the curb around the corner. I followed them back to their space and made friends with all the other little Freegans. I learned some basic bike mechanics, where to look for free food, possibilities for squatting/couch surfing, and a whole lot more.

Through Rachel Sakristan, an artist and good friend from Barcelona, I met a wonderful couple from Andorra and Brazil who were in New York to shoot a short documentary about the so-called "Freegan" movement. They came along in my cab one shift and interviewed me on camera about my views regarding the philosophy behind it. I just saw it for the first time this week. Edu and Priscilla finally emailed me a Quick Time attachment of the clip. They weren't able to complete their documentary due to lack of funds. I must say, I'm not very fond of my barely coherent babbles throughout the 5 minutes. Wish I could have been more eloquent.

Jenine doesn't like the way the word "Freegan" is used now because it originally meant something else and because other words for what it means now have already existed for a long time. She's old-school in some ways and I like that about her. A freegan used to be someone who was a vegan, but would temporarily become vegetarian if the eggs, dairy, or pizza were free. Today the word Freegan has expanded to include anyone who not only eats ANYTHING (including meat) if it's free, but also seeks to find all the other components of life for free. Jenine prefers the older word GLEANER for this definition.

It's similar to my dissatisfaction with the spelling of the word Hanukkah. The 'H' doesn't do the rough guttural sound any justice. And the 'Ch' version already has a different sound in English. My conclusion would be to spell it Khanuqa. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy my expressive hand and finger gestures throughout the clip, because it's the only articulate aspect of the interview (my speech is laughable).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

IF YOU LIKE THE ABOVE MAP, PLEASE VISIT THIS ARTICLE. IT'S WAY COOL!!!