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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

taxigraphic memories

A close up of my side view mirror on Pike Slip. A double decker tourist bus behind the mirror. A typical backseat nap awaiting dispatch at the JFK taxi hold. Junks, forever docked at South Street Seaport. The overhead FDR on that side view mirror. A shot of the first passenger in two years who allowed me to take their picture. Not that I often asked. Always assumed people are distrusting. Skyline as seen from Kosciuszko Bridge with my brutish face in the frigging way. A food rescue cargo tricycle receiving the well deserved right of way for helping redistribute supermarket leftovers to the hungry. The Willie B bridge by night. An easterly view from the far west of Midtown. Notice the prominent door lock. 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.

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.

modi operandus (मोदी ओपेरंदुस)

Before and after the snowfall on the far west side of Manhattan.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

above picture from mdcassano's photostream

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