Sunday, August 11, 2013

Another Cabbie Story

 
 
TRUE TALES OF A NEW YORK CITY CAB DRIVER #10
The Dangerous and the Strange

I had heard many stories from other cabbies about dangerous situations. One guy told me about getting a knife put to his throat. Another abo...ut being ordered about at gun point. Most cabbies in those days, the seventies, didn't pick up black men. That probably still holds true. I wasn't like that. I picked up anyone, downtown, midtown, Harlem or Brooklyn. I was young and pretty fearless, I guess. I had a trust in the universe that I was safe. And I was. I have told about some bad characters I encountered, but I was able to handle them one way or another. Other cabbies told me I was a fool.

Hell, one night in Harlem, around a 150th street and Eighth Avenue I was hailed by two pretty rough looking street people. I call them street people because once they got in the cab they looked like two short homeless guys with more clothes than most people would need on a balmy summer night. One of them could have been female, it was hard to tell. They both looked like they hadn't changed their clothes in months, or slept in a real bed for more than that. But I was game. I pulled out and pushed the flag down on the meter.

As we rolled along slowly I asked them where they wanted to go. Immediately there was a disagreement with where they wanted to go. They talked in such a heavy and muffled speech that I couldn't quite tell what they were exactly saying. Getting a little impatient, and wondering what I had gotten myself into, I tried to get them to decide where they wanted to go. After a few blocks their arguing turned into a wrestling tussle in the back seat. I couldn't believe it. They had to be in their forties or fifties, but they were fighting like two little kids. I heard one of them shout: "I know you got a dollah. I know you do!"

Well, that was enough for me. Besides suspecting that these two were drunk and/or mentally ill, I knew I wasn't going to get paid, because the meter already showed $1.40, and they were arguing over a single dollar. I had to laugh. I pulled to the side of the avenue and stopped. I turned off the meter and told them that I was letting them out, with no hard feelings. I wasn't going to charge them. They got out peacefully enough and we bade each other goodnight.


There is only one time that I remember refusing a fare. I had dropped off a fellow in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, not far from the Williamsburg Bridge. Now it's a trendy neighborhood, but back in the seventies it was a mixed bag, with sections that you wouldn't want to walk around after dark. It was a weekday afternoon. I had let my fare off under the El, and the sun was streaming through the lattice work of steel that held up the elevated train tracks. I was taking a few minutes for a coffee break, sipping coffee and probably a Danish. When I was done I got ready to pull out and head over the bridge back to Manhattan. I heard a whistle somewhere behind me and saw in my rearview mirror that three young Hispanic men were walking toward my cab. They crossed the avenue and speeded up as they walked. One of them had his hand raised above his head and was yelling "Hey, taxi!"

As I watched them closing on me I had a bad feeling. Something said in my head, "This isn't good. Get out of here." What my mind envisioned was robbery. So I put the car in gear and pulled away from that parking spot. As I looked back I saw them running, trying to catch up to my cab. I accelerated and left them behind. A glimpse in the mirror showed they had stopped in the middle of the road, sullen expressions on their faces. I kept driving.

I respect that inner voice that we all have. I had the feeling I did the right thing.

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