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.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

TRUE TALES OF A NYC CAB DRIVER #9


 
                                                                      The Night I Lost It 


When I drove a cab in the seventies, it was mostly in and around Manhattan, with occasional excursions into Queens, Brooklyn and the Bronx.  The garage where I picked up the cab and dropped it off at the end of a shift was in Long Island City, just on the Queens side of the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge, what we always called the 59th Street Bridge.  A lot of cab companies were based in that area. 

At the end of a shift I would cross the bridge back to Queens and drop off the taxi cab and take the train and bus back to my apartment in Queens Village.  I preferred the night shift to the day shift, because at night people were more varied and often in a partying mood, and there was a lot less traffic.   My shift would typically end at 2 or 3am.   One night after 3am of a busy night I had just crossed the bridge into Queens and was driving the last blocks to my garage.  Passing by a bar I noticed a large middle aged man with his arm up.  I was tired, and ready to call it a night, but the street was nearly deserted, and I figured he was on his way home and wasn't likely to get a cab to stop at this time of night.  So, like the well-meaning fool that I am, I stopped for him.

When he got into the cab I asked him where he was going.  If he had said somewhere far away, I was going to beg off.   But he didn't answer my question, sitting stolidly in the back seat with a glazed look in his eyes.  I asked again, "Where are you going?"

"You just drive," he said in an Eastern European accent.  I was annoyed.  I wanted to know where I was going so late at night on my last fare, especially with someone who had obviously been drinking.  But I drove a couple of blocks before I asked again.  Again he said, "Just drive."

I said, "Look you're my last fare.  If you want to go a long way, I can't do it.  I won't charge you.  So I'd like to know."  His face changed from the stiff glazed expression to one of belligerence.  "I told you, just drive.  You are a public servant, you do what I say.  You don't need to know where I go.  Go left at the light."

I regretted that I had stopped for this ungrateful drunk, wondering how much longer my night was going to be.  I said, "Public servant huh?  That's what you think I am?  I was nice enough to stop for you.  And now you're giving me a hard time."    

"I told you to drive.  I tell you where to go."  Fuming, I drove where he told me.  This was Long Island City, a lonely area with nothing but a lot of factories, all dark and silent at this time of night.  I thought we'd be taking one of the main streets out of the area, but he had me turn into a long dark street with huge factory buildings on both sides.  I couldn't understand where he was leading me.  So I said, "Look, I know you're drunk.  But where are you going?  Maybe I know a quicker way.  There's nothing but factories and railroad tracks around here.  You've got to tell me where you want to go.  Do you even know?"

"You are public servant.  You don't need to know.  Do as I say.  I say go left, you go left.  I say you go right, you go right."

I seethed, thinking, I hate drunks!  "There's nothing around here," I shouted.   "I don't think you even know where you are!" 

"Just do as I say." 

His big red face stared straight ahead, his heavy body a lump of implacable stubbornness.   I didn't need this.  I drove a few more hundred feet into the dark desolate place.  The moon was red in the slice of sky between the tall black buildings. 

Then something snapped in me.  "That's it!" I shouted.  I slammed on the brakes bringing the car into a sideways skidding stop.  I put it in park, threw open the door and leapt out of the cab.  I opened the back door and yelled, "Out! Get out!"  The overhead light showed him sitting, looking at me, dazed.  He didn't move.  "You drive me," he said. 

"Wrong.  This is it.  Get another cab."  Then he stared into the front of the cab.  I didn't know what he was looking at, but then realized he was looking at my Taxi License on display with my name and picture on it.  He was memorizing my name.  At this point I didn't care. 

I gave him a few more seconds, then I screamed with all my considerable force, "Get out!  This is it!  Do I have to pull you out?"  I was ready to.  My anger had left me devoid of any caution or sense.  He was a large man, outweighed me by fifty pounds easily, and for all I knew he had a weapon.  But I was beyond reason; I wanted to be rid of the jerk. 

Finally he seemed to realize that he had no choice.  He clambered out of the cab.  I slammed the passenger door shut and leapt back into the cab, saying, "See ya!"  And drove off, leaving him in the  middle of acres of dark, lonely behemoth buildings. 

I felt a little bad, wondering how far he'd have to walk just to get to a place with people.  But I didn't feel that bad.  Then I thought of his memorizing my name and causing me trouble with a complaint.  But then I thought, In his condition, how is he going to remember a name like Anifantakis?  

 

Sunday, January 27, 2013

Taxi Story #8

 
 
 
True Tales of a New York City Cab Driver #8
Homeless in the Winter

I drove west along Canal Street on my way across town. In the back seat of the cab was a middle-aged man in a heavy coat and hat. It was a frigid January ...night, and I had the heat up all the way to keep my feet warm. As we went slowly along through the salty slushy street I noticed a couple of homeless men huddled in a doorway. The sight was so appalling to me the I said to my passenger: "Poor guys. What must it be like to have to spend the night outside like that?"

He grunted without compassion and said, "Don't waste your sympathy on them. They don't have to be there."

"How can you say that? Don't you think they'd be indoors if they had a choice?"

"They do have a choice," he answered. "You always have a choice."

"Well, I feel sorry for them in this weather."

I could see him looking at me thoughtfully in the mirror. After a long pause he spoke again. "You know, a year ago I was one of those guys. I was out there, staying out all night, drunk on whatever I could get my hands on. So don't tell me. I know. Somewhere along I realized that I didn't have to be there. And I got myself off the streets. And now I'm here riding along with you in a heated car. So don't feel sorry for them. They don't have to be there. They choose it."

I had nothing to say to that, wondering in awe at the hopeless unfathomability of the world and the people in it. And counted myself lucky to be who I was, and not one of those freezing destitute people, whether they chose to be there or not.