New York Taxi

New York Taxi

This is a piece that I wrote as part of a "Nanowrimo" project from 2004. It is pretty much non-fiction, as it is the best accounting I could make about a real taxi ride I had one evening while in Manhattan in June 2004 ... I always thought it would be cool to ride in a New York Taxi and have one of those "eccentric" drivers they have on TV and in movies ... I was wrong ...

It is about a cab ride and one seriously distracted New York cabbie.
There are so many images and cliches about cabbies in New York. Taxi set a tone. Movies always have a foreigner or a detached local or loner like DeNiro. In the news they are never native born. This guy took many of those cliches and lived them.
He was my evening tour guide back to my hotel: the metaphoric descendant of Julie, Your Cruise Director, sort of.
And, I needed directions, in many senses of the word.
From what I could tell, he was not certain about our current location, direction, or destination either. And, judging from superficial factors, much like me he didn't seem to be a native of these parts.
Trust or faith are crazy thing. They are somewhat logically necessary to survive but are equally illogical in concept and practice. It has become very clear that I cannot and should not trust this man behind the wheel farther than is necessary and that I really wish I had a seat belt as we lurch to sudden stops while he plays chicken with the lights and intersections. There are red lights, apparently on a timer or proximity trigger system, and he keeps waiting to brake until it is dangerously close to running the cab running the light. The cab lurches, my dinner rises and falls, the light turns green, no one runs a red from the side, we get through, he mutters to himself while rubbing his bald and shiny head in amazement; perhaps giving thanks in whatever language it is that he mutters in. I hope it is not my imagination but he seems surprised that we have not crashed as we coast through the ninth such intersection and I swear that I will never ride in a cab again.
He looks back and asks me to verify the address. I do. He nods and I cannot tell if it means that he understands or not. A few moments later we stop and he motions me to get out; we are a half a block away from my destination as I recognize the bagel joint I've eaten at for two days; the one with the spiritual descendant of the Soup Nazi at the counter. It is dark and late, but I would rather walk and risk it than remain in this cab any longer than is truly necessary.
Suddenly, the cabbie is panicked.
I stare at him blankly for several awful moments. He has forgotten to run the meter. He is distraught. I don't think this is a trick. I offer him a ten for the ride. After a moment he says, "Fine." I hand him the bill and step away. The cab speeds off, turns a corner, and is gone. I hope to never see him again. I fear that if I do see him again it will be on the news as he has killed some pedestrian or bike messenger.
Part of me wanted to memorize his name from the license information on display in the cab. But, I am actually glad that I did not.
It was like a ride I had with some Italian cops years earlier. They had a little Fiat, a siren, and a desperate foreigner that they could mess with. I never imagined that I could be more afraid riding in a car than what those Italian cops put me through. I was wrong. Tonight's ride was worse. Now, I must try to sleep if I can. The adrenalin and stress levels are so high I have to wonder if I will get to sleep tonight.
It's a good thing my body was decaffeinated years ago.
The streets of New York are as advertised. Part of me is wondering why I had a dream of coming here. Another is amazed that I made it here. I understand what Dorothy meant. I am standing near my hotel and alone in a city of millions far from home or a friendly face or a wagging tail.
But, I am out of the taxi.