Confessions of a New York Taxi Driver

‘That’s better! Now behave yourselves!’

There were still about ten seconds left before the light turned green. People near the intersection were laughing and one man actually began to applaud. It must have seemed like an hour to my passengers before that light finally turned green and they escaped from the scene of their public humiliation. And, you know, that little jaunt up to 24th and 2nd turned out to be as calm and sober as a ride to church on a Sunday morning with the minister and his missus.

Funny how passion can turn on and then suddenly disappear, isn’t it? Go figure.

Awkward, defined

I was driving down Perry Street in Greenwich Village one evening when a pretty, blonde-haired twenty-something darted from the sidewalk and hailed me with what I noticed was an above-average determination. Most people just raise their hand and get in. This one was different – she had an agenda.

‘Could you wait here for a minute?’ she asked.

No problem. I pulled the cab into an open space near the curb and started the meter as my passenger-to-be returned to a townhouse and called out to someone. A second blonde emerged from the residence and was escorted to the cab by the first blonde. There was a brief conversation between the two of them and then, to my surprise, the front right door opened and the second blonde was ushered in beside me by her friend, who then walked back toward the townhouse.

‘You’re going to sit up here?’ I asked the second blonde.

‘I guess so,’ she said in what might have been an Eastern European accent. She seemed a bit confused.

I knew something was up. This never happens.

After a few more moments Blonde Number One, who turned out to be an American, returned, but she was not alone. She had with her a good-looking guy – dark hair, about thirty years old. They jumped into the back seat and sat together the way lovers always do – no distance between them and their eyes locked into each other.

‘We’re going to Brooklyn,’ the female voice from the back said. ‘Seeley Street,’ said the guy, ‘take the Prospect to the 10th Avenue exit.’

I drove down Perry Street to 7th Avenue South and made a right.

‘Do you want the Brooklyn Bridge or the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel?’ I asked.

‘Whatever’s faster,’ the female voice said.

‘The tunnel’s faster but there’s a four-dollar toll. Is that okay with you?’

No answer. The couple in the back seat had already reached the point of defining everything but themselves as the outside world and shutting it off. Which is to say, they were kissing, fondling, and doing whatever with significant energy. I started driving toward the tunnel.

I knew immediately that I had entered a twilight zone of human behavior. It’s one thing to have passengers groping each other in the back seat. But to have passengers groping each other in the back seat while a pretty girl sits next to me in the front seat in what was going to be a long ride… now that is quite another thing. I tried to think of something to say to her to fend off what I sensed could become the mother of all awkward situations.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

‘Estonia,’ she said, in that accent.

‘Estonia… Estonia… I know that’s somewhere. Where is that?’

‘Near it is to Finland.’

‘Ohhhh… it was part of the Soviet Union?’

‘Yes.’

Well, I felt I was getting somewhere. I could talk to her about what life was like in Estonia and what had changed since the breakup of the Soviet Union; we could chat about New York City; hey, we could even talk about Finland. Her friends in the back seat would settle down and the two of us up here could have a polite little conversation all the way to Brooklyn.

Yeah, right.

What happened next was the equivalent in the taxi world of being slapped in the face. Blonde Number One disengaged herself momentarily from her stud, reached forward, and slammed the partition window closed. This is a major faux pas as far as the driver is concerned as the partition is there for his protection, not for the privacy of the passengers – not that a closed partition window really offers any privacy, anyway. Under the circumstances, however, I thought it was perhaps not a bad idea and I decided to ignore the insult and attempt to continue the conversation with Estonia.

‘Uh, so how long have you been in the United States?’

‘A year and one half.’

‘All the time in New York City?’

‘For mostly, yes.’

‘Do you like New York?’

‘Yes, it is wonderful city, exciting city.’

We were approaching West Street, the major thoroughfare that leads to the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel. The activity in the back seat had calmed down just a bit and could, with some liberal thinking, be accepted as just a couple of crazy kids showing affection for one another. They laughed and chattered and pecked at each other like two canaries in a cage. It was kind of cute in its way and it allowed the bland conversation in the front seat to continue. Block by block I was learning more about life in the post-Soviet Estonia. It was starting to sound like a place I might want to visit someday.

And then we entered the tunnel.

Apparently this is what they’d been waiting for – the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel of Love. Blonde Number One immediately got herself on top of The Stud and went at him. Not in the more discreet taxicab position but flat out across the seat. Their thumping and bumping could be felt through the floorboard and her encouraging cries of ‘Yeah baby that’s it yeah baby oh yeah that’s it baby!’ could be heard quite distinctly up front. There could be no ignoring it: the canaries were fucking and they were fucking hard.

I glanced meekly to my right. Estonia’s eyes were staring down at the area around her feet in a complete non-confront of the situation. Her problem wasn’t only her selfish friend in the back seat. Her problem was me. And my problem was her.

When two people are sitting together in the front seat of a car they are sharing a close, almost intimate space. That’s why females usually do not sit up front with the driver when four passengers get into a taxi – the front seat is usually taken by a guy. It’s just a bit uncomfortable for a woman to be sharing that close a space with a man she doesn’t know. And what we had here was more than ‘a bit uncomfortable’. It was right up there with the recurring dream some people have of walking down a crowded street only to discover that they aren’t wearing any pants. It was at that level of uncomfortable.

Nevertheless I made a snap decision to tough it out. I would continue my conversation with Estonia. But I couldn’t pretend that there weren’t two people fucking just inches behind us. I felt it would lighten the situation if we acknowledged what was going on. Better to stare the tiger straight in the eye.

‘Uh… so how do the three of you know each other?’ I asked.

Estonia moved her eyes upward from the floor and looked out through the windshield toward the tunnel in front of us. She was coming out of her trance.

‘In restaurant we work together,’ she said.

‘You’re a cook?’

‘No, no, am waitress.’ She turned her head and motioned in the direction of the back seat. ‘She is waitress also.’

‘And him?’

‘He is manager.’

‘Have they been going with each other for a long time?’

‘No, no, this is new.’

‘So you had no idea they’d be doing… this?’

‘No!’

So now I understood. Estonia was the unwitting accomplice of her sexually adventurous friend, as was I. With this shared reality I sensed that a small, yet perhaps meaningful bond had been created between us. We were both pawns in Blonde Number One’s game and we had to support each other. I felt a stirring of affinity within me. Did she feel the same way? I glanced over at her ever so slightly. Was she smiling or was this the way her face normally looked?

I considered the situation. I’m a man. Generally speaking, I am attracted to women. There are two people in the seat back there making love as if to say that everyone should be making love. The attractive girl sitting next to me seems to like me, maybe. I’m single again. Hey, this could be a gift from the gods. Should I cross the line of professional conduct and make a move?

At the end of the tunnel there is a toll to be paid, so I slowed down as we approached the booth. Blonde Number One and The Stud used this opportunity to take a brief rest, their faces popping up with grins on them that I would have to say could only be described as ‘shit-eating’. Then, as we picked up speed after the toll and were on the highway, they switched positions – The Stud now on top – and went back to work.

I knew I had only a short time to make a move if indeed a move was to be made because we would be at Seeley Street within five minutes. I tried to think of something to say or do that would give Estonia the idea that perhaps we should join her friends in this crazy, impromptu orgy. But I couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t make me come off as a complete jackass, so I did what in certain circles I am well known for doing – nothing. Nevertheless I felt that if I could somehow keep the conversation going, who knows? It might lead to something. So I turned toward her with the intention of making words come out of my mouth.

It was then that I noticed that Estonia had found herself a way out of the situation. She did what ostriches have been doing for millions of years. She closed her eyes, tilted her head to one side, and seemed to be pretending that she was asleep.

Apparently the orgy would remain in the back seat. I put my eyes back on the road, picked up some speed, and said to hell with it, I’d rather keep my dignity and my professionalism. But, then again, if she would just give me a sign perhaps I could regain my dignity and professionalism, uh, tomorrow.

But there was no sign. The ride from hell went on like this – Estonia pretending to be asleep and myself looking for something, anything – for a few more minutes until we finally did arrive at Seeley Street. Actually I had a feeling of relief when we pulled up in front of their building as, thank God, the ordeal was over at last. Blonde Number One and The Stud pranced from the back seat without the slightest hint of embarrassment, all smiles. The Stud then handed me a $10 tip on top of the amount on the meter, a worthy gesture that didn’t really make up for the stress I had been caused to endure, but it did make me feel a bit better about things. The best thing, however, was that I was rid of them and could get on with the complacency of my daily grind.

Or so I thought.

Like the trick ending of a horror movie where you think the psycho is dead but then somehow he’s coming at you again with a butcher knife, there was more.

After a brief conversation with Blonde Number One, Estonia decided to continue on with the ride. What she’d thought was going to be a night of hanging out with her friends had become a sex party for them but not for her. So what was the point of staying? She’d rather just go home. And home, it turned out, was several more minutes into Brooklyn.

I thought she would move from the front to the back and make the whole spatial arrangement more comfortable for the two of us. But no – she stayed up front with me! Now it would be just the two of us alone in the front seat. What had been perhaps the most awkward situation theoretically possible between a man and a woman who didn’t know each other had actually taken a turn for the worse. This was even more awkward.

I pulled out and headed for Ocean Parkway. It would be an eight-minute ride on that road until we reached Avenue P, where she lived. Once again, the tension of the situation gripped me. What was she thinking? Was her staying up front with me a clue that I was supposed to act on? What should I do? What should I do?

Well, I wish I could tell you that the ride ended in a mutually enjoyable fling that I could smile about when reminiscing about my sexual adventures. But the truth is a woman has to just about rip her clothes off and dance the hula before I get the message. Estonia and I continued to chit-chat all the way to Avenue P as if the debauchery we had just witnessed had not really happened. She paid me the additional fare and left with a slight smile on her face. At least it kind of looked like a smile.

But it wasn’t all for nothing. In the course of the remainder of the ride I learned that Estonia, the country, is bordered by Latvia to the south, Russia to the east, and the Gulf of Finland to the north; that the capital city is called Tallinn; that most people are Lutherans; and that it’s a great place to raise cattle.

Fascinating stuff. Really hope to visit that place someday.

Multi-tasking

Multi-tasking. It’s a concept that’s gained quite of bit of popularity recently. The guy with a cell phone in one hand, watching a computer screen, reading a report and eating his lunch – all at the same time – is an image of the modern age. Why should it be any different in a taxicab?

I was cruising in Hell’s Kitchen at around 1 a.m. on a cool, December night when a short, thickset guy – pale, white skin, slick black hair, about twenty-five years old – hailed me at 45th and 9th. A skinny, black girl, somewhere between sixteen and twenty, I would say, followed him into the back seat. I could see by the way they sat some distance apart that there was no great affinity between them.

I started driving down 9th Avenue expecting to hear what our destination would be, but there was nothing.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘Make your next left,’ the guy said.

‘Okay.’

I turned left onto 44th Street but hit some traffic halfway down the block. We came to a halt.

‘How long you been drivin’ tonight?’ he asked.

‘Since five o’clock.’

‘Busy tonight?’

‘Not bad for a Tuesday,’ I said, ‘but things get slow after midnight.’ The guy was showing signs of being a conversationalist. I liked that.

After nearly a minute we approached the intersection at 8th Avenue, but there was still no decision as to what our destination would be.

‘Go left?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, make the left and make another left a few blocks up the avenue,’ he replied.

‘On which street?’

‘Whichever one you want.’

Now this was weird. I immediately began to wonder why a passenger wouldn’t care where I was going. The first thing I thought of was that he didn’t intend to pay me for the ride so he didn’t care how high the meter ran. But this guy didn’t appear to me to be a flight risk. He just wasn’t that type.

I looked at him again in the mirror. I noticed that I could see him but not her. There are only two explanations for this phenomenon: 1) they are cuddling with her head resting on his lap, facing upward, or 2) they are not cuddling and her head is facing downward… and you know what that means. Based on my prior observation that there was no particular love between them, I knew it was number two – this guy was getting a blowjob!

Well, at least I understood why he didn’t care where I drove. The girl, I now surmised, was a hooker. My taxi had been turned into a brothel and, although I might have had cause to be offended, the guy had shown manners by asking me how my night had been going, and that was enough for me not to take issue with his behavior. I drove up 8th Avenue and made a left on 53rd, not expecting to hear anything but some grunts and perhaps some squishy noises coming from the back seat. So it came as quite a surprise that he resumed our conversation when we stopped for a red light at 53rd and 9th.

‘Hey, you wanna hear something wild?’

‘Sure.’

He mentioned the name of a former US senator from the state of New York and asked if I was familiar with him.

‘Sure.’

‘Well, he’s gonna get indicted. It’ll happen in a few days.’

‘Really?’

He then dropped the name of a well-known Mafia celebrity who was in jail at the time and said he was ‘giving up’ the former senator in a deal to get out of the joint.

‘What did he do?’ I asked, meaning the former senator.

‘He’s been working for us for years.’

I paused for a moment while I processed this information. Here’s a guy getting a blowjob telling me he’s in the Mob and has inside information that a former US senator from New York is connected to the Mafia. Uh… okaaay…

‘No kidding,’ I said, ‘that is wild.’

‘Yeah, you’ll read about it in a few days.’

‘Wow.’

I buzzed down 9th Avenue and made a right on 43rd. We hit a red light at 10th Avenue. There had been a lull of about thirty seconds in our conversation but now that we were sitting still Mr Horny Mob Guy felt it was time to start chatting again.

‘You play the horses?’ he asked.

‘Once in a while.’

‘Write this down – Wilfredo Prieto.’ (Not the name he actually said.)

‘Who’s Wilfredo Prieto?’

‘A jockey. ’Bout a week before Christmas he’s gonna ride a horse at Belmont. Fifty to one, but he’s gonna win.’

‘No kidding?’ I wrote the name down on my trip sheet.

‘Yeah, he comes up from Puerto Rico every year and does this race for us, then we give the money to charity.’

‘Hey, thanks, man,’ I said, ‘I’m gonna use this.’

‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Thanks!’

I drove up 10th Avenue and made a right on 52nd. By the time we reached the end of the block the ride and the blowjob were over. He paid me $10 for a $6.10 fare and then he and the girl left the cab and disappeared in separate directions into the night.

Well, I was set. This fare, obviously a gift from the Supreme Being, was going to turn into my Christmas bonus. I started figuring out how much money I would be able to scrape together and even borrow and with a firm decision not to chicken out on this I began my hunt for Wilfredo Prieto. For the next three weeks I searched relentlessly through the sports sections of the papers for any sign of a race with a jockey with his name in it, but Christmas came and went with no mention of the guy.

And it may come as no surprise to you that no former senator from the state of New York has ever been indicted for anything.

So as it turned out I didn’t make a dime from the Mobbed-up, BJ conversationalist. It did, however, leave me with an important Life Lesson: never believe a damned word that is said to you by someone who is getting a blowjob.

For old times’ sake

It is lust that keeps the species reproducing itself. But it is love, respect and honesty that keep people staying together as partners throughout a lifetime. So it’s nice when you meet a couple who still enjoy each other’s company after dozens of years. It rehabilitates the idea that we, too, if we’re lucky (or skillful) enough may also have it so good. With that in mind, here’s a different kind of story about sex in a taxicab.

I picked up a man and a woman at a hotel near LaGuardia Airport on a lovely summer evening in 1987. They were seniors, near seventy years of age I guessed, and were en route to the Sloan– Kettering Hospital in Manhattan. Through the course of conversation I learned that their names were John and Barbara, that they were now retired – he had been a banker and she had been a teacher – and that the reason for their trip to the city was to begin cancer therapy for John.

They hadn’t been to New York in forty years, they said, not since they’d moved to California after World War II. But they had once lived and worked in the city and, in fact, they’d met each other here when they were both employed by the same company in an office near Herald Square. They wondered if it would be all right with me if, before we got to the hospital, we could take a brief tour around Manhattan for old times’ sake to see some of the sights which had been a part of their lives so many years ago.

Would it be all right with me? Were they kidding? Anything that keeps the meter running is just fine with me, and the truth is I always enjoy serving as a tour guide. It gives some contrast to the usual A to B fares and provides me a chance to show off my knowledge of the city, as well. I got on the Brooklyn–Queens Expressway and headed toward the Midtown Tunnel. Fifteen minutes later we were on 34th Street in Manhattan, heading west toward Herald Square.

The Empire State Building is on the corner of 34th Street and 5th Avenue, so I pointed it out as we approached it, thinking that surely this would be a sight they would want to see. But John and Barbara had little interest in the majestic skyscraper. What they were really interested in seeing in Herald Square was the Chock Full O’ Nuts coffee shop at the corner of 34th and 6th. It was there, they said, that they’d spent so many lunch hours gazing into each other’s eyes over chicken salad sandwiches.

As we got to the intersection both John and Barbara were straining their necks trying to get a glimpse of the place. But the Chock Full O’ Nuts coffee shop was gone. It had been replaced by a Gap clothing store.

It was obvious to me this was a major disappointment for them. That coffee shop had been an important landmark of their life together, and now it was just a memory. We continued driving west on 34th Street in a gloomy silence, but after about a minute John spoke up.

‘I know what,’ he said to both Barbara and me, ‘let’s go over to 31st and Broadway. If it’s still around, there’s another restaurant over there that’s pretty special to us.’

Barbara smiled, as apparently she knew what John was talking about. I made a right on 8th Avenue and another right on 36th Street, and we were on our way. A cheerfulness returned to the cab.

‘There’s a Horn and Hardart over there on Broadway,’ John said. ‘That’s where I proposed to this lovely, young lady.’

I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that the Horn and Hardarts were long gone. When we got to 31st Street we found a parking lot where the automat had once been.

The gloom returned. I drove down Broadway until we were approaching 25th Street, and then Barbara had an idea.

‘What about Schrafft’s?’ she asked. ‘There used to be one on Madison Avenue. We ate dinner there a million times.’

I told them I wasn’t sure if any Schrafft’s were still around, but it did seem to ring a bell in my mind that there had been one on Madison. It was worth a try, so I drove to 23rd Street, where Madison Avenue begins, and we headed uptown.

The traffic on the avenue was a mess, which actually was fortunate because it gave us a chance to examine every store and restaurant on each block as we crawled along. There was a sense of anxiety in the taxi as each new block failed to reveal a Schrafft’s and, by the time we were in the forties, the anxiety was taking on the feeling of despair. When we finally reached 60th Street, and still no Schrafft’s, the search was over.

‘Could you just drive us over to the hospital, then?’ John asked with a tone of resignation in his voice. I made a right on 68th Street and headed east toward Sloan-Kettering. I noticed in the mirror that Barbara was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. We drove a couple of blocks. Then suddenly John’s voice returned with a new vitality.

‘What about the Plaza?’ he asked. ‘That’s still there, isn’t it?’

‘Sure,’ I replied.

‘Well, let’s go!’

Instantly their spirits lifted. The Plaza Hotel was only a few blocks away. I made a couple of turns and in less than two minutes we were parked right in front of the beautiful, old landmark. Both John and Barbara seemed mesmerized by the sight of it, almost in a state of awe. I noticed that Barbara’s eyes were tearing again, but this time she made no attempt to dry them. John appeared to be getting a bit misty, too.