Category Archives: Events

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Lights Out

Still no sign of the Halloween Parade – West Village

“Hey there, where to?”

“Fulton and William.”

“Alrighty. I know the power’s out south of 34 St. Do ya mind if I take the FDR down? The less intersections I have to go through, the better.”

“Do what you have to do and get us as close to home as you can.”

“No problem.”

And so it went. The end of the above conversation was repeated quite a few times last week as many New Yorkers were forced to go home at night, even if they didn’t have much of anything there waiting for them.

Much was written about the Hurricane that the Big Apple bore the onslaught of last week and much more will be penned in the coming weeks and months as the city continues to clean up and get back onto its feet again. There was no doubt that this storm was powerful – enough so to force the cancellation of the Village Halloween Parade, the Marathon, a week of school, early voting for tomorrow’s election, and countless end-of-season festivals, street fairs, and neighborhood events. The common thread that I read about, and to a lesser extent heard in my cab, was how similar this was to 9/11, when it came to shock, awe, and devastation inflicted on New Yorkers. Upon a closer look though, that really wasn’t the case.

I was not in the city on 9/11 but was planning on going in that Tuesday since I turned 25 the day before. I went out to watch the Giants open up Monday Night Football the night of my birthday and anyone who was in the city that day can recall how beautiful and clear the sky was when the planes hit. What most people don’t remember is how it poured that Monday before, and I mean poured as in not letting up for hours on end. It was because of that that my usual trek through the city alone on my birthday had to be postponed for a day, and then for a week.

When the Towers fell, most people thought that we had reached a turning point in American History. Our economic might had already peaked, the economy would dip into a serious recession, Lower Manhattan would never recover, tons of buildings would either fall of have to be torn down in later months, and thousands upon thousands would become the first casualties of what would be dubbed the “War on Terror”. Thankfully, most of those assessments did not come to fruition as most of Lower Manhattan was cleaned up and on the road to recovery by the time the last steel beam was removed from Ground Zero 6 months later. The nation moved on, only the Deustche Bank building had to be razed, and the Battle of Antietam remained the bloodiest day in American History. History proved to be the ultimate judge of what happened on 9/11, even if the toll was still grim in the end.

Sandy turned out to be a completely different beast, as the cancelling of the Marathon proved to New Yorkers. For all of his good intentions, Mayor Bloomberg was wrong to want to go forward with a race less than a week after the city came to a halt. 9/11 was nearly two months before the race and there were only 16 acres directly affected by the planes that struck Manhattan. The last storm was powerful enough to remind New Yorkers of the giant land mass at the western end of the Verrazano Bridge and the beaches on the far side of JFK. For them, life will never be the same and it will bring into question the uneasy relationship between the far-flung reaches of New York and the economic center of the city that receives the lion’s share of money and attention.

This week’s cover of New York served as a hauntingly beautiful reminder of how much of Manhattan was plunged into darkness due to the storm and the clear demarcation line that resulted from the power outage. I had to cross it several times during my shifts on Tuesday and Wednesday nights and it was extremely difficult to imagine that it was not the first time that the lights had gone out there on such a massive scale. Anyone who could recall the blackouts of ’65, ’77, and ’03 will vouch that they were notable in city’s history for different reasons. The causes, and reaction by those stuck in the dark led to changes in infrastructure and policing in the affected areas. Once again, those will be the issues that the next Mayor of New York will have to address when the cleanup is done.

The truth is that the Big Apple is only as good as the conditions of the utility and transportation networks in it. Many historians have cited the Blizzard of 1888 as the catalyst that led to the burying of the electrical system and the creation of what later became the IRT, the city’s first underground rapid-transit system. With a fare hike looming in March, the relationship of the transit system to the patrons who use it will be under increased scrutiny over the winter as the final numbers are worked out. New Yorkers hate having to dig deeper to get on a bus or train for what they feel is a lack of return for the extra money being shelled out. What many of them don’t realize is that the system is so expansive and antiquated that any lack of a fare hike will only hurt in the long run. Having to maintain and expand the mass-transit network will be important in the future as the price of oil will remain high and the policy of developing the waterfront and using ferries to haul passengers between the glistening new towers will have to be looked as closer. Sandy reminded us that New York is quite an expansive locale and all areas will have to be kept in the fray for the city to remain competitive and desirable for those looking to live there. Having the Rockaways cut off from the mainland will not just affect those who live there, but will serve as a black eye on the administration as a whole, showing the world that it cannot afford to provide basic necessities for those on the periphery.

In the coming months, the Macy’s parade will weave its way through the West Side, the tree at Rockefeller Center will be lit, and the ball will drop on New Year’s in Times Square. The people watching these events on TV will undoubtedly be touched by the heartwarming resolve of the people of New York but what they won’t see are the Sandy’s of the future that threaten the Big Apple. Fault lines under upper Manhattan could awaken at any time, rising sea levels would permanently wipe out much of Zone A, and any number of terrorist plots could expose fragile grids and people’s nerves that are still in the process of healing. The real resolve of New Yorkers will not come in getting the next holiday celebration off without a hitch, but whether they have the patience and fortitude to address long term environmental, infrastructural, and sustainability issues before the City gets to the point of no return.

Right PSA, wrong city pictured – Murray Hill

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Storm the Bastille Day

2011 Bastille Day Finale – Cobble Hill

“Do you hear a loud boom? I think I just heard another one.”

“I don’t hear anything. Oh wait, look at that!”

“It looks like fireworks coming from the Park.”

“I wonder why they’re shooting them off from Central Park.”

“Who knows? Maybe it’s for Bastille Day.”

Sure enough, it was fireworks coming from the direction of the Sheep Meadow. After I dropped off this passenger, I soon found out from my next fare that the Philharmonic was playing in the park that night and as an attempt to draw more patrons in, a post-concert pyrotechnics display concluded the night’s festivities. Although it paled in comparison to the show that Macy’s put on two weeks earlier, it was certainly enough to get my attention as well as everyone else’s who happened to be shooting crosstown on 57 St.

With so much going on in the Big Apple, I incorrectly guessed the reason for the visual and aural display. Every week, there’s another parade, festival, or commemoration for a person, anniversary, or country and one of the perks of working in the Big Apple is that every nation on Earth gets its moment in the sun at least once a year. It may be overkill at times and a pain when major streets in the city get blocked off, but they all serve as reminders that we’re a nation of immigrants that came here in search of a better life.

Obviously, I was off the mark in the conversation above and it shouldn’t come as any surprise as I’ll admit that I’m not the least bit French. Not by birth, not by association, and certainly not by marriage. While I do have a craving for Brie and Moet, those are not the types of food and drink that I tend to imbibe on and I can’t speak a word of the language, even though French is similar to the Latin that kept me up many a night in Butler Library. With this in mind, I write today in celebration of the one French custom that has helped me through many an off day and night that has dragged on for far longer than a typical shift:

Petanque.

Loosely translated, it means “feet grounded” and is a game similar to bocce; except that it’s not. I only started playing two years ago and like so many others in New York that take up a sport as a form of recreation, I picked it up off of the street…er, park.

Bryant Park, that is.

Long before I stopped cursing at Yellow cabs and actually drove one for a living, I passed through Bryant Park. I didn’t recall what it was like in the 1980’s since like Times Square, it was an area to be avoided at all costs. However, the 1992 renovation brought new life to the space and the inclusion of a reading room, public restroom, and great lawn made the place ideal for passing through at all times of the day. Every time I left the Bus Terminal, I passed through it to reach most of Midtown; even if I had to go a little bit out of my way. Over the years, it became the start of many of my pavement-pounding days and it eventually became the nexus of my outdoor time in New York. The grid that had defined the street layout in New York was continued inside the park, as the rows of trees, pathways, and a centrally-placed fountain brought out the best in French landscape architecture, while allowing for lots of fauna to fill in the spaces and throw in just a hint of disorder to the regimented layout.

Of course, what would suit a place like this better than a game that was French in origin?

The few times I saw players partaking in it, they were old and looked like the bowlers that were in my leagues back in the day here in Jersey. For years, I was called “kid” every time I burned the other team or made 6 spares in a row and that’s how I felt here, watching the seasoned veterans battle each other out boule after boule. Like so much in life, I decided to give it a go one day, when the sun was shining bright and I didn’t have the weight of the academic world at Columbia weighing me down anymore. I walked over, signed up for a free lesson, and started tossing the metal balls at the jack one at a time, when it was my turn.

As as they say, the rest was history.

Like so much in life, it quietly grew on me. One session turned into a few weekly practices and eventually, I joined LBNY. For someone who didn’t have a home in New York until I drove one figuratively on wheels, the game gave me a reprieve from the City that turned out to be one of cold shoulders, instead of big ones. To be fair, many of the players were French and had the game ingrained in their blood but over time, I found out that the diversity of the players was as great as the city itself. Young, old, working, retired, near, and far – it didn’t make a difference. The game quickly became greater than the sum of its parts players and soon enough, I found myself with boules in tow going around the city for a bunch of tournaments.

None of which was greater than those clustered around Bastille Day.

Bastille Day Tournament – TriBeCa

My textbooks at school taught me that the Bastille was a French prison that was stormed in 1789 and set off the waves of revolutions that led to the modern-day republic. The tournaments I attended did have a guillotine for display purposes but focused more on modern culture and French-inspired jazz that has been overlooked in this country. To be fair, I knew that I was a neophyte at the game and a majority of the players who excelled at it spoke French and exhibited the customs of it during the games.

Sure enough, that rubbed off on me too.

For all of its similarities to lawn bowling, Petanque is indeed an egalitarian game. What’s in? What’s out? You moved! I did not. My boule is closer! Oh yeah?

Just like cabdriving, it’s a mindset that seemed so alien to me until I played competitively and started to act like everyone else. New York excels at taking people from all corners of the globe and making them assimilate with their peers, if they choose not to self-segregate and not selectively associate with others of their own race or background. Since I grew up in such a homogenous place, it was easy for me to adapt to my surroundings when I left here, since I never really had a tie to where I came from. It’s probably why I’ve always liked seeing new neighborhoods and places when I was on wheels, even though I stuck out like a sore thumb quite often.

Last week was the one where all of this year’s Bastille Tournaments took place and of course, I hung up my keys for a few days and reacquainted myself with tossing the boules on sand. I said “fromage”, puckered up for some Ricard, and to be fair, did my fair share of arguing and belting out our point total in French after enough hard-fought rounds. It was hard to believe that I was on streets that I had passed through time and time again after dropping fares off, only because I was on the other end of the street closings that harden both the urban and my physical arteries when the days get long. No matter – there weren’t any trophies in it for me this year but once the games were over, any animosity I felt towards any players went by the wayside and my next shift at work was just that much easier to handle once I pulled out of the garage.

Bastille Day Tournament – Cobble Hill

Speaking of that, I certainly had a night to remember after dragging my burnt and parched body home from Smith Street last week. The hot weather lent itself to a lot of short fares since most people were too drained to walk more than a few blocks. After a pile of runs on the West Side, I took a family from Columbus Circle over to Central Park. Then, another person had to go uptown to the Park since her previous cabdriver didn’t know what he was doing. My next fare turned out to be a couple going their separate ways and after I dropped off the wife, I turned around to ask the gentleman where he was going:

“Where to?”

“53 W 35 St.”

“Oh, that’s right by Macy’s. We’ll stay on Lex and take it down unless the traffic slows down too much by the hotels.”

“Sounds good.”

Sure enough it did, considering that those words came from Al Roker’s mouth.

After dropping off the Today show weatherman, I had a few more fares and loops around midtown before making a left turn into Times Square and braving the downtown traffic. A couple that looked inebriated stuck their hands out and naturally, I took them:

“Hey there, where to?”

“Going home to Chelsea. 7 Ave. between 24 and 25 St.”

“Sure thing, I think that’s the building with the Whole Foods in it. Looks like you two had a good time tonight.”

“We did and you know what? Bloomberg didn’t have to tell us how much to drink. Can you believe he’s trying to regulate soda here in the city now?”

“I believe it even though I don’t agree with it.”

“Well, fuck that. You know what happened when they tried that with alcohol?”

“Yeah, prohibition. It didn’t work out too well.”

“Exactly! Well, unless you were the mafia. They’ll love it if this goes through too.”

“Of course.”

Yeah, the husband was slammed and a few minutes later, made a fairly typical request:

“I need to stop at a liquor store. Pull around to the one on 8 Ave. and wait for me there.”

“Alrighty, the meter will be on while you’re in there but I can wait.”

“Do you want anything?”

“Me? Um, well…I like my Bombay Sapphire or Saint Germain.”

“Okay.”

I waited and the next thing I knew…:

“Aaugh!”

“I didn’t mean to startle you. Seriously, I didn’t. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry!”

“It’s ok miss, it’s not every day that someone puts her head through the partition and has her hair up against my arm.”

“Pat, please. I just wanted to say hi.”

“Hi.”

“I never see the front of a cab.”

“Well, you have.”

“I”m just so fucking drunk right now and you’re so nice.”

“It’s alright – hey, what the…”

Fittingly, this was dropped through the shotgun window of my Taxi:

No wrapping required

“We’re right around the corner in the building where Katie Holmes is stuck in but don’t worry. We’re not scientologists and we’re entering through the side door.”

Laissez les bons temps rouler.

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‘Twas the Night

Even though I could have stayed home with family, I chose to work on Christmas Eve. I know it was a while ago, but the 60-hour weeks since then have put a damper on my free time. All of these shots were taken that night, which included a run to New Jersey, a rowdy affair in front of the Highline Ballroom, a long ride out to Sheepshead Bay to drop someone near the Brighton Line, and a jaunt out to Kennedy Airport and back that (literally) went by in a blur. What’s below is posted as they were taken – in chronological order.

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

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52 Street

A record from another time

Once upon a time, I had two parents. Both living, both married to each other, and both raising me. I can’t recall a whole lot from those days but they had steady jobs, a good disposition, and taste in music. Lots of it. Even though I went to bed early at night and never went out much of anywhere with them, I was lucky enough to listen in on what was spinning at 33 1/3 rpm Not too long after I graduated from a diet of 70 jars of baby food a week, I moved on to such staples as Frank Sinatra’s Greatest Hits, Endless Summer by the Beach Boys, The Village People’s Macho Men, and of course, The Piano Man’s classic, 52nd Street.

Granted, these weren’t 8-tracks blaring out hard rock or disco but rather, these were on vinyl and the largesse came not in the component that held the music, but in that which played it. We had the most beautiful wood-paneled stereo system that the 70’s could crank out and every time it came on, it let you know that nothing else in the room mattered. I could never see the record spinning away in a halcyon state since I was short but I’ll never forget the album covers or the light that shone against the dots on the side of the revolving turntable. No, I never made it to Studio 54 in it’s heyday but I was lucky enough to have the next best thing at home, along with the most ideal family living situation in my 30something years that I’ve been alive.

Flash forward to the holidays in 2011, long after giant stereo systems were replaced with mp3’s and life turned into an existence between an unstable living and ad-hoc employment situation. Much as records needed to be played faster when shrunken down, so was the case with my day-to-day existence. As the city became smaller and more familiar to me, so the days and pace quickened, to the point where 40+ fares in a 12-hour shift could be pulled out of my back pocket. I had a whole string of these in December until a seemingly innocuous fare turn the most unexpected of turns.

It began, like so much else at the end of the year, in Times Square. A waitress heading home after work slammed the door of the cab in front of me and walked toward my Taxi. This meant that I was going to be making a run to an outer Borough, which I had yet to refuse in nearly 5 months on the job.

“How ya doing? I saw that Taxi reject you up at the light.”

“Such an a-hole! I’m going home to the Bronx. Right off the Deegan and you can take the Madison Ave. Bridge to get up that way.”

“Sure thing. There shouldn’t be much of any traffic since it’s late and all the work is over on the Wills Ave. Bridge. How’d your night go?”

“Pretty good. Work was busy and the tourists were good to me. How about you?”

“Just the usual holiday rush. Lots of Europeans in my cab tonight, especially Italians. Must be a good exchange rate right now.”

So off we went, crosstown until we got to Madison Ave. where I made the left to start the long journey up to the Bridge. Hardly a soul could be seen until another Taxi pulled up next to me. We rode in near tandem for a few blocks and at 52 Street, we were even at the red light. When it turned green, we were just about to go through when a cab crossed the intersection through the red light, hauntingly.

*Beep*

Nothing.

*BEEEPPPPP*

Still nothing. I was quite scared as both the cab next to me and I laid on our horns, to no avail. The Prius that ran the light did so quietly and ominously and both of us went through the light after him.

*WHAM*

And then a scream…

I threw my car into park and ran out, and so did two other drivers. All of us rounded the corner and halfway down 52 Street towards Park Ave when we saw the cab up against the curb, with the driver unconscious and hunched over the steering wheel, and the fire hydrant that he crashed against knocked over and on the sidewalk.

“Holy shit, just as I thought.”

“I’ll call for help.”

“Let me see if I can flag a cop down. I still can’t believe he went through the light like that.”

I ran back to tell my passenger what happened and looked for an officer heading uptown, but to no avail. 30 seconds later, I called 911 as a secondary precaution.

“911.”

“Yeah, I’m on Madison and 52. Someone in a cab went through a red light and he’s out now.”

“Is he breathing?”

“I don’t think so. Looks like he had a heart attack or stroke. We can’t get in the car either.”

“I’ll call for help. You were on Madison and 57th?”

“No, 52nd. 5-2. He’s on East 52 between Madison and Park now, up against the curb. I don’t think there were any passengers in the vehicle at the time.”

After giving my name, profession, and number, I hung up and ran back to the car. By now, the Police were there and because the doors were locked, the nightstick came out. I could hear the whaps as I ran back to my Taxi.

“I’m sorry for the delay, but I had make sure help was coming. You don’t have to leave since I’ll take you home now and I’m going to turn the meter off early for the time which we sat here.”

“Thank you so much. You did the right thing in calling for help.”

“I had no choice, we’re not allowed to touch others so I had to stay hands off.”

“I understand.”

“I can’t believe out of all the intersections in the city at this hour, he rolled right in front of us. That would have been awful if it happened during the day.”

“I know! At least the help arrived.”

Neither of us spoke as we made our way uptown, over the Harlem River, and eventually onto West Kingsbridge Road. I was white as a ghost the entire right, thinking I had watched someone die in front of me for the first time in my life. As soon as I dropped her off, I flew back down the FDR and made my way back over to the accident scene, parking on Madison Ave. By that time, the car was being loaded onto a flatbed to be towed away, with the street blocked off with yellow Police tape.

“Officer, I was here 45 minutes ago when this happened and I saw the driver out over the steering wheel. Is he alright?”

“Yeah, he had a massive heart attack but the paramedics revived him. He’s in the Hospital now and should recover.”

“Oh my God, that’s great to hear. Thanks for the information.”

“No problem.”

I don’t recall much else from the rest of the night, except for the usual assortment of financial workers, bartenders, and nightcrawlers making their way into my cab for the ride home. I didn’t have to go up Madison Ave until my next shift, but it was never quite the same when I crossed the intersection that the wayward cab crawled through that fateful night. I took the medallion number down and passed it on to the guys at the garage, but they weren’t aware of who the owner or leasing agent was. Inquiries into various print and online news agencies turned up nothing either, but that certainly would not have been the case had the driver passed on.

Years from now, the memories will pass on. Much like the 21 Club or Toots Shor’s, the scene will only stand out for those who were there to witness it for themselves. The location will still exist for any witness who wishes to walk through and think about what took place there, but the pace of life will become so quick that it will be hard to do so; while stepping away from a world that will be incrementally faster than today’s. I don’t know if the Prius, the mp3, the Christmas of 2011, or even the notion of hauling passengers around in yellow vehicles will be outdated in 20 or 30 years, but I do know that some things in life stick with you no matter the pace or scale of change.

Especially the one that took place on 52 Street.

The hydrant, a week later

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Porn This Way

Just to balance this post out

The last few weeks were nothing but a blur both at and away from work. Most of the fares I took had something to do with the holidays, whether it was taking shoppers and their purchases home, picking up workers staying at the offices late, or the occasional Santa who dressed up for the purpose of letting it all go and getting drunk. There were a few exceptions to this and one of them took place a few Mondays ago late at night.

I dropped off someone in the Meatpacking District and decided to turn uptown to see if anyone was still coming out of Penn Station. Someone hailed my cab and after letting him in, things took an unexpected turn:

“Happy Holidays! Where to?”

“East Side, 3 Ave in the 30’s.”

“Sure thing. How’d your night go?”

“Not too bad but you know how it goes. Tried to get my rocks off and that didn’t work. Heading home now.”

I’ve had these types of people before but not on a weeknight and certainly not anyone that came out and stated that right off of the bat. I didn’t even mention my work situation or how I owe a boatload of money on my student loans but out of nowhere, came this question that hit me like a ton of bricks:

“How would you like to make $10,000 tonight?”

“I beg your pardon!”

“I’m being serious. I’m offering you $10,000 in exchange for recording you getting off and I’d only film you from the neck down.”

Go on…

“You see, I’m a producer of porn. Even though I’m gay and you’re cute, you’re not what I’m after. Well, in terms of a romantic relationship. But you’re the kind of person I’m interested in for the market.”

“The what?” I was amazed that I didn’t drive off the street but getting crosstown was never so difficult, even with a light amount of traffic.

“You heard me. Most people think that porn stars have these great bodies and tons of stamina but in reality, what sells now is average. The average body and look. Most people who want to watch others fuck are looking for those that remind them of themselves. That’s what’s popular these days.”

“I see.”

“That’s good. I’m having a hard time fully seeing you but it’s dark out.”

Sure enough, I turned on the dome lights and let him get a good look at me, even though I had no idea what he was thinking. I let about 30 seconds of silence go by before he spoke again:

“So, are you average?”

“Well, I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to.”

“I can already tell that you’re not interested.”

Needless to say, it was at this point that the cop cars and armory vehicles that were forcing me to take a detour because of the Charity: Ball came into play and threw a vehicular monkey wrench into this conversation.

“You’re getting quiet.”

“That’s because 50 cabs are trying to converge in front of the Armory here and I’m trying to get around.”

“It’s alright. I can tell that you’re quite scared to do this.”

“Whatever gave ya that idea?”

“I can see your look through the rear-view mirror. You’re too hesitant even after what I offered you.”

“It’s new to me. What can I say?”

Of course, not much else. Eventually, it was one in a ton of fares that seemed right out of a bad sequel of Scrooged.

And sure, I could have used the money. Would I really do that, and risk my reputation? Have a copy floating around the internet? Start a more lucrative career whoring my body out for anonymous masses to get off to?

You already know the answer, but the people I picked up from the Ball later that night didn’t. They were complete opposites of Mr. Boogie Nights and part of the reason why I couldn’t leave the job I love, even if it would take months before I’d make $10,000.

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Unoccupied Wall Street

Zuccotti Park – After the storm

It rained like mad on Wednesday – to the point where another in a string of endless flood watches was issued here in New Jersey and the streets of the Big Apple turned into a paste that only the most grizzled of drivers could successfully navigate. My third fare that day took me to Maspeth, Queens and rather than turn around and brave the L.I.E. and Queensboro Bridge coming back into Manhattan, yours truly took the back way to J.F.K. in order to pick up his next fare. Normally, the wait at the dispatch line there can be well over a half and hour but since Taxis would be in high demand that day, I zipped through in 10 seconds and grabbed my ticket.

It was at Terminal 7 that I picked up my next fare. She was nice lady from Down Under who had a conference to go to at the Marriot Marquis in Times Square. Thankfully, she didn’t mind paying the toll for the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and aside from the usual 20 questions (Do you own this cab? What nights do you work? etc…), I had no problem engaging in a meaningful conversation as we headed towards the crowds on matinee night. After receiving three $20’s in my hand upon arrival, the dispatcher at the hotel led my next fare into my Taxi, amazingly with a smile and a good attitude.They were a nuclear family from the city of Brotherly Love who were in town visiting relatives.

Me – “Hey there, where to?”

Mom – “The Strand Bookstore on Broadway”

Me – “I know it well. Spent many a day there and it’s the best in the city”

Mom – “Glad to hear.”

Me – “Mind if we take 9 Ave down? The traffic in Times Square and by Penn Station has been horrid tonight and I don’t have to loop around either”

Dad – “You’re the boss and you make the call.”

So I made the call and after a few minutes stuck at lights behind tourists and buses, we were on our way.

Me – “So what you seeing while you’re in town?”

Mom – “Well, last year when we were here, it was really bad out. This year, we’re hoping to see the tree and the holiday displays. Whatever happened to all of the activity down by Wall Street?”

Me – “Oh, those protestors? They were down there for a while until Bloomberg and Ray Kelly kicked them out a few weeks back.”

Mom – “So where are they now?”

Me – “They don’t have really have a home. They pop up in various spots and last week, they had a march with one of labor unions uptown.”

Son – “It’s all a bunch of mamby-pamby anyway!”

Mom – “Watch what you’re saying!”

Surely, Norman Rockwell would not have been offended by what I heard but the couple I had that night repeated the question I’ve heard the most over the last two months that didn’t have to do with my job. Even with the 10th Anniversary of 9/11, UN week, the NBA lockout, the bike lanes, the mild November, the President being in town, and the shitty economy, there wasn’t anything that came up more often than the Occupy Wall Street protests.

Hell, I’ve called this area home since the late 70’s and I had *never* heard of Zuccotti Park until a bunch of disenfranchised people decided to set up shop there and became angry with the world. A simple wikipedia search gave me all the info on it but that was all I needed to know and cared about until my second fare a few months back:

“I need to go to Broadway and Wall Street.”

And so it began…

I didn’t give a crap that I had to go to Lower Manhattan, even though the streets are narrow, bumpy, and have been under constant construction sine the World Trade Center Towers became dust. As you’re well aware of, we’re supposed to take people anywhere in the 5 Boroughs and that I did. What sucked about it was the massive police presence, the endless traffic that worsened as Broadway narrowed, and the noise that the protestors made – constantly, no less. The Canyon of Heroes that was home to so many parades honoring those that pushed the boundaries of the possible and championship sports teams became nothing more than a glorified cattle chute and even the people I took home that day commented on how much the protestors stunk, literally. Much was made about the lack of facilities for them down there, to the point where the heaters for them were deemed a fire hazard.

Invariably, many of my passengers would comment on what was taking place. Some were nonchalant but many had an opinion on it and thankfully, they had someone in the front seat of their Taxi who would be happy to listen as he navigated his was through the streets of New York. A few even asked me what I thought of the mess, aside from having to pass by it when dropping people home.

Every time that came up, I quoted Emma Lazarus’ sonnet with is engraved on the bottom of the Statue of Liberty.

“Give me your tired, your poor/ Your huddled…”

which led to:

“…dirty, unkept, disenfranchised, angry, bitter, disillusioned masses looking for an easy way…”

And off I went.

Most passengers seemed to agree with me that things got way out of hand. I had no problem with the intent of the original dissenters. The First Amendment gave them the right to assemble and petition their grievances and after the bailouts that Citi and AIG received, they had every reason to be upset. Hell, I did too. Columbia, and the rest of society have let me down to some extent since I ended up driving a cab upon my graduation.

But I never let my anger get the best of me.

When people couldn’t get out of the Subway downtown, or go to the Deli for milk or bread, or patronize their favorite restaurant because of the never-ending three-ring circus, that’s where the line should have been drawn. Bloomberg lacked the fortitude of his predecessor until he finally got the gumption and called in the choppers a few weeks back. Why the Protestors were upset was beyond me.

Take it from your cabdriver who has given these 1 Percenters a ride home every now and then:

They don’t give a fuck about you.

They work in those towers high above the streets, and then they go home, which tends not to be anywhere near the Financial District.

The people who live down there are part of the 99% that you claimed to have represented, even though there was never a popular election. Not all of them agreed with your intentions and nearly all of them were inconvenienced by your inconsiderate actions.

Those you were railing against were merely playing in the rules, however unfair they may have been. If you weren’t happy with it, that’s fine…but you were stupid to be protesting that 240 miles northeast of where your anger could have been channeled into something better.

Sadly enough, every time I was down there and yelled out my Taxi window for a list of demands, I was given silence in return. Even Thomas Paine was smart enough to hand out his Common Sense pamphlet during the days of British oppression before the revolution. Amazingly, I didn’t see any common sense or pamphlets being handed out in Lower Manhattan, not even when Michael Moore or Susan Surandon were looking for their photo ops.

Now, I read about how the movement will grow and change, sowing its gospel throughout the land. Sure, the City probably overstepped its bounds when it came to how several demonstrators were treated upon arrest but as I always say, get in line.

Lots of us have had a lot of shit to put up with in life.

The night I went down to Zuccotti Park was relatively nondescript. There were barricades up and Police watching over everything and even the food trucks across the street were conducting business as usual. Noguchi’s sculpture at 140 Broadway looked just as home as ever and for all the muss and fuss, I finally got a chance to walk through the place and see firsthand what I had been missing. More importantly, it was at the end of a long shift that reminded me of all the others I had worked, serving as further proof of how little things had really changed.

Me – “Well, here we are Broadway and 10 St…right by that bend I told you about where the Church is. The Strand’s a block back.”

Dad – “Thank you. Keep the change (of a $20).”

Me – Thank you too and God Bless. Oh – and kid,you were right before when talking to your Mom. Watch out for those mamby-pamby’s – they could arise at any time and they sure don’t represent me of most of the other 99%, even if I’m not happy with where our country is heading.”

With that, I was off into the night, hoping to change things for the better one fare at a time.

Zuccotti Park looking towards the new World Trade Center

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Where the Streets Have No Name

Same view, different night

One of the first thing that drivers are required to do after entering Taxi School is to obtain a 5 Borough Atlas and study the hell out of it. A few of the questions – both open and closed book – are on the exam but as I always tell everyone who asks me, the real test begins when you put the key in the ignition and start taking fares. The rule book is a pain in the butt because, well, it’s a rule book and the odds of ever having to pull it out are slim to none. The most important thing to remember is where drivers are obligated to take people, where it’s illegal to pick up fares, and what to do in case of an accident. Traffic laws should be common knowledge before one decides to pursue this vocation so a violation of some combination of these above rules are what tends to end a lot of driver’s careers.

Streets are another matter. Like most New Yorkers, I had a really good idea of how Manhattan was laid out and worked long before I ever decided to drive a taxi. Even numbered streets went east, odd ones went west, and with rare exception, the Borough was arranged in a logical and orderly fashion. Hizzoner’s recent adjustments to Broadway and Sadik-Khan’s love affair with bike lanes have caused havoc for many of us but like most adjustments in the City, that has softened over time. For all the griping and grunting, those of us who have to navigate thoroughfares on a daily basis get accustomed to them and move on.

What the atlas didn’t tell you is what these streets and neighborhoods look and feel like. That only comes with experience and after all the passengers that I’ve met so far, the biggest learning experience for me is how these arteries function. Metropolitan, Bushwick, Bedford, and Nostrand Ave’s were only Subway stops in my lexicon before I drove them on a weekly (and sometimes daily) basis. Knowing where they were became secondary to knowing how they were and are evolving into. Restaurants would open weekly and bars that were empty a year or two ago would suddenly emerge as the next hot spot in the neighborhood; and potentially into a social locus.

For all the studying and reviewing what went where, nothing could have prepared me for what I confronted on a daily basis. Queens Boulevard is commonly known as the “Boulevard of Death” because of all the pedestrian fatalities on it in recent years but it was only when I started driving that I understood why it gained that moniker. Fourth Ave. in Brooklyn was mostly garages, gas stations, and industrial buildings but I can see Park Slope continuing it’s westward bleeding into it every time I make the right off of Flatbush Ave. and venture southward. As today’s Huffington Post New York elaborated on, many cabbies still refuse to take people out of Manhattan. Those that do are pathogens in the corpus that is New York, never leaving the heart and making their way to the capillaries that extend all the way to the Big Apple’s edge.

It’s not my business to worry about what other drivers do and don’t do. After Saturday night, it became apparent that I need an attitude adjustment in the other direction. At around 4:30 in the morning, someone in the exact spot pictured above said “Excuse me” and like a good driver that doesn’t mind giving directions (I’ve done it countless times since I started this job), I rolled the window down. Sure enough, it was an ambush and as the 4 punches landed on my face, I could only wonder what the world was in it for the person who assaulted me. The night dispatcher at the garage thought it was part of a gang initiation or an attempt to look tough for friends. A few of the other driver’s thought he was drunk or high on something. I was so shaken up and cleaning up the blood that dripped from my nose that I didn’t care and for the first time since I started work, I called out the next day.

Most victims of an assault are probably reluctant to return to the scene of the crime but in this line of work, the thick skin that eventually forms will prepare you for anything –  including this. I had no problem making the same turn, and taking this shot of the corner from the same viewpoint I had when I foolishly gave the invitation for my assailant to have his way with me. I had a damn good night before then and my two shifts since have been about as smooth as can be. New York in the 70’s probably saw a lot more of these events take place every night and I’m certainly glad that those days are in the rear-view mirror of the city. For all the risk that comes with being out at night, nothing can take away from the feeling I get when I enter a new neighborhood or see a new street for the first time and continue to see the beautiful diversity in people and the structures that they live and work in.

For anyone wondering, the President ate on the same street where this took place, three days later. Like most people who conduct business in the Big Apple, he’ll eventually forget where his meal took place and will only carry the memories of what transpired. The remainder of us who conduct our lives in New York will continue to watch lines and labels on a map come to life and eventually, work their way into our consciousness. We should be thankful to help record the wonderful narrative that is New York, even if most of the scenes aren’t recorded in any medium but our minds.

An anonymous rue in Brooklyn

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Marathon session

Halfway there – Pulaski Bridge

Sure enough, the New York City Marathon was last weekend, just as it always is on the first Sunday in November. I nearly applied for this years ago but just like anything else in the Big Apple, knowing what you want is nothing like actually getting what you want. The amount of paperwork, preparation, patience, and just plain luck is how most people would describe getting a permit or finding an apartment and that certainly applies to the most famous foot race in the city as well.

My attempt to run the 26 miles and 385 yards through the 5 Boroughs was back in the mid-90’s, right around the time Fred Lebow died. Many today aren’t aware that he founded the race and was huge in the running boom of the 1970’s and it’s hard to believe that he’s been gone for over a decade and a half now. Certainly, he’d be amazed that 47,000 runners ran this year’s race and many more were turned away; leading some officials to question whether this event should be a two-day affair in future years. Never mind the police overtime or the miles of streets that are closed and dirtied up for this race. More runners = more money, but ya didn’t need me to tell ya that, right?

Of course, I ended up working that day. I was a bit tired since I ran straight-through the night before and with the reverting back to Daylight Saving Time, that meant that I had my Taxi for a full 13 hours session, car wash included. The mild weather that we’ve had lately meant that it was a full night and thankfully, I got back to the garage right before they closed off the entryway from Brooklyn into Queens. Sure enough, the route went right by the garage, just as it does every year, and the normal start of my day through Long Island City was going to be a no-go on Sunday.

As much as I tried to “steer” away from the race course, my third fare on Sunday needed to go through Central Park, which is just where the race happened to end. Traffic crawled on the 65 St Transverse but I got to see the finish line as my gas idled away and my passengers were extremely patient – unlike a few the night before who were “running late” and wanted me to make up for lost time. The real treat came during my 4th fare when I took an older couple down Broadway to the Columbus Circle area and the gentleman had spent over 60 years living in the same neighborhood:

“Crazy today with this race.”

“I should know. I ran it back in the early 70’s when it went around Central Park 4 times. Do you know how few runners there were back then?”

Certainly less than 47,000.

This guy knew what was on Columbus Circle before the New York Coliseum went up, and that was in the 1950’s. Once of the first Asian Restaurants in that part of the city, Far East, called part of that site home. Terminal Construction put up the building that Robert Moses built as New York’s premier Convention Hall. There was also an accident during its construction that resulted in a floor going down. Between that and all the landmarks present and past that he pointed out as we crawled southward, I felt like I was listening to one of Ken Jackson’s lectures up in Morningside Heights.

The right turn down 60 St was impossible due to the all the barricades that made their way uptown from the Village Halloween Parade, so I ended up dropping them on the edge of the Circle and waited…and waited…and waited for traffic to move.

What ended up pulling up next to me? One of those teenage-driven pedicabs that motor vehicles love to dodge, with a couple that was itching to get out. Turns out that he ran the race and pulled his hamstring coming over the 59 St Bridge. I don’t know if I ever felt so appreciated as when they stepped in and stated that they waited an hour to sit inside of a vehicle that wasn’t human-powered.

10 minutes later, I had them on 2 Ave in Murray Hill, a half a block away from their apartment. She helped him get him out of my cab and I’m not sure if I ever had any more respect for anyone taking over 4 and a half hours to finish a race.

I’m sure Fred would have been proud too.

The race route, turning north onto McGuinness Boulevard

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Monster Mash


All Hallows’ Eve morning, after the madness

Sure enough, I drove on Halloween night. I knew this was coming since I’ve been on a Saturday-Sunday-Monday-Wednesday schedule ever since the drivers on vacation came back around Labor Day. During the summer, I had off on Tuesday and the two weekend nights but thankfully, I still got my 4 overnights a week in once everything shifted in September.

Most people think that cabdrivers love working holidays. People are off, traffic is light, and that we get overtime if Federal offices and banks are closed.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

I wouldn’t say that I *hate* working holidays but none of that stuff I just mentioned comes into play. Yes, people are off but that just gives them an excuse to drink more and act stupid…as if that doesn’t happen already in New York. Now we have a justification for it, which only magnifies the absurdity by an exponential level.

Traffic? Sure, it’s light in midtown but take a look a some holidays and you can see where problems are:

July 4th: The waterfront. Miles of it.

Thanksgiving: Any major transit hub.

New Year’s: What was that place where the giant ball drops…

And so on.

That brings us to Halloween, and that wonderful tradition of the Parade in the West Village.

Every year, 6 Ave is closed from Canal Street up to 17 St. so anyone and everyone can “march” up the Avenue of the Americas and show off his or her costume. What many people don’t realize is that lots of barricades go up there and the surrounding streets so the crowd doesn’t spill over. Greenwich Street? Check. Varick Street? Check. 5 Ave? Check. The NYPD was out in full force  the night before erecting blocks and blocks of interconnecting metal crowd-controllers, which is an indication of two things to come:

Lots of people and few ways to get them out of the mess.

Fashion Night Out was another example of this. There weren’t any of the dividers put up but in the Madison Ave. retail area, the Garment District, and the Meatpacking District, there were way too many people out in too tight a confined space. No matter how much I “pointed” myself away from them, it was only a matter of time before I got a fare that would suck me into the morass.

And that happened on Halloween too.

Maybe it’s the Euro Debt crisis, but I had lots of Italian tourists in my cab that day. Nice people, eager to be in New York, and they spoke the language beautifully. For those of you here in New Jersey, you probably know how butchered this Romance language can get from all the Snooki’s and Situation’s running around but I liked hearing what was spoken in my Cab enough to turn the radio down. That is, until I got my request:

“Take us to Washington Square Park.”

Of course, I never made it.

I ended up letting them out about 5-6 blocks north of it and even though no traffic was coming from my right, turning left to get back uptown was a disaster. Much of the parade ends up spilling over to the NYU/Cooper Union/St. Mark’s area and to get back uptown, the best way ends up being Park Ave. South. While it’s nice street, left turns are a beast off of it since the intersections don’t have green arrows and the median is about as narrow as any in the City. With that in mind, I ended up making three right turns in a row off of there in the 20’s to make up for one left turn; fully mindful that on my second day, I saw a taxi that did the same and ended up with a car about 6 inches shorter in the front, a victim of someone racing southward from Grand Central.

And so it went. 45 minutes to get from the edge of the Meatpacking District to the Lower East Side. Ditto for getting back uptown to Avenue. Of course, I came prepared for that fare since the worker I took up there was in costume:

“Nice outfit. What would you say if you were out in this growing up?”

“Um, trick or treat?”

“Exactly. Here’s your candy.” I always come prepared!

Amazingly, I only had 4 people total in costume out of 25 or so fares that night. One was an Army Cadet that looked like she was straight out of the South Bronx. She gave me a Kit-Kat bar that I ended up snacking on during my post-shift walk over the Pulaski Bridge.

Oh, and if you’re still wondering about the overtime, it doesn’t exist. A shift is a shift and all the extras on a holiday are in the form of extra stories that money just can’t buy.