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Yellow with NV

Not to be confused with the Taxi of Tomorrow

“Hey there, where to?”

“Nice cab you have here!”

“It’s not mine, but thank you.”

“This must be that Taxi of the Future that I keep reading about. It looks so European.”

“I’ve never been to Europe so I can’t vouch for that but you’re incorrect. This is a new Taxi but not the “new” new Taxi – that’s not going to be out for a year and change.”

“So this isn’t the one that one the citywide competition?”

“Nope, that’s a Nissan. This is a Ford Transit Connect.”

“A Ford what?”

“Transit Connect.”

“What kind of a name is that and how did a foreign model get the contract for New York?”

“Lady, I’m not from Dearborn and I don’t know the Mayor personally. You can seek them out if you wish to know.”

And so it goes.

I’ve had at least 50 variations of this conversation over the last month, ever since I was given the long, round key to the above model vehicle and asked if I wanted to let ‘er loose on the on the streets of the Big Apple. Now, I don’t have any kids (as far as I know) so driving “the van” was a bit of an odd concept to me at first. Thankfully, it hasn’t been difficult to navigate and it’s nice to be noticed by New Yorkers, instead of just having them dart out in front of me at all hours of the night.

Eventually, the topic that always arose during this exchange was about the new model of Taxi. Was there really a citywide competition? Would it be ADA compliant? Most importantly, would there be a day where *all* the yellow cabs in the citywide fleet would be identical?

Yes, yes, and if the TLC gets its way, yes.

A little background first for those of you unfamiliar with the vehicles that transport people from points A to B in the 5 Boroughs. Most of what you currently see on the street are the last of the workhorses known as the Ford Crown Victoria. At one point, it WAS the only model in the city fleet and if you were pulled over by a police officer of rented a car at a major airport, odds are that the vehicle in that fleet was also a Crown Vic, as we refer to them. Popula , durable, and fast, they were a staple across the land for decades and could handle the wear and tear that millions placed on them over the years. Unfortunately, they had one big drawback:

They were lousy on gas.

I drove a Mustang for years, so I’ll admit that I have a bias for the automaker that started out making mobility available for the masses. It had a big engine and wasn’t the best on fuel economy but I didn’t spent a majority of my time on thoroughfares that could double as logging trail pathways. Eventually, the price of gas spiked up and greenies became powerful enough to change the vehicles found in Taxi fleets.

Enter the change.

Soon enough, the Toyota Prius, Ford Expedition, and a whole host of other models entered the mix and could be found on the streets of New York. One of the questions that I was often asked when driving the vehicle pictured above is whether it cost more for the passenger since it was “ADA compliant and all that”. No, it was the same as all the other Taxis but when I saw people choose the Crown Victoria over that when we both pulled up to a hailing passenger, I knew there was a problem with how people perceived it. I still laugh at the rich bitch on the Upper West Side two weeks ago who “couldn’t slide the door open” and gave up after one halfhearted attempt to enter my wheels on that night. The point to remember is that Taxis are yellow and have the same rate for one reason:

Standardization.

Of course, that was out the window once competition entered the Taxi marketplace. While I don’t buy and sell medallions like owners do, drivers like me *are* the public face of the industry so when I’m on duty, I see enough to know what works and what doesn’t.

A month or so after the Transit Connect entered the rotation of vehicles dispatched to the nightly drivers at my garage, there was a big hullabaloo about the coming attraction at this year’s New York Auto Show. No, it wasn’t an electric car or a roadster from a famous movie. Of course, it was this…

Soon coming to a street near you

Ladies and gentleman, this is it – your Taxi of Tomorrow. It was tucked way into the corner of the exhibition space and was only found by me since as usual, yellow wasn’t a popular choice of exterior colors on next year’s models. You’ll also notice the glass around the edges, so I wasn’t able to sit inside of ‘er and see how well it felt for the person who might actually have to drive it.

Once the initial amazement wore off, it was time to give this model a good inspection. Press releases for the vehicle touted its accessibility, large sunroof-like window for sightseeing landmarks around the city, and recycled tires used in the floor mats. As a sign of the times, it has USB ports for charging electrical devices too and a built-in GPS and meter which does show some input from the driver’s perspective. A few shots of the promo video that accompanied the vehicle featured it in locales such as Times Square, seamlessly fitting in with the traffic and neighborhoods that it will inevitably have to pick up and discharge passengers in. While models and renderings are always pleasing, the Taxi will be just like me when it finally comes down to hard labor and brass tacks since real test will come once the key is turned and the grind of 12-hour shifts takes its toll.

Nearly every model of cab has its drawbacks from what I’ve experienced firsthand. The Crown Vic is a fuel hog and has a turning radius the size of a 747. The Prius? I’ve seen a few at JFK take two pieces of luggage before the passengers took them out and found a cab that was up for the task of transporting international arrivals home without feeling like a sardine can. The SUVs? Guess what – they’re small on room too, once they carry 4 people. Hybrids are great too but God forbid you’re deaf or blind – you’ll be next to one and have no idea that it’s actually moving until you find it or it finds you. Oh, and that Transit Connect pictured way at the top? The one I drove two Saturdays ago had to go in for brake service halfway through my shift, and it had an astounding 14,000 miles on it.

The city is taking a *huge* risk by standardizing the Taxi model with an unproven design that might not be ready for the wear and tear of the streets of New York. Yes, a standard model is the best way to go but to make it fuel efficient, modern, stylish, made in the U.S.A. (I was informed that Nissan’s plant in Smyrna, Tennessee will be manufacturing all the NV 200’s for the Big Apple), and durable would not be an easy task for anyone. To do all of that and make it ADA-compliant would inevitably result in something like this:

The tank, a.k.a. the MV-1

Thank God I don’t have to explain this to my passengers…yet.

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Tag! You’re it.

Knickerbocker Ave – Bushwick

Graffiti. It’s a form of communication as old as cities themselves and coincidentally, there’s no shortage of it in the Big Apple. One of the things I wondered when I started my job was how much of it was still existed this far into the 21st century. Now, all of you hipsters and millennials might be surprised to know that graffiti was once one of the biggest problems in the city, right up there with crumbling housing, Subways that walked instead of ran, and fiscal insolvency. Thankfully, that’s no longer the case.

Flash back to 1981. Ed Koch is running for re-election, the Iranian Hostages return home from 444 days in captivity, and President Reagan comes a stone’s throw away from being assassinated by a Jodie Foster-loving psychopath. In the midst of all of this, 4 1/2 year old Pat attends his first Yankee game which naturally involves a car ride over an extremely clogged George Washington Bridge. I had no idea that I’d be in college before the team I was about to cheer on would play in October or how close to the stratosphere our seats would be nor did I have any idea of what I was about to witness as our car made it’s way through the Bronx to find an open place to park. Most importantly, miniaturization had yet to take place, resulting in film being a scarce commodity. Had I had the digital camera and iPhone that I currently bring with me on every shift in my hands on that fateful day, I would have recorded every aspect of that ride, from the filtered sunlight illuminating the leaded auto exhaust underneath the apartments on the Trans-Manhattan Expressway to the archaic El over Jerome Ave that rumbled as we waited for the light to change. Most importantly, I would have snapped the graffiti provided the most color to be seen on that fateful day.

After all, that shit was everywhere.

Ask anyone who was alive then what it was like and their eyes will probably light up upon recollection of how marred open surfaces were. Concrete, brick, and wood were no match for the onslaught of Krylon and sharpies that descended upon the city. It was enough for the MTA to declare a war on it that didn’t end until the last stainless-steel Subway car was eradicated of the markings in 1989. Burgeoning gangs in the Bronx would hop the fence at the Subway yards at night to leave their colors and names on the side of anything on wheels that was parked, so the whole city would see their names and tags on their way to work the next morning. What rose out of the ashes of the decaying slums was more than an crude artistic movement, but the beginnings of hip-hop itself. It’s nearly impossible today to hear The Message from Grandmaster Flash or Kurtis Blow’s The Breaks and not picture an Adidas-wearing DJ blaring out the sampling beats on a pair of Technic 1200’s as a Graffiti-covered train rumbled by in the background.

7 Train view – Long Island City

President Carter might have gone down Charlotte Street in the Bronx and vowed to rebuild but the real seeds that sown the destruction of graffiti was what killed off much of the edge of the city, and that was gentrification. Graffiti was, and still is, a form of rebellion set to art. There are no guidelines, no schools for it, and it’s not done in public in broad daylight. Much like vermin that scurry when the lights are turned on, the artists themselves had wished to remain as anonymous as possible, resorting to nicknames like “Plug” and “Shadow” as a moniker. Any validation of this could be seen in the artist that most exemplified the tumultuous decade of the 1980’s:

Keith Haring.

I loved Haring when I was growing up. So many playgrounds, walls, and published art collections in that decade featured his work but what amazed me the most was how beginning which of course, was on theSsubways. One man, one marker, and one crazy style (when combined) was enough to start a movement that led all the way to the art galleries of SoHo and the face of the AIDS epidemic that was inescapable shortly after bursting on the scene. What seemed like an innocent collection of dancing men and animals contained tons of erotic and societal references when looked at closely but the bigger message was the rebellion that so many artists felt against a society that made them outcasts, which was also shared by Haring. Coming out was not the same as it was in today’s era of DOMA and Ellen Degeneres and as I’ve mentioned before on here, Haring was like Madonna in that he exemplified a time when those from more conservative parts of the country could migrate to Manhattan, crash on someone’s couch, and express artistically the change and issues that America was facing Homophobia and corporate greed might have been topics that many were afraid to speak out about but Haring unwillingly jumped on the bandwagon that came to exemplify New York in the 1980’s.

Yuppies.

I’m not saying that he drove a Beamer, moved into a downtown Loft, or spent his zillions on Cocaine but no other artist of his age went from scrawling on blank transit system billboards to having his own gallery exhibitions so fast as Haring. Real artists do their work even when they starve but he hit it big in a short span, like so many others who were upwardly mobile in the 1980’s. Just as fast as he shot to fame, he lost his life when the disease that took out so many in his community cut his life short in 1990. I remember where I was when I heard the news, since it was around the time when Ryan White passed on . Although I never knew anyone who perished from the disease, I still remember what it was like to hear it on the news all the time and to see people that made their mark on society and my youth, so suddenly taken away before they should have exited the stage.

The forces that moved Haring into superstardom and eradicated Graffiti have reached their apex today. Large amounts of capital infusion have cleaned up the Bronx, to the point where chain stores and a $1 billion home for the Yankees have replaced abandoned autos and rubble-strewn lots as symbols that the Borough projects out to passerby. Most of the markings that exist today are found in high-end museums (A Haring retrospective of his early years is currently being featured at the Brooklyn Museum), expensive *Chelsea* galleries, and on rooftops out of cleanup’s way on street level. Like so much of New York’s past, it has been commodified and put up for sale to the highest bidder, to the point that seeing a wall covered in art has become a rare treat in the city where an ad for a Disney production on Broadway is more likely to be spotted. As long as there is angst, there will be those who rebel against the “system” and perceived injustices. With a lingering recession and a Mayoral election next year with no clear-cut front runner, there may be a chance for a new movement of artwork to appear on surfaces around the 5 Boroughs, as the disenfranchised tire of taking over parks and plazas for months on end.

Some of the images that will emerge will cover up the old but like those tags and images of yesteryear, today’s art will be reflecting a City and society that has still failed to accommodate the basic needs of all.

Tags – Lower East Side

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Angela

Your average cabdrivers in 1978

“So how long you’ve been doing this?”

“7 months.”

“Surely you’ve seen Taxi Driver.”

“Nope. I don’t have time for movies. It’s been over 10 years since I’ve been in a theatre to see a new release and that’s not changing anytime soon.”

“How could you not see a movie in that long? That’s so odd.”

“I’m a white cabdriver and I’m talking back to you. Isn’t that odd enough?”

And so it goes. The above gets repeated often enough that I needed to put it on here and I can spit out the routine word-for-word, even after pulling a 5-shift week. Even though I don’t have any desire to see any movies anytime soon, I have gotten around to a certain TV show that somehow, has become near and dear to my heart.

For those of you that never bothered to dust off your 8-tracks and bell bottoms, Taxi aired from 1978-83 and won a slew of Emmy awards, given it’s relatively short run. It was on ABC for the first four seasons and then moved to NBC in 1982 before it’s final cancellation a year later. Like The Wonder Years or Soap, it seemed to have run for ages because of the legacy that left behind and the careers that the show helped to launch, which is probably a telling sign of a sitcom’s true legacy.

So sure enough, I got the DVD’s of each season and went through them – one by one, following the story arcs that were loosely woven through each season and looking between the lines for any trends that someone else may have missed. You’re probably thinking “Pat, it’s a sitcom. Seriously. What could be taken out of it beyond the 24-minute dosages of entertainment that were meant to be consumed and digested?”

Glad you asked.

Much like Sesame Street, Taxi was one of the few shows that gave me my first impression of the Big Apple. Many people growing up today have no idea how truly, awfully bad New York in the midst of the fiscal crisis of the 1970’s. Garbage on the streets, Subways covered in graffiti, a sky-high crime rate, and don’t even get me started on the South Bronx. Yeah, the Yankees had a nice resurgence but as Howard Cosell noted during the World Series, the Bronx was indeed on fire.

That was about the most excitement the city saw during that time. Go ahead and watch the closing credits of Barney Miller, The Jeffersons, or All in the Family. Notice anything? The City looks like shit. Total shit. The air is dirty, cars are really big, and damn, those buildings are boxy, giant, and unimaginative. No wonder everyone wanted to get out and go away from New York – even to suburbia. I can still remember the commercials during those shows when I was kid and couldn’t find anything else when flipping the dials on the cable box around. A Native American cried as litter was being tossed out of a car, Milton Glaser’s iconic ILOVENY logo was plastered all over everything as a hopeful catchphrase, and Mayor Koch made a simple plea: “New York, let’s clean up New York”. It was a world of few channels and much effort to bring the city back from the brink of collapse.

And much of it could be seen on Taxi.

The muted color palates, Checker cabs, and desperation that the drivers on the show faced were the signs that hit close to home. Elaine worked in an art gallery, back before skinny Europeans and millionaires took them over on the Far West Side. Tony was a Boxer in the days when the Golden Gloves could lead to a career that people aspired to. Bobby was an actor who actually studied Shakespeare and wanted to be on Broadway more than anything else. What they all had in common was that they drove a cab in the hopes of ultimately landing full-time jobs as blue-collar workers. A lifestyle like that was worth slaving away for in those days, when one could pull a Madonna and come to Manhattan with nothing. Squatting and crashing on couches was the norm for many then, even if one never saw his or her dream fulfilled.

And that’s where Taxi stands out among it’s television brethren. Looking back on the sitcom format now, there’s zero doubt that shows with a laugh track are 20th Century relics. All of life’s problems aren’t tied up neatly at the end of each show and social issues aren’t meant to be addressed on a “very special episode” with the laugh track turned off. It’s heartbreaking to watch Elaine get jilted by another guy or to see Jim grieve at the end of an episode, only to watch the credits roll to the sound of Bob James’ melancholy theme. It also hits close to home to me because I have nights where I want to pull over, put the cab in park, and just let out a good cry, knowing that I’ve been given a bigger dose of humanity than I can handle.

Although I haven’t made to the end of the series, there are no surprises lurking around the corner on the show. No happy weddings, no babies, no endless introductions of new characters to pump up sagging ratings. When the show concluded in 1983, all of the drivers are still working at the garage, even though none of them planned on being career cabbies. For many of us, this vocation is not something that we plan on doing forever but as I’m fully aware of, it’s easy to get hooked on the money, the steady hours, and the abnormal sense of a routine that driving a yellow cab brings. As the show went on, it was easier to see everyone as a cabdriver and not hacking to get by in the meantime.

Your average cabdrivers in 2012

Even the set lightens up over the seasons as well. The biggest shame in Taxi was that it was cancelled a year before The Cosby Show launched. Thursday night on NBC became “Must See TV” and included such hits over the years as Cheers, Seinfeld, ER, Friends, and fittingly, the last great sitcom in Frasier. Taxi could have lasted quite a while longer and possibly, the success of one of the main characters could have been written into the plot. Of course, that would just be wishful thinking given how the series concluded.

Just as no sitcom comes close to depicting real-life conditions, Taxi isn’t an exception to that rule. I don’t go out for a beer with my coworkers when I get back to the garage, I have yet to play a game of cards, and the vehicles I drive don’t go through the streets of the city at 20 miles per hour. The show was great at showing New York at a key point in its history, before the building boom of the 80’s remade much of the business district with more colorful skyscrapers and a rehabilitation of the city’s crumbling housing stock. It’s during the bumpers that I appreciate the love of New York seen on the show – either during shots of streetscapes that are radically different in the 21st century, or in buildings that look the same now and have been wonderfully preserved for future generations.

Taxi took place in an era when much changed in New York and at a time when the City had to help pull the nation of a recession, which could also be said of today. I’ve seen enough of these changes in the 7 months I’ve been behind the wheel even though nothing ever seems apparent at first. Shifts turn into weeks and into months, and what seemed like a way to get by eventually became a routine, and ultimately, a lifestyle. For some odd reason, all of it never really bothered me, even though I’m pushing two years since I finished my undergraduate studies.

After all, it’s not like I’m going to be doing this forever.

A current shot of the garage site used on Taxi – 534 Hudson St

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Those three dreaded letters…

The Yellow Sea

“Hey there, where to?”

“I’m going to J.F.K…”

There’s virtually nothing else that can be said in such a short span that has as bit an impact on a shift as the above quote. Entire nights can be made or ruined depending on what time the run out to the location formerly known as Idlewild is made. Some cabdrivers are known to speed away from people who wish to go there, before the trunk can be popped for the mound of luggage that will further cripple many a sciatic nerve and daily fuel budget. You, the intrepid reader, will no doubt already know that yours truly has never refused to fare to this locale, if for no other reason that some of the most memorable nights have involved a fare to the largest Airport in the Tri-State area.

In all seriousness, J.F.K. is a city unto itself. No map of the 5 Boroughs would be complete without it and it would easily swallow up Central Park’s 840 acres 5 times over with room to spare. Like the rest of New York City, the process of building and rebuilding there is never ending, especially with Terminal 6 having been recently torn down. We went over the fare system enough in Taxi School and it was only a matter of time after I started driving that I was guaranteed to get someone who needed to get there from Manhattan A.S.A.P. Sure enough, this mentality is what causes so much consternation and agita when it comes time to haul someone to their flight in time.

As I always tell people with a hint of humor and hubris, “LaGuardia is a bitch to get around but easy to get to while Kennedy is the other way around. It’s a Man’s Airport and one that New York can be proud of”. Much of the reason for this is the absence of the Bushwick Expressway, which would have made the run from Midtown a lot faster than the trek down the World’s Longest Parking lot and past the remnants of the ’64 World’s Fair. Man will probably walk on Mars and find a cure for the common cold before Mass Transit will overtake the auto as the preferred way of reaching New York’s International Gateway, even with the AirTrain fully operational for a number of years now.

J.F.K. presents it’s own unique set of parameters in terms of how it breaks up a shift. At rush hour, it’s every cabbies nightmare since every main route, alternate route, shortcut, and cut-through through a residential area will inevitably be met with red lights and/or traffic that will result in the passenger questioning the route that was selected. The $45 flat fare from Manhattan (it’s the standard rate from anywhere else in the city) sounds like a  great deal until the details are hashed out. Most passengers hate paying the toll, even though some MTA crossings can considerably shorten the ride. Some passengers will be in a huge rush and have no idea how long it takes to get there, since their inbound flight was a red-eye or was delayed for so long that the ride to their hotel or destination was lightning-fast on empty roads. A few will be from Europe and not bother tipping since, well…because it’s not customary to do that over there.

And then there’s the $64,000 question of how to return.

Once a passenger is dropped off at the proper terminal, the cabdriver has two choices:

1) Head to the dispatch line, a.k.a. Central Taxi

2) Get the Hell out of Dodge and back to Manhattan

But of course, it’s a bit more complicated than that…

Sure enough, the line of empty cabs waiting to head out of that line can be big and slow to move, leaving the occasional crazy cabdriver to hop up on his cab and take in the scene, out of sheer boredom. It’s like any other Taxi line, with a dispatcher and a “FIFO” (first in, first out) rule but the trick is figuring out how long it will take to get out. During Rush Hours, rainy days, or busy travel periods, it can quick and worth the driver’s time. Otherwise, I can catch 3/4th of a sporting event on the radio before I have to wake up, start the engine and pull out. Who doesn’t like saving on gas? Probably the same person who wants to wait around while at work. Yup, it’s just that exciting…

Passing the time at Central Taxi

This is the case if you’re close with the other drivers, and c’mon, lots of cabbies love to watch others, take pictures, and record what the world throws at them, right? That’s why I never managed to get in on the backgammon and domino games that can get pretty heated during the lean times in the waiting area. I’ve seen quite a bit of money get thrown around, to the point where I wondered if the drivers were going fast during the rest of their shifts to make up for gambling losses. Sure, I’m awful at these contests but apparently not enough to get roped in as a way for the others to make a few bucks. The only contact the others had with me was the queries whether I worked for TLC since I was taking pictures of the action. This, after a few of my passengers wondered if I was like the other cabbies when I forgot to shave and got testy easily. I guess I just can’t win sometimes…

All games aside, it’s nearly impossible to picture Gotham without Kennedy. Every ticket that we get from the dispatch booth proudly proclaims that J.F.K. is where “New York greets the world” and given that the Big Apple is home to people from every corner of the globe, it would only make sense that this slogan is what we see before flying down the myriad of ramps to pick up fares that have just arrived. One thing about the airports that I have to explain to people is that the long wait is only something that we have to go through once in a night. Anyone *not* going to Brooklyn, Queens, or the Bronx entitles us to receive a shorty ticket from the dispatcher at a given terminal. In other words, if I’m back at the Airport within 90 minutes, then I can cut the line and basically be on my way with a new ticket, within a matter of minutes. There’s been a handful of nights where I’ve had 4 shorty’s in a row and didn’t get the fare back to Manhattan until well after midnight.

For buffs of the past like me, nothing could compare to seeing Eero Saarinen’s old T.W.A. Terminal, even if it’s only from the outside. Arguably the greatest building constructed in the Big Apple in the 1960’s, it’s a reminder of how much air travel was romanticized before deregulation took hold, and how even modern architecture could become outdated so quickly. Even though it’s been integrated with the rest of Terminal 5 now, it’s painful to see this relic from the past as a gateway and a reminder of what used to be. There’s so much to be overwhelmed by in today’s security-conscious age that buildings like this and the original Penn Station mark their times not just by their design, but by how we viewed travel and transportation.

At the time of their apex, both of those gates of entry were the world’s greatest in the city that had the most people, the tallest building, and the best transportation system that the planet had ever seen. The almighty dollar certainly took over and starting with the monolithic boxes that spouted up during the postwar building boom, utilitarianism became paramount over all else. Nowhere is this more apparent than at J.F.K. Sure, it gets high marks from passengers for it’s ease of entry and mobility but let’s face it, when was the last time a trip to the airport was an exciting event for you? What makes the experience at Kennedy so mediocre is the harried aspect of the experience. Reflecting the cabdrivers who are herded like cattle to the passengers waiting for a ride, people today are treated more as numbers and statistics rather than fresh-faced arrivals from afar. If there’s any plus to having a return fare back to the city, it’s that I get to have an extended conversation with my passenger(s) as they make their way home or to a hotel. It’s will never be a re-creation of the past like Pan Am, but it is all I can do to greet the world as best I can.

The old way of taking flight at J.F.K.

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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

by

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.

by

Yes Virginia, there is a Staten Island

A Milk Carton sign on Hylan Boulevard. Who knew?

If one didn’t believe in the Big Apple’s outermost hinterland, than one may as well not have believed in the idea of the 5 Boroughs under the Blue, White, and Orange flag. Many New Yorkers have heard of this mythical place which the Snug Harbor Cultural Center, the world’s largest garbage dump reclaimed landfill site, and the “cast” of Jersey Shore call home but few have ever seen it for themselves up close. Heck, even my instructor at the Taxi School had only been here a handful of times in the 12 years or so that he’d been driving. Out of all the questions that I’ve been asked by my passengers who realized that I wasn’t like the other cabdrivers, there was only one that I gave a short answer to:

“Ever take anyone to Staten Island?”

I had no idea if I’d ever get here and actually have someone in my cab at the same time. Like most things in New York, the ride to Staten Island cost a fortune and doesn’t happen instantly, which leads to many people forgoing the journey down the Gowanus and over the Verrazano Bridge. Tolls recently went up on that crossing too and it’s gotten so high that one can’t mention the ride there without it and how much the MTA acts like a troll to the people who wish to leave the island to visit the rest of civilization. The wildly popular Staten Island Ferry that commuters and tourists rely on for scenic views runs to and from Lower Manhattan 24 hours a day, but like so many other forms of late-night transportation, after-hours service can be spotty and infrequent.

So sure enough, last Saturday night was like any other, except that it was during the holiday season. Ask any Cabdriver what a holiday night is like and you’ll probably get some version of the same answer:

“Nuts.”

Of course, mine was too. I’ve probably told a few dozen of my passengers this month that if I spent my entire waking existence in New York, I would have no idea that the rest of the United States is still mired in the aftermath of a recession. There’s been too many times where people have nearly come to blows to get into my taxi and certainly a few weekend revelers have not been shy about stating the amount they spent on a table with bottle service at a popular new club.

I don’t think that this needs to be expressed out loud but I’ll say this for anyone who’s never been there at night:

We hate going through Times Square.

Maybe it’s the turn restrictions that don’t let you go left on 46 and 44 Streets, or the fact that Broadway has been shut down to just about anything with wheels on it, or the Police blocking as much of 7 Ave as they wish, whenever they wish. Or it could be the witching hour when all of the theaters let out and clog up the arteries as far as the eye can see. Some of us can be irked by the tourist with the Southern drawl who is dying to know where the Olive Garden is or who waited for a shot of someone like this:

Naked Cowboy – Times Square

Even though I’m ashamedly guilty of the latter, it was right near this spot that someone hailed me as I made my way back downtown. Now, it’s normally not a great thing when someone sticks his or her head in a cab – whether it’s mine or someone else’s. That usually means that the person is going to an outer Borough or only has a certain amount of money and thinks that we act just like the Livery Cabs that rip so many people off. Of course, you the reader are smarter than that and have an idea where this is going:

“Yo, will you take me to Staten Island?”

“Sure, it’s part of New York City, come on in.”

“Thanks Bro. I just go out of work and I don’t have time to take the 1 Train down to the Ferry, which is another long wait this time of night.”

So I start the meter and fly down 7 Ave, since it’s late and most of the tourists have turned in for the night. I was already excited that this wouldn’t be remotely close to any other run that I’ve had but there was something different about this person. Black leather jacket, reeked of smoke, a thick New York accent, and to top it off, he swore like a sailor.

“So how’d your day go?”

“Bro, I’m exhausted. I just finished up my shift at Carmine’s.”

“Ah. I’ve been there before. Went there earlier this year before I saw Lombardi. Good family style eating there.”

“Yeah, that’s it. They treat us like shit though. Squeezing everybody just like everyone else in this country.”

“I used to bartend and trust me, I know that feeling. What’s your name?”

“Andrew.”

“Nice to meet you.”

And I was right, to a certain extent. This Andrew wasn’t going to break out a dirty nursery rhyme but he was the closest thing I had to reliving every dirty joke I told in 7th grade.

“You’re my first fare to Staten Island. I don’t mind going down there but I figured I would let you know.”

“Bro, that’s fine. Most of the cabdrivers don’t mind taking me but I have to get home and it can’t take all night”

“I know the feeling since I live in New Jersey and it can be a bitch after the last Bus leaves at 12:45. Know how many times I’ve missed it?”

“Enough?”

“Yeah, but I still love this place. It’s funny too, Staten Island should be a part of New Jersey if ya look on a map.”

“Well, New York beat New Jersey in that boat race all those years ago” (Or so everyone says)

How old are ya, if ya don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m 35”

“Me too, and look at me, I’m driving this for a living.”

“Bro, don’t worry about that. I went to school and graduated and now, I’m bartending. It helped pay my student loans off and I don’t have a family, mortgage, or kids like my friends do. It’s not what I want right now and I’m fucking happy with that. Things will come around for you soon enough.”

“I know they will. Do ya like living there?”

“Absolutely. It’s part of the city but it doesn’t look or feel like Manhattan. I grew up there and to me, it’s still home.”

I could see that he hit the nail on the head with that last statement. Even though I had never taken anyone there, there were a few times, when I drove through it on my own to get to other places, and yes, it doesn’t look or feel like Manhattan once you’re away from the St. George Ferry Terminal. Like so many other outer neighborhoods in New York, you don’t realize you’re in New York until you see the street furniture and municipal services – the light fixtures, signs, traffic lights, NYPD cars, and street signs that look so oddly out of place with the Perkins and White Castle that seem to missing a Jersey barrier and jughandle out in front.

What I was most grateful for on this run was not seeing a part of New York that I never get to, but how easy it was to get to at night. There are few places that are tough to reach after hours but that’s only if the person in the back seat is sober and coherent. There’s been too many times where I had to stop the Taxi as soon as I got off the highway or out in the middle of nowhere and had to wake up a snoozing passenger so he could help me on the last 3 miles of my fare. That wasn’t the case last Saturday.

What stuck in my mind in the wee hours was how much Andrew reminded me of myself in terms of his upbringing and his life story. No matter how many types of people I give rides to every day, there’s so much that unites everyone in the city as diverse as New York. Everyone who calls the Big Apple home seems to have it all together, with the sky-high rents and grind-it-out jobs that come with city living. Take it from me – everyone does NOT have it together and even though most people don’t lie, New Yorkers are better at hiding their flaws and insecurities than anyone else. Many will bear them to people like me since it may be their only chance to open up in a given day and for me, that’s alright. Along with the traveling, the food, and the knowledge I gained of what’s what and where in the Big Apple, that’s why I took this job. I may not ever win a lifetime achievement award or work my way to the top of my field, but I love helping brighten people’s day just a little bit; as terribly cheesy as that probably comes across on here.

“That will be $51.50, including the toll and the state surcharges.”

“Here. This includes that and your tip. Thanks for the ride and keep your chin up. Hylan Boulevard will get you back to the end of the Expressway.”

The rest of the night was fairly uneventful, with the usual assortment of clubgoers and resident drunks hopping in and out of my cab as if I had revolving doors on the sides of the vehicle. At I parked the cab for the last time as the sun was coming up, I was thankful that I had passengers that could show me the most real things in this world, unseen by both children and men.

by

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

by

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