Cab Driving Axiom No. 1A

Cab driving Axiom #1A: "Driving a cab is fun, until someone actually gets in your cab." Yes indeed, that’s when it becomes work, and not the driving part, but the socializing. Forget that 51% of the populous is rude, incomprehensibly boorish, malodorous, oblivious, unfashionable, Republican, homophobic, jingoistic. Forget all that. It’s the stupidity, the bold faced ignorance, of the person sitting right behind me, or next to me, if their thick-skulled, heavy-eye lidded family is crowded into the backseat. I realize one can’t choose their parents, and a small brain doesn’t mean a small heart, but goddamn, anyone can access knowledge, then masquerade it as at least a modicum of intelligence, with maybe even some common sense thrown in for effect. Why if J. Eddy Hoover were still alive, we’d have files on people who buy "Die Hard 3" on DVD. I for one, want to know where these people are, and what they’re doing, at all times. Maybe the Feds could put something in their water that would make them sterile, or sleepy, or desirous of Fellini movies. I don’t know. Just keep the sumbitches out of my cab. They don’t tip so good either, I don’t mind telling you, these people too lazy to think, or read a travel guide. Here’s an example of the type of person cab drivers have to deal with 51% of the time:

I’m in the cab line at Pier 39, so I’m already in the "Idiot Zone", when a tubby family of five gets in my cab. "Oh my, it was so warm this afternoon, when we decided to don our balloon shorts and ‘Hard Rock Cafe - Moline, Ill.’ T-shirts, and didn’t think to bring a jacket.", I can see them silently complaining to me with their doughy slits for eyes, as if it’s my fault that the temperature dropped, and they’re a little chilly. Every single publication concerning San Francisco ever printed, anywhere in the world, makes constant mention of a ‘cooling trend’ towards evening, but they were too busy looking for Planet Hollywood 2 for 1 coupons to notice this information.
Three kids and mom in the back, dad up front with me; my new friend.

Dad: We need to get to the Super 8 Motel on Lombard Street. Do you think you can get us there?

Me: I’m confident that I can.

Dad: What are you listening to?

Me: The Giants game.

Dad: Baseball?

Me: You got it.

Dad: What’s the score?

Me: I don’t know. I’m trying to find out.

Dad: Are they playing here?

Me: Chicago.

Dad: Are you a Giants fan?

Me: Yes. Are you?

Dad: Oh no. I don’t even like baseball.

Me: Why would you ask me 5 questions about baseball if you’re not interested?

Dad: Just making small talk. Where you from?

Me: You don’t want me to listen to the game, is that it?

At that point I realize I’m getting surly, but can’t help myself. I also know that in a random survey of Americans, I’d be the freak, and the "Pudge Family" would land exactly in the middle of normal. Five on the scale of ten. I know this.

Dad: Of course you can listen to the game, why are you asking me?

Me: Because it’s pretty damn hard to listen with you asking me non-stop questions. I’m going to start charging you fifty cents a question.
I say this with something resembling a smile, and dad laughs. I dodge a bullet there.

Mom: Do most of these buildings have basements?

Me: The last basement census I took was 5 years ago, and I believe the percentage of buildings was somewhere around....... how in the world would I know? What kind of question is that? Don’t you want to ask me about museums, or restaurants, or Golden Gate Park, or something useful to you on your visit here? I have to listen to the game now. Please excuse me.

At this point mom asks dad to roll up his window (I think she’s mad at me, or she might be thinking of fresh mangoes, I guess it would be impossible to say.) Now here comes the challenge. Dad looks down at the armrest, and identifies 2 buttons. And I have to give him credit for that, as certain tourists are helpless without a manual window crank and too intimidated to push any buttons, or ask for my help. And no help is exactly what they get. If they don’t have the balls to push a button, or ask me to raise the window, then fuck ‘em, they can freeze. I’ll wait ‘em out, even if we get on the freeway, and I’M cold, I’m not raising the damn window for them. This job will make an honest, decent, good-hearted person into a sadist.

He’s got a 50% chance of raising the window, and of course he picks wrong and locks the doors. Not a big deal at this point of the contest. Dad takes his hand away from the armrest and ponders the dilemma he’s gotten himself, and his family, into. He now has, according to odds makers in Vegas and Reno, 1/1 odds, or a 100% chance of choosing the correct button to raise the window, and keep his lovely cottage cheese ass bride from catching a chill. Dad looks straight ahead, takes a deep breath, and quickly unlocks the doors. Tried to sneak up on the button and fooled it into raising the window.

Me: I think you should try the other button.

I pull into the Super 8 and they all get out of the cab. Dad tips me nicely despite the hushed conference with his wife, and I feel bad about my rude behavior. He’s a better man than I, able to put aside petty differences for the common good of mankind. I make yet another mental note to start being more patient with goofy assholes. The Giants beat the Cubs 8 to 7 on a 9th inning Bonds homer, plus a Rob Nen save, and the night takes an imperceptible (to the untrained eye) swing upward.
 
If you wish to read more by Lee Vilensky, click here!

And, Lee can be emailed here.