The Bell Curve

Driving a cab used to be easy money. People would ask me, “How do you like driving a cab?” to which I’d invariably answer, “Beats working.”

But 9/11 and the tech industry collapse have made it a struggle, or as one driver likes to put it, “tough bucks”. S.F. may have been one of the hardest hit cities by recent events, and cabbies are feeling it to the tune of a 40% wage decrease. I used to be able to swing a dead cat anywhere downtown and hit several tourists, but the tourists are gone, and the Humane Society has filed charges against me for swinging around dead cats. The salad days are over, and we’re stuck with a bowl full of tepid, curdled dressing.

In light of current economic woes, it seems odd to me that large corporations are building, or have just completed construction, of several upscale hotels in downtown San Francisco. The brand spanking new Omni at California and Montgomery, the Courtyard monoliths reminding us of the economic boom of the ‘90’s, and the myopic nature of several CEO’s in the new millennium. They forgot about the “bell curve”. All things in nature, science, mathematics, love, lust, baseball, and most importantly, the economy, are subject to the predictable laws of the “bell curve”. I learned this in 10th grade and immediately formulated the following axiom: “When things are going well, something will come along to fuck it up.”

After 15 years of driving a cab, I’m making relatively less money than ever. It seems like I’m playing tag with empty cabs, chasing them around the city. I’ve been forced to rely on instinct (luck), and 15 years of finely honed cabbie technique (cheating) to make money. Little tricks like “back loading”, “front loading”, “double loading”, stealing radio orders from other companies, “stretching”, “picking off the tops” (at SFO), have become de rigueur. These used to be things I’d do on an off night when no one was looking. Now I just do it like a man picking food out of the garbage. Pride dissipated through fear and hunger. Well, I’m not hungry yet, but I do have a fear of the prospect of hunger.

The other night I was headed to Pier 39. At Mason and Francisco I espied a woman standing in the doorway of the San Remo Hotel, with luggage, waiting for something. I slowed down and looked at her. She looked at me. I put on my flashers and beeped my horn. She was pensive, unsure of herself, and not sure if I was the cab called for her.

My gaze was impatient, confident, commanding, sure of myself, and quite sure that I was not the cab, or cab company, called for her. (Being right is the same thing as being absolutely sure that you are wrong. Ask any politician.) I willed her ass into my lair of public service transport. You can do that with people. Stare them down until they get in your cab. Quite often they have no intention of taking a cab, but I can’t be bothered with minutiae in these times of economic woe. I loaded her luggage into the trunk and we headed for SFO. In my rear view mirror I saw a Yellow Cab screech around the corner, the speed of his approach a sure indicator that he sensed the pilferage. Might as well shake an apple tree in the winter, Yellow Man.

“Is this a Yellow Cab?”

“Yes, yellow and green.”

End of conversation.I dropped her at US Air, and an elderly couple walked out of the terminal, towards my cab. They were carrying a large plastic garbage can, and wanted a ride downtown. In 15 years of driving a cab, I have never picked up, or dropped off, anyone at the airport, whose sole piece of luggage was a large, plastic garbage can. I didn’t ask. Time was of the essence, because picking up passengers on top, at “Departures”, is strictly illegal. It’s illegal because 200 cabs are lined up downstairs, at “Arrivals”, for this very purpose. They’ve paid $3.25 for the privilege of sucking fumes for at least an hour, before lining up outside the “Arrivals” terminal and getting a fare. I looked around for a cop, then loaded their garbage into the trunk and split, fucking 200 fellow drivers downstairs. Kind of a reverse gang bang.

The ride was uneventful and the conversation was short, and to the point.

“Is that a Samsonite or an American Tourister?”

“Rubbermaid, the only way to travel.”

“Or do dishes.”

“Right.”

I dropped them off in the Mission, then headed north on South Van Ness, towards downtown. At 16th and South, I picked up a large black man dressed like a Russian peasant woman. He was headed to a bar on Turk Street called Aunt Charlie’s. We had a brief conversation:

“How’s your night been, cabbie?”

“Interesting. Just dropped off two people from the airport, whose only luggage was a plastic garbage can.”

“Well, it takes all kinds to make a world.”

“Yeah, and it’s a great, big world.”

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