Many times, I take cabs home from work when I’m in a bad mood and can’t deal with the subway. Last night was one of those times. I work on Park Avenue South in the 20’s, and I live on the Upper East side in the 80’s. This cab ride usually costs anywhere from $10 to $12.
I hailed a cab last night from 27th and Park. The guy picks me up and starts up Park. Annoyingly, like many of the cab drivers in New York, this cabbie drives with two feet. This means that at any given time during the ride, the cab is either accelerating rapidly or decelerating sharply. There is no coasting along at 35 m.p.h., just accelerating on its way to 45 m.p.h. or braking on its way to a stop. This always feels like a bad roller coaster ride and makes me feel queasy.
Instead of cutting over to Third Avenue (the smart thing to do), the guy stays on Park. This is a classic cabbie trick to jack up the fare. Park Avenue is a divided two-way street, so you run into tons of other cars and cabs waiting to turn left or right onto side streets and blocking the way. Additionally, all the lights on Park Avenue change at the same time, unlike Third Avenue or First Avenue where the lights are timed to change as you approach them.
At around 34th Street, Dad calls me on my mobile phone to tell me about his day. I bought him a bike for Christmas, and he wants to tell me all about how he took it out for a first spin out on Long Island. It’s cool until the cabbie cuts off a city bus (for apparently no reason) and skids to a stop at a red light, almost getting rear-ended by the articulated bus. Articulated buses are the big suckers in New York that are basically two buses grafted together with an accordian-like hinge in the center so it can turn. You DON’T want to get hit by one of these. It would be bad. I figure that the cabbie cut the bus off so he can turn right and head over to First Avenue. Wrong.
The guy stays on Park. It’s obvious he wants to squeeze every penny out of this ride. At 42nd Street, there’s usually a huge backup where the road elevates and goes into a tunnel that goes under the Met Life building. Today is no exception, but the guy heads for the tunnel anyway. Keep in mind the cabbie knows that I’m talking on my mobile.
Of course, as we pass under the Met Life building, my signal gets blocked and I lose Dad. I’m starting to get a little pissed off here and I give the cabbie one of those “what the hell are you doing?” looks. He ignores me. I wait a couple minutes until we’re out of the tunnel and call Dad back and we resume our conversation.
In the mid-50s, the cabbie decides to cut across town. If you have any experience with NYC streets, you know that if you’ve just dealt with hassle of going under the Met Life building, you STAY ON PARK AVE. Cutting across town in the 50s is suicide, as you have to compete with all the traffic for the 59th Street Bridge, which heads over to Queens. Since this cabbie is making no attempt to hide the fact that he’s trying to stretch the fare, I ask Dad to hold.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask him.
“I go over to First Avenue,” says Mr. Cabbie.
“You should have done that to start out with,” I say. “Or at least have waited until we got past the bridge. We’re gonna be here all night.”
The cabbie makes one of those deflating sounds “shhhhhhhh” to convey his displeasure at being told which way to go. He ignores me for the rest of the trip.
I talk with Dad for another couple minutes while we fight our way through the 59th Street bridge traffic. At about 63rd Street, traffic opens back up again and we head up First Avenue. At 79th Street, the cabbie decides to make a right turn to head over to East End Avenue. He turns from the middle lane, cutting off a Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows, nearly getting rear-ended again. Instead of just moving on and knowing that he made a dangerous turn, he stops the car on 79th Street to scream a few Arabic swear words at the driver of the Town Car, as if the guy should have been expecting the cab to cut across two lanes of traffic. As he comes to an abrupt stop, I drop my phone, cutting Dad off yet again.
“What the f**k are you trying to do, kill me?”
No response.
Cabbie continues down 79th and turns left onto East End Avenue, running the red light at the entrance to the FDR in the process. He cuts off another articulated bus that is pulling away from the curb. I call Dad back and tell him I’m two minutes away from home and that I’ll call him from a land line when I get up to my apartment.
Screeching to a stop a few minutes later in front of my apartment, I take a look at the meter. $16.90 for a cab ride that normally costs $12 tops. I give the cabbie $17 and hop out. He screams at me until I get my keys out and head into my building. I briefly consider getting his medallion number and calling the city to complain, but I then remember what happened the last time I did that. (Nothing.)
It’s either this or shoehorn myself into a packed rush-hour subway car in which people will get so close to you that you can feel their rank breath on your face. I hate the subway even more - riding the subway automatically forfeits your rights to any personal space whatsoever. Fellow subway riders think nothing of sticking their sweaty armpits in your face or leaning on you with all their weight when they run out of straps to hold on to.
My plan? I’m going to go out and land the biggest account that my ad agency has ever seen. And when the CEO calls me into his office to give me a giant cash bonus, I’ll tell him to keep it and just get me a car service to get to and from work, just like all the rich snots who live on my block. Public transportation honks.
