Taxi Angst
I know there are many cliches about crazy New York cab drivers, so I am going to skip an introduction. Let me just say that the experience of riding in the back of taxis is so physically and mentally unbearable for me, that I often opt to walk instead, regardless of the climate or distance to my destination.
But there are a few times during my New York trips when I can’t avoid the inevitable. So I sit my sorry, car-sick, ass in the back of a nasty taxi and pray for the best. On Monday, I got screamed at by the driver, because I dared to suggest that he take Madison Avenue instead of Park. Then I had the audacity to request that he went easy on the brakes so I wouldn’t puke.
“Too much traffic!” he barked, in an unidentifiable accent, “Regulations say “No Back’!”
“All right,.” I replied, pretending I understood what he meant, “But please drive a little slower so I don’t throw up.”
He responded with a disgruntled sigh as he slammed on the brakes.
Yesterday, my husband and I were heading back to our hotel room after a trip to Central Park. “Just shoot up 6th and drop us off at the corner of 44th,” my husband instructed.
“6th not good. Broadway better,” the driver rebutted.
My generally good-natured husband was feeling a little feisty so he repeated himself, with more volume and intensity to his voice, “Take 6th Avenue, sir!”
The caby responded by repeating, “Broadway better. Do you hear!”
My husband occasionally plays the part of Over-Testosteroned Alpha Male, and I always find it incredibly endearing when he does so.
“I hear that you want to take Broadway. But do you want to take me where you want to go, or where I want to go? Tell me now or we are getting the hell out of your cab.”
“6th Avenue” he begrudgingly muttered, shooting up the street like a drunken race car driver.
Next time I will walk.
