By Jose Bello
It was the sixties in New York City and I was living in the Bronx; a proud New Yorker, something I would carry as essential baggage. I still, on occasion, find myself defending critics of “my city” as though I'd signed some allegiance. Star Maintenance, the garage I worked out of, was located around the corner from Yankee Stadium, on 151st Street. My hack license was wrinkle free when I started working the night shift driving a medallion, “Yellow” taxi throughout New York City. I was in my twenties, and my marriage was less than ideal. It was a great outlet; a getaway from my teetering life.
I dreaded the evening rush hour, avoiding midtown Manhattan like a rat avoids open “Johnny pumps” (hydrants) in summer, preferring instead the residential areas of the Bronx and upper Manhattan. I'd work these outlying areas, making my way in the general direction of midtown, biding time until heavy traffic was traded for the risk of dangerous passengers. Newspapers carried stories of holdups, beatings, killings, now and then. Although most didn't make the front pages, these occurrences were enough to prompt individual police officers to moonlight. They earned extra income, while taking dangerous thugs off the streets; a risky business.
Looking down at his roster, the dispatcher spoke into the P.A. system's microphone in his baritone voice: “There's a little wait on number 314. But there's other cars comin' in any time now.” His words echoed and lingered in the small smoky office and the cavernous garage. “Thanks.” I said and sat on a wooden bench adorned with the names of drivers' friends and girlfriends carved into it along with hearts and other markings and gouges. A short time later I got my car. I made a habit of trying the lights, brakes and listening for weird noises. I checked to see that the back seat was clean and nothing had been left behind. The cleaners always did a good job. I checked the car for big dents, or metal sticking out, that might catch onto someone's clothing. I checked the meter reading to see that it coincided with my trip sheet and I was ready to go.
The job offered a paycheck based on a driver's meter readings; the tips were the icing on the cake, until the government decided to stick their fingers in that cake, too; It was still “good money” though, in those days. And every day was different from the next, as I greeted interesting and often troubled people. It was ideal work for a curious twenty something young man, eager to work at something he was good at. With a sense of adventure and a fascination for city life, I followed my curiosity into the work. Though not the safest way to make a living, it was respectful work offering medical benefits, life insurance, paid vacation and sick leave. Membership in the AFL- CIO Union was further inducement. Of course, for me it was about the freedom it offered; I was my own boss in the taxi.
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It may sound crazy now, thinking back on it. Yet, what occurred on the city streets in midtown Manhattan nightly, seemed as a choreographed dance, privy to commercial traffic, yet hidden to the novice. Horn blowing, hand waving, blinking of lights, even swearing, played a role in the daily phenomena. So went the dance of the box trucks, step-in vans, limos, yellow taxis, car services and a few others who'd caught on. Most of us adhered to the unspoken rules: It's OK to cut in, as long as you leave enough space for the cut vehicle to continue safely, getting out of the way quickly and without hitting anything. That was the main rule. The other guy might get pissed, blowing his horn or cursing, “flipping the bird” or something similar. But, actually fighting over a simple and efficient cut wasn't the norm. A lot of that stuff was a “macho” show.
The city's a different place today. And as America periodically welcomes its latest influx of immigrants, many choose, as newcomers before them, to drive a taxi as a source of income. Training is relatively short and the pay is good. Although, as of late, “Yellow” cabs have had their medallions devalued, due to competition from Uber, Lyft and others. I can, however, tell you that when I was a cabbie, driving a taxi, while profitable, it was a dangerous occupation. The daily newspapers frequently ran stories of cabbies being beaten, robbed, shot, killed. I pushed those thoughts aside, though I often wondered what some of the people I picked up might have been thinking.
I enjoyed driving a taxi. I liked sampling different parts of the city and the variety of people I encountered. I sometimes worked “off the meter” outside “safe” areas, such as midtown, when I felt the need. By manipulating the flag on the meter, the light atop the car appeared to be out, falsely indicating I had no passenger; this was for the benefit of police or inspectors. I only did this until I was able to work my way back to safer ground, making up for lost time and money, while away from a busier Manhattan at peak time. I did this while working risky neighborhoods, ingratiating myself to potentially hostile passengers, by letting them direct the trip. Otherwise, I mostly worked legitimately, with the meter running. On those lesser occasions, I'd ask my passenger if it was “OK for me to make it for myself?” The answer was always “yes”. I also asked for their directions in order to place them in charge of the trip, which led to our mutual satisfaction and customer comfort.
They always preferred giving directions, rather than risk a “scenic route” ride at higher cost. Although I believe this “scenic” scenario to be an item from a previous era. It's unwise and unsafe, if you intend to make money, while avoiding nightly “ass whippings!” It seems stupid to me, since ending one ride, collecting payment, tip and moving on to the next passenger always earns money. I'd heard this “scenic” story a long time ago. I guess it originated from the old days. I mention it only to clear the air. I've never known a cab driver to do such a thing.
While I had my share of problematic passengers, most were friendly, leaving as satisfied customers. I found most people in neighborhoods outside of Manhattan's favorite and mostly tourist haunts, to be good tippers, for the most part, often mentioning their appreciation for my service and how often yellow cabs had passed them by with their “Off Duty” signs on, rushing back to Manhattan. Residents in those outlying areas were generally unhappy with our service. There had been incidents of yellow cabs set afire, their drivers beaten, held up at knife or gunpoint in some of the rougher neighborhoods.
The old Yankee Stadium had a tall white brick wall rounding its entrance and a large sidewalk extending from the ticket booth to the curb. I'd never been inside, nor had I cared to. I've never been a sports fan. I drove up the hill past it to Jerome Avenue, where I hoped to catch a ride inside the borough; a short trip. The elevated subway tracks above the street provided a broken view of the sun's glare, as it shown intermittently, between slat and sun, slat, sun, slat, sun, slat, sun, until a train roared above, relieving the assault on eyes, with its overshadow.
A short distance ahead, a woman raised her hand, hailing my taxi. I pulled up with my back passenger door conveniently positioned along the open space between two parked cars where she stood. She opened the door, picked up a shopping bag in front of her and got into the back seat, a large pocketbook dangled from her shoulder. “Where to, ma'am?” I asked, while filling out my trip sheet. She answered: “I'm going over to 178th Street and Broadway. The Medical Center there?” She asked, wondering, due to my youth, if I knew the route. I replied, “Yeah.” And we headed for the Cross Bronx Expressway.
Although the distance wasn't great, the fact that it was in Manhattan didn't please me. I didn't want to go downtown yet and there was a good chance I might get someone wanting to go downtown into the dreaded afternoon traffic I'd hoped to avoid, once I'd drop her off.
That afternoon in front of the Columbia University and its Medical Center Buildings, a scattering of workers, students and visitors awaited rides, some near the curb at the bus stop. Among them, an elderly woman carrying a nearly empty shopping bag and a pocketbook, hanging from her shoulder, stepped off the curb, hailing my taxi. I stopped the car, aligning the rear door in front of her. She opened it and slid onto the back seat. I held my pencil ready to fill in my trip sheet on the clip board beside me. She said: “Good afternoon, young man.” “Good afternoon,” I answered. “I'm going to a store around 96th Street on Broadway.” She continued: “I'll let you know where to stop when we get there.” “Thanks” I answered, thinking, that was about as close to midtown as I cared to go, thinking I'd head back to the Bronx as soon as I could, after that.
Broadway had a raised, narrow park separating downtown traffic from uptown traffic. Grass and small bushes adorned paved walkways along its center. Benches, for people to relax, converse or read a newspaper, were sporadically arranged. Nannies with baby carriages and retirees mostly occupied benches, while winos and junkies found room to hide in plain sight. A warm sun shined over the Hudson; evening still time away. I slowed nearing 97th Street. Shoppers crowded the sidewalks, rushing last minute errands, crossing mid-block, ignoring jay-walking laws. Slower, older pedestrians crossed at the corners. “You can stop right here young man,” my passenger informed me. I pulled in behind a double parked box truck whose driver returned a hand truck onto its box. I let the lady out, as the truck merged into a moderate downtown flow. I still had no desire to work the area, knowing the volatility of movement possible in that time and place. I would head uptown, first chance I'd get.
I was filling information in on my trip sheet, when suddenly the rear doors were yanked open and four teens crowded into the back seat. A fifth, larger youth, wearing a jaunty hat and sunglasses, flopped onto the front seat. Then leaning in, uncomfortably close to me, said: “Brooklyn!” In my haste to be out of midtown and into more relaxed territory, not only had I neglected to lock the doors, I hadn't turned on my “off duty” sign atop the taxi, required by law, when taking time off. So I couldn't say: “Oh, I was just gettin' ready to take a break. Sorry, chums.” Several thoughts jammed my head, vying for attention, first and foremost among them: I really don't want to go anywhere with these jokers! Brooklyn?! - In Rush Hour?! And, isn't it illegal for this guy to sit in the front seat? - Also, where exactly in Brooklyn were they going? And, finally, is there a legal way out of this?! - The answer was no.
Just then, another guy stood at the edge of the sidewalk holding the back door open and, bringing his body in, launched a punch squarely into the face of the totally unaware victim at that end. Time froze momentarily, as the assailant impulsively gushed into laughter, then took off running up Broadway. The back seat promptly vacated, as the teens spilled onto street and sidewalk, in pursuit of their daring nemesis, jostling his way up the crowded sidewalk, on his way uptown. The teen in the front seat, turned to me angrily, as though the turn of events had been my fault, commanding: “Wait here!” And running off after his cronies up Broadway.
Yeah, like I was going to stick around. I pushed down on the gas pedal, Bam- Bam- Bam- three doors slammed. I came to a snappy stop at the corner of 96th; the crossing crowd reflecting on my bright yellow hood. Neither I nor the swarm of pedestrians acknowledging one another. A welcomed sight, away from the menacing situation I'd just been released from. Pedestrians and drivers rarely looking one at the other; a New York thing. I stared out ahead of them, playing the game. And as the green light gave way to the yellow for the crossing traffic, I began allowing the cab to roll, creeping forward at the first opening, making my right turn and rushing west of Broadway and making another right on West End Avenue, heading uptown in search of my next passenger.
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Working the streets in the sixties and seventies was a risky proposition. But, that danger was part of the equation. The fact that you didn't know what could happen on your shift could be part of the attraction to the job. And if you could live to tell about it, what stories you would have to tell.
Read also free pages of the author's life story: "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com