By Jose Bello
Years after having moved out of the city, I'd rent a car and visit family and friends, once a year or so. But, except for Danny, my old friend and first tenor of our doo-wop group, The Enchantones, other friends had proved hard to find. We used to sing doo-wop around Brownsville on street corners and school yards. Although my memories left me somewhat sad over what used to be, I felt good about still being capable of maneuvering in New York City traffic. But I won't be driving strangers around the city anymore. Those days are over for me. Back then, my work day usually began between 3 and 4 p.m. And I usually had the car back by 5 or 6 a.m. the next day.
Working the streets as a cabbie in New York City in the sixties and seventies was a risky proposition. But that risk was part of the equation that took in other factors and still placed its total on an acceptable, if not attractive, level to those who chose to be cabbies. The fact that you didn't know what could happen on your next shift was part of the attraction. And if one lived to tell about it, I felt the stories would be worth it. As a young man I felt confident of my odds.
Walking down the hill toward the garage, thoughts of earnings versus risks and hazards played a game of nerves inside me. But by the time I'd reach the garage, those thoughts would be relegated to the nooks and crannies of my mind. I'd had doubts and worries about all the jobs I'd had before. My job history in my early twenties had begun to work against me. I'd had too many jobs since graduating from high school at age seventeen. I'd had around twenty jobs or so by the time I got my hack license, at age twenty five. Until then I'd been forced to fabricate parts of my background by deleting, excusing, and making stuff up, in order to get hired. So by the time I got my hack license, I gratefully dove into the work I knew I was best suited to do. A hack license is still a requirement for driving a taxi in New York City.
I was finally freed from lying and misrepresenting myself on applications. I hated that. I wanted to like who I was. I knew I was no “goody goody” but I wasn't a hateful creep who needed to hide who I was. The work I did prior to becoming a cabbie was nothing I've ever been ashamed of. On the contrary, I cherish and have found those experiences helpful and useful, even today, in one way or another. Most of the jobs I had back then did not require more than a high school education. I did some construction work, warehouse work, factory work, laundry work. I worked as a file clerk, mail clerk and stock clerk.
It was when I was hired for delivering diapers from a step-in van, all over the city, that I was able to test myself as a commercial driver, and found my calling. I did that for about two years before acquiring my hack license. It was that experience that gave me the confidence I needed to finally land the driving job I knew was the perfect fit at that very time. I didn't fit in sales, although I was comfortable talking to strangers; “good people skills” some said. I felt I was an exceptional driver with sufficient knowledge of the city, taking passengers to their destinations within the five boroughs. I also knew I could earn more as a cabbie than at any other job I was qualified to do.
I usually arrived at work between three and four in the afternoon, generally working a ten to twelve hour night shift for Star Maintenance, a taxi company in the Bronx. It usually was a half hour or less before I was assigned a car. It seemed a positive sign, since others had to wait longer. I think the bosses noticed that I didn't discriminate in my work; my trip sheets had me all over the city, and I booked “good money” for them each night. There was a kid who washed, gassed and cleaned the interiors of the nearly new 1970 Chevys specifically designed and equipped with meters that recorded mileage, time and payment per mile, and time per each trip. It seemed quite a feat, that taxis were used for two years on the streets, before being replaced with new models.
It was amazing the beating those cars could take, accelerating from zero starts and gaining the necessary speeds to make as many green lights as possible, and without getting a ticket! Coming to quick stops without screeching tires or jarring passengers. Continually stopping and going, engine running most of the time. It was punishment, for sure. Quick turns, and maneuvering in city traffic in all kinds of weather, twenty hours or more daily, by a variety of drivers; quite a test. Of course, the company employed tested mechanics to keep and maintain them in good working condition, in order to protect their investment. A car driven for a living should be trouble free. As a driver, one should not have to worry about the myriad of things that can go wrong in a vehicle.
I worked briefly with another company in the Bronx, that had recently been stocked with new cars. The garage was situated within walking distance from home (a fifth floor walk-up apartment). Star Maintenance was too far to walk to. So, I figured I'd try this other company. And on the very first afternoon I took out one of their 'new' cars, it veered right when I applied the brake. So I took the car back to the garage and was assigned another car. A day or two went by and I was issued a car whose brake pedal went nearly to the floor when pressed. On yet another night, the brakes on my assigned car were soft. That was enough for me. I was back at my old company, happy to travel across town for a safer experience. It needn't be a major problem, but a series of small ones; costing a driver money in time lost is inexcusable. It's a fast paced business where time lost will add up to larger losses.
When I worked making deliveries for a diaper service, I once experienced an accident on my way to the first delivery of the day. A driver decided to make a left turn, by crossing from the right lane, across my path, as we reached the intersection. Having no alternative, I hit the brake, as I slammed into the side of his car. At thirty miles an hour, his car suffered damage, my truck suffered very little. Mind you, he swung without signaling, from the right lane into my lane as we reached the intersection, As we came out to assess the damage, the guy looked at me and actually asked: “Didn't you see me?” I lost about an hour before I was able to begin my deliveries.
Normally I'd have finished work by 6 p.m. Yet it wasn't until around 9 p.m. that I made my last delivery that night. All kinds of changes in traffic take place at different times during the day or night that contribute to changes in the time it takes traveling through city streets. And ease or difficulty of deliveries may be affected by day or night. Access to some entrances may differ, as well as parking access and regulations. Many streets in NYC have alternate side of the street parking regulations. Differing criminal activity between night and day may alter conditions in some neighborhoods, especially where safety concerns may be an issue. An innocent driver can become prey, School and train crossings may cause delays day or night. A shift letting out workers from a large firm may obstruct traffic.
I got back on my old “routine” as if one could claim a routine, cruising Fordham Road. Business was good. Over to Bainbridge, down to the Cross Bronx Expressway, still rolling full, over to Westchester and down to the Parkchester houses. Dropped off a passenger on Arthur Avenue and ran another to Jerome Avenue. It was near 8 p.m. and I was still in the Bronx; a good time to head into Manhattan. I worked my way down Broadway and across the park, dropping off my elegant passenger at a canopied address on the east side. I got a passenger right there, for an address downtown near Macy's.
I was having a cool, smooth night! I turned west, intent on picking up a passenger at Lincoln Center or one of the fancy cafes nearby. It was a good bet I would find someone going east. These short back and forth rides multiplied my tips for me and bookings for the company. That was my simple method. It worked most of the time. After a show emptied out at Lincoln Center I'd usually find someone heading to the east side, where I would drop them off into the hands of a uniformed doorman waiting at the curb, under a canopy and welcoming them home to their luxurious apartment.
“Man. Now if things went right I'd pick up a ride...” I was thinking, when instead, in the middle of the long block westward, one of New York's uniformed “finest” was running up to my front passenger door, right hand held high, an intense look of urgency on his face. I leaned over, unlocking the front door. I stopped and he jumped in panting and pointing ahead, “Follow that car!” just like in those old movies I'd seen as a child. I pictured one of those old movie stars, like Spencer Tracy or somebody like that, in an old DeSoto cab: “Yes sir!” the cabbie would say to the cop and peel out after those “bad guys!” Now, here I was: “That Cabbie!”
We headed west, a few cars ahead of the “bad guys.” They didn't notice us. The cop placed his cap on his lap, took out a handkerchief, sat low in the seat and wiped his brow, nearly hidden by the meter. I could only imagine his humiliation and frustration at having gotten close enough to nab those guys, only to have them spin away, smoking tires in his face, in their getaway car! I hit the gas pedal. Many yellow cabs floated midtown cruising for passengers. I didn't know about “other yellows” but I wasn't going to pass up a chance to help catch those “perps” racing down New York City streets, law on My side! Nightly alarms rang in this neighborhood of mostly rich department stores and factories. A wealth of merchandise everywhere.
We focused on the “bad guys” speeding ahead. I kept my distance. He assumed rightly that they hadn't seen him get into my cab. They made a right onto Columbus Avenue. I rushed around the corner stopping abruptly in the left lane. Ahead and a couple of lanes over, their car stood motionless, pinned in on all sides in New York City traffic. At that point, replacing his cap, the officer gave me a quick “Thanks” and rushed out, his right hand unsnapping his holster and pulling out his thirty-eight caliber revolver, as he went (yes, they were still using those, back then). He reached the rear of the bad guys' car and I heard him yell for them to “get out of the car!” as he pointed his gun at them. The light changed and I could see the three men, hands high in the air, getting out of the car. I felt pretty good about myself, as I turned left continuing west again in search of my next “real” customer.
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Read also free pages of the author's life story: "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com