NIGHT SHARKS
by Jose Bello
Central Park separated more than east and west of Manhattan. It also divided the “haves” from the “have less.” The east side housed the “haves” and the west side housed the “lesser haves.” That's how I assessed conditions from my taxi, as I picked up fares nightly during the sixties and seventies. I worked within the five boroughs of the City. Above and below the park I saw no such distinctions. While some may find fault in my assessment where money/luxury lines were drawn, these were obvious to me. A realty, supermarket or other business will come up with their own assessment. But, for my purposes, if a residence is within a short walk or drive from much lower cost housing, then it is within risk of crime; which places all neighborhoods within a reasonable range of crime. The Bronx, Brooklyn and Queens will differ in one way or another, but New York City remains as does any large city, prone to the risk of crime.
And so I worked with these assessments in mind; accepting the risks against personal and financial gain. Central Park West residents had their canopies and doormen along Central Park West, as well as some along West End Avenue near the Hudson River. With one neighborhood next to the other, what can one expect? This information, I added to other collected data in my head for my personal safety and earning potential. But, this information is subject to change, as geographic, structural and other circumstances call for adjustment. It was the challenge and excitement of working nights among people of all walks of life. Once in a celebrity would come in, though mostly the general public. I never really knew who was sitting in the back seat, nor their intent. Traffic seemed to have a choreographed pattern I found fascinating. It was one reason holding me to in my favored job. I still experience the people and traffic of the city, upon occasional visits there.
Cabbies today are faced with competition that never existed in my day. There was no internet - or Ubers and Lyfts to name some very important changes affecting cabbies today. The rise and the fall of medallions has been among the many factors taking a toll on the industry. But the times continue to change in the insomniac city, and the sixties and seventies were very different times from the present day. For me, they were colorful, exciting times that in many ways have had a lasting effect on me and I'll never forget those experiences. I'll continue to write about them as long as my memory serves me, even though there's been much more to my life. While my cabby days hold a prominent place in my life, there are many more stories to tell from other stages, places and people I hope to write about. Some will reside here on my blog. For now, my stories from “Under The Top Light” will take their place here for you.
I had worked at many jobs before acquiring my “Hack License” in order to work a medallion taxi in New York City. I'd been raised in the city and educated in its public system of education. By the time I was about six years old my brothers had taught me to drive; only I could barely reach the pedals in my oldest brother Ralph's 1936 Plymouth. We'd practice down 133rd Street and 12th Avenue under the Viaduct, near the docks along the Hudson River. The Viaduct ran from 125th Street to 135th Street, where traffic was minimal. My brothers educated me on the workings of the gasoline engine and how my driving affected that function, especially in a vehicle using a standard shift transmission. People on the block knew my brothers and often employed their knowledge and services in the repair of their cars. My brothers also incurred the infamy of the local police, as the police's suspicious and too often prejudiced attitude caused friction between them and my two brothers, Frank and Louie, known on the block as street mechanics.
THE GREATEST CAR SHOW
by Jose Bello
Something in their discussions and interest of the work they labored at as street mechanics seemed to have drawn from me an urge to drive a car on the streets of the city as soon as I could do it legally. The strange thing about it was that I didn't share their interests in repairing or rebuilding or in any of the hands on mechanical work they studied and worked at. Instead it was a strong urge to drive, I determined to satisfy as soon as I could. Unfortunately for me, a Junior's license, which I might have acquired at sixteen, would not satisfy my need, since it wouldn't have allowed me to drive legally within the city limit; and that's where we lived. I wasn't some “rich” kid living in the suburbs wanting to drive to school, as I'd see in movies. I would have to wait until I was eighteen years of age before that would happen legally. And my brothers were going to see to it that I would abide by the law. And they did, while unintentionally whetting my appetite, by taking me to what was then a free car show held yearly at The Coliseum on Columbus Circle. And what a great gift that was!
A barrage of publicity in newspapers and radio ads beckoned the general public to the show's opening. And by the time we got there, my brothers and I waited impatiently for entry to the coliseum. I was about seven or eight years old at the time; the youngest of four brothers. The car show featured cars from dealers of that time; prototypes among them. Ford, General Motors, Chrysler Corporation and other lesser known autos such as Studebaker and Kaizer/Frazier, whose impressive performance in America and other countries were also showcased. However, cars displayed were not limited to the family sedan but included cars that excelled on race tracks in America and other countries as well. There were record making individuals, and groups contributing to improvements in the automotive industry, and their cars were also on display.
Competition in performance and other technical fields produced competing and award winning automobiles; vehicles competing in specialized fields, such as higher speeds, better gas mileage or improved handling and design were showcased. I remember fidgeting with excitement on the long line that formed outside the exhibit. When an entrance fee was attached in later years, my brothers and I were effectively eliminated from attendance. We took advantage of the shows while they were free, events that dazzled us with the finest of modern automotive works. Female models in evening gowns charmed visitors to their exhibits. Wonders of the road stood behind curtains, as smiling models extended a feminine hand, gesturing toward slowly opening curtains. Futuristic designs stirred my imagination, while easily forgotten music played in the background.
Colorful, glossy picture brochures including informative text praising the latest features in sedans, station wagons, coupes and convertible models were placed on tables for visitors to peruse. The slowly turning stages shown the autos in their most favorable light. Doors left open on some models allowed full view of dash and interiors: Wood grained dash board designs, smooth chrome, plastic buttons and levers. Cars never before seen by the public. Exotic upholstery in an assortment of colors and fabrics brought “oohs” and “ahs” among spectators. It was a gala event and a boon to the car buying public and dealers alike.
We were excited and amazed by what we saw, tending to rush from one presentation to the next. The Cadillac exhibit was in our collective opinion the most luxurious; presenting its top of the luxury line appropriately. In one particular year (1956, if my memory serves me correctly) there were two prototype models on display. And although my brothers and I weren't clear on which would win in the running, the Eldorado would remain a Cadillac staple for years to come; while a model named “La Espada” and others would vanish from the “Cadillac dynasty.” I'd remain slightly disappointed that “La Espada” (the sword) would not be secured a future alongside other Cadillac beauties.
Years later in my young adulthood, I would rediscover the Eldorado on New York City streets, as I drove a bright yellow medallioned taxi, while working the night shift. The fascination of the Eldorado in all its splendor back in my childhood hadn't left me. Sporting wide, white side wall tires, shiny black Eldorados depicted a retro style only their daring black drivers ventured to assert. I would see them nightly as they cruised the city streets in their garish splendor. I marveled at a distance, their style and their daring to differ, as they leisurely leaned into the center arm rest, while piloting the luxury vehicles. A fedora a bit askew, often adorned with a feather in its band, crowned the driver's head. I'd watch, careful not to stare while admiring their bravado as, night after night, they conducted their illicit business in their audacious vehicles.
Unsubstantiated rumors went around among cabbies that these Eldorado drivers were involved in drug dealing and prostitution activities as their source of income. Other unsupported tales circulated, asserted that the police were well aware of their activities and yet, nothing was ever done about it. And most thought the cops were simply being paid off. But, no one ever came up with any evidence substantiating those charges. At least none that I ever knew of. While there have been movies and books written on the subject of pimps and dealers, some written by the very perpetrators themselves, I have no knowledge of the drivers I refer to in this story, as having participated in any crime at all. Other cabbies shared their views and observations with me during those days (the sixties and seventies) that I worked out of a taxi garage in The Bronx.
One night I stopped for coffee at a restaurant, in the high rent area along Lexington Avenue, when I recognized one of the Eldorado drivers, sitting at a table nearby. They were easy to spot with their feathered fedoras, expensive suits and such. I'd never had any contact with any of them. Then five or so minutes later I recognized another of the Eldorado drivers enter the restaurant, and as he did, the two shared serious looks, as brows furrowed and mustaches drooped in disapproval. I set my coffee down slowly, trying to hide any concern I might have sensed that a confrontation might be about to take place between the two men. Was I about to witness a “western style” moment of reckoning between the two suspect participants? Violence between the two seemed a viable possibility and I was well within range. I continued sipping my coffee.
The second man to enter the restaurant walked toward the first, as the other man casually arranged his coat over the back of an empty chair. And as he did, I noticed a bulge causing some wrinkling around the inner pocket, as though some weight had shifted. His gaze never shifted from the approaching figure, who offered: “Hey, man. I didn't think I'd find you over this side of town, brotha.” Stone cold lines melted as if an aura of familiarity had imposed warmer conditions. The meeting seemed truly by chance. I was not close enough to eavesdrop and decided to return to work, taking my wonderings with me.
Sometimes I'd watch from a distance, as a driver of one of the Eldorados conversed with one of their ladies and my curiosity would hold me in a short term spell of a sort, wondering of their lives. I imagined them in constant risk, turmoil and danger. What a life that must be, I'd think. It all seemed so obvious. And why couldn't I just mind my own damned business?! After all, I was working here!
Read also free pages of the author's life story: "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com