MARINE TIGERS Excerpt

 (What follows is an excerpt from Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story, my full length memoir available on Amazon)

          Looking west from 133rd Street we could see beyond the Hudson, to New Jersey and Palisades Amusement Park’s roller coaster, overlooking the river from its perch atop a high cliff. An electronic sign above the coaster moved announcements of rides, news, ads and current time across its expanse. I was fascinated by the lighted moving messages, checking often to see the time. While on the street playing, I might be alerted that it was time to go home, or watch a favorite show on TV, like ‘Al Hitch’ (the Alfred Hitchcock show) on CBS. I would often lie on the fire escape at night and watch the lights as they delivered information. The fire escape was also a good place to think.

          Sometimes, on a summer night, I’d just lie there staring up at the sky, with its limited view of the stars. I didn’t know it was limited, as I listened to bits of conversations rise from stoops and sidewalk, not really caring about them, but letting the sounds of the subway rumbling and car tires on the Broadway cobblestone meld with those of kids and teens laughing, kidding around and flirting. Cigarette smoke wafted through the air and an occasional whiff of the river mingled with it. Voices raised in anger or jubilation, sounds of sirens from emergency vehicles pierced the air every now and then, as in the day and all was well and right in the world.  

          A wide pipe hefty enough to be seen snaking its way up the cliff could be seen as well. There was a ferry that took passengers across the river to where buses waited to deposit them at the park’s entrance. The cost of the ferry and the park’s entrance fee were prohibitive to us at the time. Although Paquito was shy and remains a somewhat shy individual today, he had an idea that, as his, seemed implausible. While his truancy as a teenager got him into some trouble, he was mostly a law abiding kid. He stayed out of trouble with the law; though he drove without a license, and may have handled stolen goods, he’d never been arrested. He was otherwise fairly normal for a kid on the block. 

          But when he came to me with the idea of sneaking into the park?! It was all I could do not to jump up and shout it out the window. “What?!” I whispered loudly, not wanting Mami to hear. “Shhh!” Mami’ll hear!” He shot back in a loud whisper.  I was truly surprised. Not just because it was Paquito’s idea, but that he would invite me along! It was a big deal. But not until we had taken the ferry across the Hudson and were confronted by the immense precipice, did I realize what a truly big deal it really was. And while other passsengers headed for the bus stop a short distance away, we veered  out of view to where we would begin our climb, hoping they’d think we lived in the area. 

          Moving low, so as not to be seen from the ferry below or the surrounding area, we rushed toward the large pipe leading up the cliff to the park. We didn’t think we’d be seen from the other side. I looked up to see only sky above the challenging cliff that stood between us and an afternoon’s fun filled adventure. I feared getting caught and having Mami find out. I feared getting into trouble with the police for sneaking into the park. But it was too late to worry now. The familiar pipe I’d seen daily from my fire escape extended up the cliff before me and disappeared some yards above my head. The pipe seemed immense, maybe twenty inches across.

          There was a smaller pipe by its side that appeared to be attached to it. Dirt, weeds and rocks everywhere covered most of the cliff hiding parts of the pipe. I only cared that we were on our way to a free entry into a fantasy land of rides, French fries and cotton candy. I drew from my imagination and pictures I’d seen on billboards, what lay before us, as Paquito quickly surveyed the area. Beyond the roller coaster high above, the electronic sign that mesmerized me daily with its moving letters, challenging me to read faster, or wait for the message to come around again, loomed high above us; though we couldn’t see the letters from where we stood.      

          I’d been looking at that sign every day for as long as I’d lived on a 133rd Street. I felt my nerves tingle within. I grabbed hold of some weeds with one hand and placed my other hand on the pipe’s surface, bracing for balance. I began cautiously hoisting myself up along the pipe, questioning what I’d gotten myself into. We struggled up the pipe, taking hold, on occasion, of the overgrown foliage for support. Paquito kept watch over me, lending a hand when needed and especially as we neared the top. I looked down and could see the river, but not where we’d begun the climb. And although he didn’t show any fear, though he saw it in me, he pulled me onto the flat ground at the top.

          Having reached the top, the park’s sounds brought us into the festive world of the park. The cyclone fence preventing entrance to the park had to be dealt with. I readied to climb the fence; not my first. But Paquito grabbed my arm and led me to an opening, where others had entered before us. The roller coaster roared above, as screams followed the clickety clacking and squealing of the cars; their shadows crossed our path. I followed Paquito through the white wooden maze of the tall structure supporting the tracks. Looking back across the river below, we could see Manhattan on the other side. The excitement of our accomplishment was complicated by the fear of getting caught.

          The smell of French fries and hot dogs beckoned and pride over our feat struck me. At the other side of the structure we could see people moving past the opening to the park. The sounds of the crowd got louder as we approached. We stayed low and paused to check for park workers or cops before joining the crowd.  Then suddenly Paquito was pulling me along beside him and we were immersed in people. We’d made it! We were inside Palisades Amusement Park. It had all been worth it. For the first ten minutes or so I kept thinking we might get caught. Once I overcame that feeling I began to check out the rides and check my pockets to see what I could afford.

          In spite of having to ration what little money we had, we managed to have a good time and appease our appetites with candied apples, hot dogs and even French fries. When it was time to leave Paquito and I took the bus to the ferry. I’ve forgotten the cost, but it might have been free, or I might have snuck on, as I’d done on city busses or the subway. I felt fulfilled and proud to have made the trip. We would do it all again at least one more time. I remember once after Louie and Dotty were married, they took me along with them and their first daughter, Donna to Palisades Park’s pool, where artificial waves created were the pool’s most touted feature. It was great fun.

Heroes in the Night

A fictional story by Jose Bello

I'd met a few famous people in my taxi.  Some were well known, some lesser known.  And because of my lack of interest in sports and even less an interest in team sports, I'd not recognized still others.  I just didn't care.  Now, people in the movies or TV, they were the ones I felt good about having had in my cab; even the smallest of encounters with.  Although, despite the popularity of  “The Untouchables” TV series, I'm sure I would've recognized Walter Winchell, when I picked him up on the east side of Manhattan one night.  Also on the east side, along Lexington Avenue one night, I picked up Mickey Spillane, the famous detective story novelist.  Mind you, I didn't recognize him right away.  I was cruising down Lexington Avenue, when this older guy comes hurrying from the top of the stairs at the Fifty Second Street station of the subway, hand high in the air, hailing me.

“Take me down to the Village.”  He says.  “You know where “Murphy's” is?” 

I said:  “No.”

So, he says “OK, but I gotta' make a stop at a newsstand first, OK?”

And I said:  “Sure” and off we went.  We see a newsstand and I stop by the curb.  He gets out to pick up a paper and I notice his picture on the cover of one of the magazines, with his name under the picture, hanging on a line.  And in the picture he's even wearing the same sport coat and fedora he's wearing that night!  And of course, now I recognize who he is!  Although, I was no fan.  Not because I didn't like his stories; I'm sure now I probably would liked them.  But at the time, I wasn't a reader!  I didn't read much of anything!

So, I said:  "Wow, I thought I recognized you.  You're Mickey Spillane!"

And Mickey says:  "Yeah.  You like detective mysteries?"

I said:  "Well, to be honest, I don't get enough time to commit to written stories.  I read too damn slow.”

And Mickey said:  "No shame in that, kid.  You're living your 'real life'.  Maybe one day you'll write about some of the things you're living now.  I'll bet you're seeing some weird things working at night."

I said:  "I sure do."  So, we get to the Village and he directs me to a street I'd never been on. (No surprise I hadn't been a cabbie too long.)    

He said to me: "Drop me off at the corner,....Murphy's, the bar, there."  Then he says:  “Park it and come inside.   I'm meeting a couple 'a friends for a drink." 

So, I park my Yellow right there in front of the johnny pump, having been pumped by the presence of Mickey.  Up the three caddy-corner steps, under the green pigeon crap covered awning, and in the door I go.  Three old guys sittin' on stools to my right sippin' beers.  They might as well have been cardboard figures!  A silent TV played a football game no one gave a crap about.  Looking around the room with its incandescent chandeliers, yellowed nicotine wall paper, I see a wigged head lost between her own elbows, face down on a table.  Some old coot playing with her hair, eyes closed and mumbling to her from across the table. 

Just then I hear a hissing sound from the lips of none - other than famed author, Hunter Thompson, standing by a door at the back of the room, a forefinger over his lips (indicating "SILENCIO”) and waving for me to follow through the door he held open.  I hesitated, taken by the weirdness of the moment, before rushing over small hexagonal tiles of white and maroon that were the floor  -  I'm guessing since the nineteen thirties.  I go through the door.

Instantly I was transported to what resembled a twenties speak-easy.  Then, looking up from the card game I was now attending at a round table, I saw that I was playing cards with Hunter Thompson, Mickey Spillane, and Ernest Hemingway, who's irate and impatiently saying to me:  "You're holdin' up the game, kid!  You know that?!"

And Mickey, sitting between us says:  "Hey, take it easy with the kid.  He's my cabbie!  He's with me."

And Hemingway says:  "Alright, alright!  Don't get yer undies in a bundle!  You've got most of our bread.  One more hand and we'll have your “royal” royalties by day break.”  And I was thinking, what have I gotten myself into?!  My Yellow's probably being towed, right now!  -  Is this real?

I'm holding a hand and I have no idea what I'm doing. You see, I don't play cards! Never have! And I'm staring at my cards, wanting to do the next thing. But just what would that be?  No idea. Not a clue.  Now, Hunter's in my face.  He whispers:  "If you don't make a play, Ernie may just blow you away with that old revolver on the table.  He's been losing all night and he's getting mighty impatient, kid!!” So, now I feel cards coming out of my hands one by one and Mickey's standing beside me, head back, laughing.  “Great move, kid! - Look out Ernie!  Looks like beginner's luck's got hold of ' im.  Look at those beauties he's thrown out! - AHA, HA, HA, HA......"

Now, I look at the cards that flew outa' my hands and onto the table.  Mickey's praising my move.  But, I don't know how it happened.  Hunter Thompson, chompin' at a stub of a dried up cigar between his teeth, winks at me.  Hemingway appears totally incredulous, and throws down his hand in frustration.  I Fear For My Life;  what hand?  What  IS HAPPENING?? - Spillane, smiles and winks.  He offers: 

"Listen kid, it's been a fun time.  I hope you appreciate me wanting to get you some winnings at the table here.  But, we don't play for winnings, least not actual money.  We're way past that now.  We seen too much of life to know 'winnings' set up by mortal beings are nothing more than bull!  Real winnings are dealt to those who regard happy, touchy, feely stuff of the heart.  We never did appreciate that enough in our time.  You'll know what I mean when you're outa'  here and living your real life again..............”

"Hey, Cabbie!  Wake up, man!.......Are you on duty or are you -  Not On Duty!? - Cabbie! - Hey...."  The voice was coming from a big round, tired and angry dude staring in at me from the passenger side window of my Yellow Cab.

Stunned, alone in my cab, I remembered -  YES, YES, YES.  OF COURSE -  I'M ON DUTY! ! ..... I unlocked the back door and let him in.

 

 Read also free pages of the author's life story:  "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com

IN MY DEFENSE

by Jose Bello

        From the distance between us I couldn't make out gender, or features revealing much about my enemy. My capable opponent was somehow able to use the unobstructed terrain to keep information from me that might be physically telling. I was situated on higher ground; a coveted position in battle. With time of no consequence and being well equipped with no need of additional equipment or assistance, I would await my enemy's next move. My only need was to keep watch over the situation and assess a possible outcome.

        As in any battle, no outcome is assured, regardless of positioning or equipment. It is always a crap shoot, with death waiting in the wings and the threat of injury looming. At the moment, what we had was a stand-off. I only knew I had to survive this situation thrust upon me by a menacing stranger. If this be my final battle, I would face that possibility proudly and in the knowledge that it was in the performance of my duty, as protector of the terrain only I occupied before the present threat appeared. 

        Modern technological advancements were my friends. I happened to be in possession of a weapon that allowed the long distance spraying of debilitating and deadly substances. As I pondered the distance between me and my target and the consequences of my choice of weaponry, I had to consider my trajectory and the effects of shifting air/wind between us. The air was still. Since the beginning of time some battles have been lost to seemingly lesser foes. Size may confuse and confound the untrained observer. It's been well documented that a soldier's sense of self preservation, and perseverance, regardless of size, body weight, weaponry and other supposed disadvantages, have been overcome by a persistent, competent soldier. One should never underestimate the enemy.

        In this particular incident, I considered a tool most suited to the job at hand: A modern tool, whose capabilities would render the enemy dead or dysfunctional. That would lessen my risk in closing in to better assess things after my attack. My weapon of choice was equipped with the capability to activate a lethal spray upon my enemy that would coat the skin with a potentially deadly substance. Its only disadvantage was that I would not be able to measure the effects of my attack, without getting closer. I would in fact, be increasing my vulnerability, should the enemy be only disabled as I closed in.

        So, after some time and consideration, I decided it was time enough to move the toilet brush in its container, holding it by its very end and seeing whether I'd killed that pesky little spider holding me hostage in my own bathroom!!!

 

Read also free pages of the author's life story:  "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com

 

 

 

 

NIGHTS UNDER THE TOP-LIGHT

 

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

 

 

FOLLOW THAT CAR

 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.

                                                                        * * *

 

Read also free pages of the author's life story:  "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

A CONVERSATION WITH MR. PAIN

                                                          By Jose Bello  

Voice of: Ed Chano: - Hello! And welcome to another edition of  “Dialogue: Need To Know.” I am your host  -  Ed Chano. 

- (Program theme music plays, then subsides and plays lowly, in the background)

And this week we'll be talking with “Mr. Pain.”  As you know, and just in case you don't, he is and has been, the only man in charge of all things concerning pain.  Yes, you heard right.  Hurt and pain are his “game”.  We've been receiving letters from you, the viewers.  And we've been listening and doing our research in anticipation of the “Pain” man's visit.             

We've gathered your main concerns and I'll be putting those questions to Mr. Pain right here, on “Dialogue: Need To Know.”   

“Dialogue: Need To Know”  is a contemporary program that brings interesting people in the news to the foreground of criticism, speculation and all matter of questions by our audience, in a quest to get answers from those whom we all find... well, questionable! 

We dig deep, searching for answers to questions the public wants and demands answers to.  We don't assume anything about our guests.  We invite them here to our studios, where we use the latest technology available to satisfy your “Need to Know.”           

We have with us today, Mr. Pain, well known to us all, as the reason many of us will delay or even cancel dental or doctor's visits.  He has agreed to answer any and all questions we have for him.  Many of our questions are sent in by viewers.  So, sit back and enjoy the show.  I am your host and  sometime arbitrator, sometime mediator, your conduit between our guest and our audience, Ed Chano.   

- Camera pans back, revealing studio personnel wearing ear phones and carrying clip boards, hastily moving about, dodging video and sound equipment, stepping over snaking electrical wires along the way, as the theme music's volume increases and partial credits roll, while in the foreground, Mr. Pain enters, led by a young lady in  jeans, who sets down her clip board on a lamp table near one of the chairs and begins attaching a small microphone to Mr. Pain's lapel.

The show's musical theme fades into commercial messages.  At the end of which, theme music plays, momentarily, then fades out, as camera pans back, revealing Ed Chano seated at one of two comfortable living room chairs facing another upon which Mr. Pain sits; the program's musical theme fades.  And Ed Chano's head shot appears, as he looks gravely into the camera and speaks:  

 - Voice of Ed Chano: -  Mr. Pain, welcome to Center Stage Studios.  As you can see, we've prepared this space to keep you, me, our team and everyone here safe, during our conversation.  Thank you for being here and sharing with us information about the delicate work you perform; that of administering pain.  I want to explain to our audience, that one major reason for our inquiry today – with all respect to you sir, –   is to bring clarity to the decision making process of your work.  Many people have expressed a need to know why pain is administered in those cases when there appears to be no need to do so.                                   

Mr. Pain: - Well, Mr. Chano, thank you for welcoming me to your studios.  It is a relaxing atmosphere and I'm happy to have accepted your invitation.  I've been looking forward to shedding  light on my work.  I'm aware that appearances can be misleading, often leading to inaccurate conclusions.

           

Ed Chano: - I'm a believer in clarity, Mr. Pain.  And we're glad you've come to help us with that today.  As a democratic people, we feel the need to call into question things affecting us.  Some situations demand answers, such as your motivation in some cases.  This is why we invited you here.  And we hope you will clarify these issues and help us to understand the way you arrive at some decisions that appear pain is being inflicted casually or possibly, needlessly.  We welcome your input.  

          Mr. Pain: - Allow me to enlighten you, by way of an example:  A policeman interrogating a suspect may be forced to ask some very personal, even “painful” questions, one might say.  And the suspect being questioned might appear guilty in one's assessment of his or her answers.  Yet, when all the facts are in, that suspect may be found to be innocent.  Would you say that the “painful” questioning would have proved necessary, Mr. Chano?

          Ed Chano - Is it my understanding then, that you have no feeling for the pain you inflict?  That seems a cold assessment on your part, Mr. Pain.

          Mr. Pain: - Well, I must admit that it does, sir.  Yet cold or not, was the desired result accomplished?  And was the method used to arrive at that outcome not worth the desired result? 

          Ed Chano – Well, I suppose the method used was justifiable in your example.  But you must admit that it is a cold way to arrive at a “desired result” in other cases.  I would hope that, in dispensing physical pain, that a degree of compassion well beyond that of the empathy raised at a mere questioning, may be applied. You are working with human beings.  Applying physical pain, sir! To which human beings are susceptible... and...it....Hurts.  To which some have been moved to say it's... torturous, sir.   

          Mr. Pain: - Please Ed, let me say that I entirely agree. My situation is different from those of my example in some ways.  However, certain parts in the framework of my example show the validity and purpose in applying some degree of pain.  My example even shows that a relatively small amount of pain, innocently applied, may render a positive result.  I believe my work can be seen in a favorable light, if only human emotion is placed aside and not allowed to interfere with the procedure.                                           

          Ed Chano: - I'm intrigued.  Please continue.  

          Mr. Pain: - While some situations may lead to speculation over the pain administered or as to my motives, the question I might ask would be:  “who better to make these judgments than I, who has been doing the work for as long as I have?”  There is no one with the expertise and experience that comes only with time; especially the amount of time and labor I have invested for the betterment of humanity, painful, though torturous as it may seem.  For without my contributions, humanity would have suffered losses unimaginable.  Human beings need to feel pain.  It tells them when something needs fixing.  It makes them arrive at decisions they otherwise could not.  It awakens the need to act in times of severe urgency.  It allows a human being to see beyond needs and wants.  It allows priority changes to come into clear view and actions never before considered, to be taken. And these pieces of a life I've come to know and affect at intervals in the lives of humans in crisis, are like no other.  My understanding and ability to act in accordance with the knowledge I've earned, gives me and only me, the ability and right to do my work.      

          Ed Chano: -  How long have you been doing your work, sir?  And how did you come to be “Mr. Pain”?  

          Mr. Pain: - Well, actually, long ago, so long ago, I am not able to give you an exact date.  

          Ed Chano: - Were you appointed, selected by some committee, or other entity?  An authority, that  makes choices or directs you in your work?  And if so, who would that be and what are your duties to that person or entity; and might there be discrepancies existing between you and others exerting influence in your work? 

          Mr. Pain: - Now Ed, - May I call you Ed? 

          Ed Chano: -   (Nods 'yes' and smiles reassuringly).  Yes, he utters.

          Mr. Pain: -  I realize you're anxious to get to the crux of the matter.  I know your audience wants answers and I assure you, they will get them.  I will answer these questions in the course of what I am about to reveal. 

          Ed Chano: -  As to a job description, including responsibilities and authorization in the use of the powerful tools of your work?  What if anything, can we assume is “off the table” so to speak? Or are ALL decisions left to you, sir?  These are certainly loaded questions. I'm sure you'll agree.  Yet, these and others like them are the ones we need answered.

           I'm sure you're aware that there has been a growing disquietude among the citizenry and it concerns your work and whether or not some restraints may be applied for the sake of a more humane approach on your part.  I'm sure you know that the general public, despite or because they are not privy to how you carry out your work, have raised suspicions in the absence of clarity.   

          Of course we are all curious about your work.  And that is actually a compliment to you and your accomplishments.  Of course this curiosity about you and your work also raises much excitement among us all.  From the moment you accepted our invitation to appear here on “Need to Know” we've all been very excited. We get so many letters.  Many are not complimentary, expressing suspicions about your work, your personal motivation and even your integrity.  I guess it's to be expected.             

         Your power is great, sir, and as well you know, capable of consequences that can alter lifetimes.  If there is anything you may want to add to ease our worries and concerns, we welcome you to please do so.                       

          Mr. Pain: -  Let me offer a part of my process, for all to consider.  Often in the process of

reaching the point of pain needed for a successful outcome, a human witnessing my work may react negatively to the patient's reaction.  Therein, I believe, lies the controversy.  Sadly, too often the reaction of the subject to the pain is something mortals don't have the capacity to understand.  Emotions may drive a human being to make misguided judgments.  Thus, suspicions may arise about my work, regardless of tools, methodology, motivations or purpose.  I have learned and conditioned myself over time, not to allow emotions to control or dictate my actions.  In a perfect world human beings would understand this as what allows me to remain successful in my work.  If I am to continue to do my work at its best and with the degree of success I've been able to achieve thus far, the future will continue to be successful and fruitful for all of humankind.  

          No. There is no authority exerting influence or oversight over my “duties,” decisions, or any aspect of my work.  I am a free agent, free of any outside constraints. You may say I'm self employed, sir.  I cannot look upon my work as any other.  My duty is to myself and, if you believe in a theological entity, such as “God,” for instance:  NO.  I have never been ordered, suggested or advised by any such entity.  I have no job description, as each of my assignments are unique.  And I will add that no human being, no matter how talented, skilled or learned he or she may be, is capable of fully understanding what I do.  And most certainly, there is, to my knowledge, no human capable, skilled or knowledgeable in what I do, to carry out the critical work I perform daily. 

          That having been said, let me express my gratitude for your open show of respect for me and my “work.”  I am also appreciative of the diversity of your audience, as they are representative of larger America, and the world beyond.  I'm sure this audience will have no trouble understanding what I've said: The validity and importance of my work, justification for certain aspects of the work and decisions I have to make under conditions difficult for any mortal.  And I hope that all suspicions will have been answered to everyone's satisfaction by the end of our discourse.

          My own assessment of the current situation as I understand it, had until this moment, placed us here as adversaries.  On one hand we had a populace brought to the point of action towards me, granted not a physical action, yet one not void of hostility.  On the other hand, from my point of view, left unchecked, such a situation could become a catalyst for an unknown turn of events; one that could end badly for all concerned.  The discontent surrounding my work, my motives, and so on, as you can now see, are actually logical and necessary procedures that stand up to the scrutiny.  I hope I have answered all questions to your satisfaction.                                                           

           Suspicions about my work, my tools and all such matters where human lives are concerned, are extremely important in my work.  However, their use in treating a life suffering, teetering on the possibility of death, are issues of grave importance to me and, as they apply to my work.  They are matters of importance to all of us.  And the public has every right to question these things.  Pain is the critical factor here.  I do well appreciate this fact, since it is at the core of what I do and how I carry out this pressing day to day responsibility.  I well understand that this is the basis for your concern.  But this concern does not lie only with you, but with me as well.  It has always been so.  For I've always been the only one.  There has been no other. And there may never be another.                                 

         My power is well known.  It is unique and it is absolute.  It is life changing.  But I am an honorable being, whose only purpose, when whittled down to its essence, is to the continuance of the human race.  From the time humans are born, to the time they grow old and die, I am a friend; present at all occasions.  I take on many duties along the way.  Heartaches, hardships, shame, wounds, all pain is in my realm.  My delivery of pain may be swift, prolonged, sharp or dull, long lasting, short lived.  Or rationed over time proportionately to its purpose.  A purpose known only to me.

          Your inquiry into higher or other sources by which direction or purpose of my work may be directed, guided, counseled or otherwise premeditated, planned, reasoned or decided is valid and not to be disrespected.  Yet, it can only be best answered by a simple “No”.  There is no other involvement in the things I do.  For I am solely responsible.  I answer to no one person or thing.  Where, how, why or any such questions,  never have and never will be answerable.  Yes, my work may appear lonely.  Yet to me it is simply what I do.  It gives me great pride and satisfaction, as it is essential to all.  Lonely work, to be sure for mortals.  It is at once pitiful yet proud.  For its purpose is, in its end, fruitful, true.  Yes, loving, as well, since one of its many purposes is to awaken certain emotions and clarify others.  The awful wrenching of pain, inflicted in all its mercy and purpose, that only I can administer in its many forms, is a necessary endeavor and a blessing to the religious among you.

                                                                              *

 

Read also free pages of the author's life story: "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com

DAYTIME WOES FOR A NIGHTTIME CABBIE

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. 

********************************

              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