the Short Cab

It was the perfect beginning to a life in the Big Apple.

I arrived via air this afternoon and got a cab to my new home, further locale details would constitute an invasion of my privacy (pronounce the "i" like in give).

Upon announcing my destination, the cabbie, a fat "fifty-five year old ex-cop" with grey hair and dandruff on his shoulders, muttered "shit. [pause] You're my second bad ride in a row, you know that?" We drove to the dispatcher (think Louie DePalma, except tall, black and skinny) where Cabbie yelled something incomprehensible out the window at him. Then, they locked eyes for a few moments (in a wholly unromantic display of emotion) and then I was alone in the cab while the Cabbie got what's known in the biz as a shorty ticket. We drove off.

"I can't believe this. You're my second shorty in a row. The last woman wanted to go across the street." He was a complainer, clearly. Maybe because he didn't have his breakfast or lunch, although it didn't look like he would ever skip a meal. We kept driving.

"That's where she wanted to go." He pointed across the street. "I never come to the airport. There's no money here. I waited in line two hours and this lady just wanted to go across the street. It was a six dollar fare. And now you, you're what every cab driver hates buddy," he told me. I could care less, just drive me to where I want to go.

"I waited two hours for a six dollar fare and then I came back and waited another hour for you, a twelve dollar fare."

Whatever. Anyway, the guy proceeded to explain that it was a racial issue, that he got to short runs in a row because he was white and the dispatcher was black. "I been driving cabs 37 years. Cops used to drive cabs part time years before. I know how this works, I've seen it before. If I was black, you would have had to get out of the car and somebody else would drive you. I worked how long today and I didn't even make twenty bucks."

I asked him where he usually drives. "Manhattan. I woulda made fifty bucks by now in the time you've been in this car. I am so angry. This is the angriest I've ever been in my life."

Assuming after two bouts with bad luck at the airport, this Johnny Come Lately would have gotten the hint and gone back to Manhattan to make his megabucks instead of doing airport runs. So what are you gonna do, I asked.

"Go back to the airport and wait another hour for another shorty."