|
It’s 4 a.m. I stand outside of my friend’s apartment in New York City, waiting for my taxi to show up. It would be pitch black outside if it weren’t for all of the street lights. Every so often, random cars roll by, anonymous drivers hiding behind their darkened windows.
The smell of dirty gasoline, urine and the concentration of so many people packed onto an island makes my nose wrinkle in disgust. A pedestrian leers at me as he hurriedly shuffles across the pavement. I shift from foot to foot and think about how I came to be in this mess in the first place.
Flim Flam
My friend had flaked after promising me a ride to the airport. This had meant one of two things: I was going to have to take a bus to the subway, the subway to Grand Central Station, find my way around Grand Central Station to the shuttle area, and then take the shuttle to the airport; or I was going to have to hire a taxi and pay a butt-load of money. Imagine a small-town California girl navigating her way alone through a subway terminal and Grand Central on her first trip to New York City, all before the sun had risen. Yeah, I had been pretty intimidated by the idea, but the thought of spending a ton of money on a cab ride had unsettled me just as much.
 |  |
After finding out that the shuttle from Grand Central wasn’t going to arrive until about a half-hour before my plane was scheduled to leave, my choice was made for me. I had to take a cab.
I had grabbed the giant tome that was the phone book for the area of New York in which I was staying. I flipped to the section of the yellow pages with the taxi listings. Row upon row of names and numbers that meant nothing to me stared back. As my eyes began to glaze over, I happened upon one listing that was a little more distinct than the rest. “Capris Taxi Service,” it read. “Special fares to the airports.” It was the most promising ad I had seen, actually listing more than just its name and number, so I called them and set up a ride for the next morning.
The phone call itself was a little strange. After the phone rang a few times, a man answered with a stern “Hello?” When I explained that I needed a taxi to JFK International Airport the next morning, he hesitated for a few beats and then passed off the phone to another man who had been quite cordial and set up my pick up.
Milksop
Now, as I stand in the menacing dark of a city not yet awake, I begin to worry that my taxi will never show and that I will be stranded in this godforsaken neighborhood. My eyes start to tear. Through the haze, I notice that a black sedan with tinted windows has pulled up to where I’m standing and is sitting in front of me, idling.
I glance at my watch. It’s the correct time, but is this supposed to be my cab? The driver peers at me, honks, and gets out of the car. He’s a short, dark, middle-aged man who looks like he might be Danny Devito’s cousin. He peers at me again and appears unsure. Maybe it’s because of my hesitation?
“You call Capris?” he asks in a thick Italian accent.
“Uh, yeah,” I respond.
“This 6414?” he asks in regard to the address.
“Uh, yeah,” I once again intelligently answer.
Satisfied, the driver takes my luggage and puts it in the trunk. I shrug and get into the back seat of the car. How else am I going to get to the airport? As we start to move, I look around the interior of this rather dark vehicle. I’m sitting on black leather seats that are smooth from lots of wear. There’s no taxi license displayed, no meter, no CB. The only thing to indicate that this might be a cab is the walkie-talkie phone sitting on the passenger’s seat up front. The disembodied voice of a man fills the car just as I note its presence. He’s speaking in Italian with that New York accent you always hear in the movies. The driver ignores the voice and just stares ahead as he pulls out onto the street.
What kind of a cab service is this anyway? I’m sitting in the back of a black, unmarked vehicle. As we drive along, I notice that other drivers are pulling over or getting into other lanes. In other words, they’re getting the heck out of our way. What do they know that I don’t? Is this a front for the mob? Visions of the Godfather dance in my head. The driver turns on the radio, moving the dial until he finds a station playing Italian opera. As the soundtrack for a million mafia movies plays softly in the background, I start to freak out. My palms become clammy. I begin to tremble. I issue forth a little squeak and then am unable to create another noise.
Am I even going to make it to the airport? Has the driver realized that I’m just some clueless West Coast girl who’s gotten involved in something much bigger than her? Is he going to bring me back to his headquarters and drill me for answers on why I had called this cab service? No one will miss me for days. I’m not expected back at work until later in the week. My friend didn’t even know which taxi I had ended up calling, and I live alone so no one will be expecting me home at any given time. We drive past a cemetery and my heart leaps into my throat.
In the front seat, the man keeps quietly driving. I could tell from our brief conversation that his English isn’t very good. I really want him to talk to me. I want there to be a connection, for him to know that I’m a good person. Instead, the quiet thickens, making it hard to breathe. Visions of different ways that I can just “disappear” bang around inside my skull, making it hard to focus on where we’re going.
Forty minutes of travel roll past my window as I silently struggle with a lifetime of stereotypes force-fed to me through the movies and television. Everything I had ever heard about the mob, everything I had ever seen on “The Sopranos,” everything I had ever experienced while attending some bloodbath flick goes through my mind. Finally, a freeway sign proclaims that JFK is coming up. Relief floods through my limbs, causing me to violently shake and feel nauseated about what a tool I really am. For this quiet car ride, I have allowed myself to believe in the prejudice that I know is unjust.
We park in front of my terminal, and the driver starts to get out of the car.
“Um, how much do I owe you?” I ask. It’s not like I can look at the meter.
“My boss not tell you?” the driver replies as he stops his forward movement and turns back to look at me.
“Noooo,” I say, the nervousness that had just left returning full force.
“How much usually?” the driver asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, purely baffled. I’ve never done this before.
“Okay, $30,” he answers.
“$30?” I ask incredulously and a bit too loudly.
“Yes, $30,” the driver says, beginning to look uncertain again.
I give him $40, and we both leave the car. My guilty conscience and the fact that he is a decent man tell me he deserves a big tip. Plus, the endorphin rush that I’m riding is making me feel great!
“Grazie, grazie,” he says gratefully as he pockets the money.
The driver takes my luggage from the trunk, and as I move to take it, he shakes his head. He organizes everything for me and escorts me to the doors. As I take my luggage, a kindly light plays in his eyes and he gives me what sounds a lot like an Italian blessing.
Soaring
It’s almost 5 a.m. I stand in front of JFK. A small smile plays at my lips as I reflect upon the amazing cab experience I just had.
|
