The cab driver has a hard job in the city no matter what anybody thinks. They are the brunt of people’s impatience, anger, rage, intransigence and overall anxiety that comes at least partly from the pressures of city-living. They didn’t ask for it but it is part of the job description. Furthermore they get it not only from the public but the Taxi Commission and all those other barnacles of commerce that have come into the Life of A Taxi (driver — and passenger) in the past couple of decades.
They feel those pressures too. They also drive in a world where people increasingly (to more than majority) don’t (feel any need to) follow any rules or warnings about their transporting themselves on foot across a busy street. Not only do these pedestrians not follow any rules, many are aggressively insulting. It’s a fool’s paradise, shall we say. And the cabbies are at the center of it.
Yes, I know there are lots of them who have many drawbacks personally, not to mention their driving ability. Although driving ability among the general population is radically unpredictable with self-entitlement the operative motivation. All this in a world where the text has replaced the stroke or heart attack as the most dangerous physical experience behind the wheel and on the road.
Now you know what I think.
So, as I said, I had this guy from Egypt, 27 years in New York, calls himself a New Yorker and he is. Then this afternoon, after lunch with the rain coming down steadily, on the corner of 58th and Fifth by Bergdorf Men and across the way from the Apple Cube, I was lucky to get a cab to take me home.
I didn’t catch his name but he was a big heavyset guy with a newsboy’s cap and narrow, rectangular rimless glasses. A West African man, from Senegal.
He asked me: “Where you going, son?” I told him. I asked him why he called me son since I’m clearly at an age beyond that. He said: “Because you’re much younger than me ....” Since I couldn’t see his face and he was a heavy set man, I couldn’t tell an age. “How old?” “44.”
Geez. I had break the news to him: I was old enough to be his (old) father. We didn’t get far into his background (he’s been here three years). This was his second visit to New York. He came and returned to Senegal once before. Instead he wanted to ask me some questions: “What month has 28 days?” (people always say: February; wrong: every month. “What state’s name ends with a “K.” I guessed New York (duh) but he told me most New Yorkers think it ends with a “C” (NYC). Are you still with me?
Anyway he was a most pleasant fellow. Michael’s incidentally was more than rather quiet. Many familiar faces in a very relaxed atmosphere. Today will be back to pandemonium.
Last night I went up to the 92nd Street Y, the great New York cultural center on the Upper East Side. My friend Joan Jakobson was participating in a program -- 92& Glee! Concert. It’s not of any great interest to me but I thought I’d have a look. Joan is not a professional singer but she loves to sing, and her enthusiasm is contagious. I know the type, being one myself. We like to sing (especially when no one else is around to complain).
|
