Saturday, November 15, 2008

exxxcuse me, mr. cab driver.....

Living in New York over three years now, I've had time to ponder many questions. Am I working as hard as I could? Did I remember to put on deodorant? And, um, excuse me, Mr. Cab Driver, um WHAT THE FUCK ARE DOING ON THE PHONE???

I assume a cab driver gleans an abundance of anecdotes while carting around New York's drunkest that are quite worthy of sharing with friends. I certainly have plenty from my waitressing days , a profession which I'm sure is relatively comparable in this nature. But when I imagine my ear glued to a jawbone relating these stories to a far off friend while opening a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape for a table, I also envision falling on my ass. And now I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do to the ER nurse as he dislodges a phallic
shaped bottle from my invaded rear. Because in both waitressing and driving, multitasking is dangerous, often deadly and can lead to an extremely awkward conversation with a proctologist.

I'm sure for you, Mr. Cab Driver, there are plenty of matters to discuss other than the trials and tribulations of driving Miss Drunken Daisy. But can it really not wait until I get to Sweet N Vicious or whatever pathetic establishment I'm paying you three hundred and thirty dollars plus tip to drive me to? I can just see the look on my CD's face if I walked into a meeting with a Blackberry attached to my ear, and gave him a "What, asshole?" look when he asked me to do my job. Just as I'm sure he doesn't want to hear me rattle on about God knows what the fuck during business hours, I don't like having to interrupt my podcast and take out my headphones because I saw your jaw flappin' and mistakenly assumed you were asking me to clarify my address in Brooklyn. You know, the one to which you didn't know the directions, and I had to explain them eight times, even though you're a cab driver and I would assume (wrongfully) that knowing the five boroughs, (or hell, at least three) would be part of your fucking attaché!

But now you're going the wrong way. And instead of being able to help you get back on the right track immediately, I have to interrupt your conversation. By the time you tell Herbie Hancock or whoever's on the other end of the line to hold on, we've gone down a one-way street. There goes four more blocks before we can turn around, racking my tab about another twenty-three dollars. Then you'll yell at me for paying it with a credit card.Sorry, but I don't carry around six thousand and eighty two dollars cash in my back pocket. How would I fit all my drugs?

Look. I cart home my fare share of drunken sorority girls (although in my line of work we call them "clients") and I can empathize with the need for show and tell time. But when you've got your hands at ten and phone and the seatbelts in the back are lodged under leather that smells like armadillo, I'd appreciate if you could keep your phone on "off" and your eyes on the LOOK OUT! LITTLE OLD NUNS!!!

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