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Just kidding with that title, of course. Travis Bickle and I have nothing to do with each other save my admiration for Robert de Niro's acting talents when he was young. And yes, I did mean to cast aspersions on what he's been doing for the past 20 years. If ever an actor decided to sit on his laurels...but never mind. This blog posting isn't a movie critique.
Still, what you see above, right above de Niro in his famous role of the mixed-up New York cabbie in Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver (1976), is a symbol of my latest hat. That PT Cruiser isn't my taxicab, but my taxicab is a PT Cruiser, the only one in Yellow Cab of Alexandria, VA's fleet in fact.
Yes, I have gone into the taxicab business. What a month and a half ago was a cream-colored 2006 PT Cruiser with woody paneling, which if you ask me just cried out for a surfboard on its roof were it not for the fact that such a thing would look ridiculous rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue past the White House, is now a Yellow Cab.
Alexandria Yellow Cab No. 244, to be precise. And I wish the goddamn dispatchers down there would quit addressing me as "244." What are we doing, a remake of The Prisoner starring the late Patrick McGoohan? ("You are number six!" "Who is number one?") Ah, the nineteen-sixties. What a cheesy decade they were.
"My name is 'Kelley,' not '244!'" I keep yelling at them.
I have only been hacking for two weeks so far, but I've already learned some new things. For example, people just assume that cab drivers know where everything is. I've had people flag me down on the street or pull up next to me in their cars, roll their windows down and ask me for directions to such-and-such a place or such-and-such a street. It's touch-and-go, because I don't actually live in Alexandria and I'm still learning my way around that town, although you'd be surprised how quickly you get to know a town when you're driving a cab in it. Cruise up and down the same streets and avenues for eight to 12 hours at a time and soon you begin to feel like a native.
Last Saturday night I was parked in front of the Hotel Monaco, one of King Street's tonier spots. Now, King Street, for those who don't know Alexandria, VA, especially the lower end of it down near the Potomac river, is Party Central on a Saturday night. It's nothing but restaurants and bars, traffic and more traffic. And it is not a wide street, not by any means. So here I am, parked at the taxi stand in front of the Monaco, standing next to the cab and stretching my legs for a minute, and here, right down the middle of King Street, comes a 50-foot semi-truck-and-trailer rig. How that trucker got that truck down King Street is still a mystery to me, but you can bet the conga line of stalled traffic behind him, backed up halfway to the Masonic Temple, was calling him some choice names.
His passenger-side partner (no doubt they were "running team," as they say in the trucking industry) rolls down his window and asks me, "Hey, you know where Route 1 is?"
These guys were lost. With 80,000 pounds worth of tractor-trailer, right in the middle of Old Town Alexandria. On Saturday night, no less. I didn't envy them. Or anyone in their way. Or anyone right behind them.
"Yeah, that's North Patrick Street," I replied. "And I hate to tell you this, but it's that way," I said, pointing back in the direction from which they had come.
I had to explain it three times before they understood. But I watched in amazement as they went chugging down to the corner of King and Royal, then proceeded to execute the slowest, most painful left turn in the history of trucking, watched by about 200 gawkers. Presumably they understood me, hung another left at Queen and got to where they needed to go, without running over any curbs or tourists.
What else have I learned so far? Well, in the D.C. metro area anyway, people are as surprised as hell when they encounter a cab driver who speaks good English. I picked up a fare last weekend who asked me to stop on the way downtown and pick up his buddy with whom he was planning to party later. When the buddy got in the cab, he immediately dropped his voice very low in talking with his friend. I could hear him thinking: "Who the hell is this cabbie? Where does he come from? What's his native language?"
I whipped out my business card. "Here's my card," I said. "If you need a taxi or a notary public, give me a shout."
"I ... I can't believe it," he said. "A cab driver who speaks English? I haven't had a cab driver in this town who speaks good English in two years!"
"New England born, California bred," I told him. "English is my L1. And by the way," I added for theatrical effect, "go Red Sox."
Maybe he was a Yankees fan and I'll never get any repeat business from him, but I couldn't resist yanking (no pun intended) his possibly-racist chain.
Also, I have learned that, when it comes to taxicabs anyway, people tend not to want to bother with coins. I loaded up my change box with quarters, dimes and nickels in addition to the ones and fives I keep for making change. Not necessary, I found out. Most of my fares will just wave away the coin, round it up to the next dollar, go from there. Which can lead to embarrassing moments. I picked up a lady yesterday, early in the morning. She had two little girls with her. She was taking them to school, but needed a cab to go maybe six blocks.
When we reached her destination the fare was $4.73. She handed me a twenty. I began fumbling around for 27 cents.
"Don't bother with the change," she said.
Don't bother with the change? "But you gave me a TWENTY," I said.
"Oh, no, I meant the coins," she replied.
"Oh. I was just going to say, you're one heck of a tipper!"
We laughed, and I handed her fourteen bucks even.
Last Friday I had a United States senator in my cab. Remember that scene? Senator Palantine? "We Are The People!!??"
You movie buffs will. You others, go get the DVD.
Okay, you politics buffs will want to know who the senator was. Mark Warner, Democrat from Virginia. I picked him up at his home in Old Town and took him to Capitol Hill.
He talked on his cell phone the whole way. But I did engage him in a bit of chit-chat. I decided to yank his chain, because that's the kind of fellow I am.
I pretended not to know who he was. Actually, the truth is that I didn't know who he was until he told me. But when he stepped out his front door, my first thought was, "Congressman or worse." See, he was wearing the congressional uniform: blue sportjacket, solid color tie and khaki Dockers. All male members of Congress wear that uniform.
But when he asked to be dropped on Capitol Hill, "on the senate side," I got sneakily inquisitive. "Do you work for one of the senators?" I asked.
"I am one of the senators."
"Oh, yeah? Which one are you?"
"Warner."
"John Warner?"
"No, Mark Warner."
"Rings a bell, I think. Are you a Republican or a Democrat?"
"Democrat."
We drove along in silence for a few seconds while he checked his voice mail. When he was finished, I said, "Say, what have you guys on Capitol Hill been doing lately? I haven't looked at a newspaper in six months."
"Well, we regulated tobacco yesterday."
"I thought tobacco already was regulated."
"It is at the state level, not at the federal level."
Oh, goody. Another level of regulation. Today tobacco, tomorrow how many slivers of toilet paper you're allowed to use when you go to the crapper.
But I didn't tell him that. I dropped him off, gave him my card, told him to have a great afternoon.
It's all part of being a taxi driver, you know? Keep your customers happy. Be friendly. Smell good. Keep your cab clean.
And don't worry, anybody. I'm not going to go buy a .44 magnum and get a mohawk.
I can't afford a .44 magnum, and I'm too bald for a mohawk.
