"This must be some sort of initiation," I told my refined lady customer as I drove around to a more gradual slope, "pay what you like."
That didn't turn out to be much but she did give me invaluable advice. "Don't wait in hotel lines or spend too much time at the airport. Not if you want to make money."
Yellow Cab had hired me because I had a perfect driving record. What they didn't know was that I'd been traveling and hadn't driven a car in six years. I'd pretty much forgotten how to do it. I was afraid to make lane changes. I'd get on the freeway and just stay in one lane. Some customers of course bitched but I learned another invaluable lesson. What your driving teacher told you was true: it doesn't do any good to speed in traffic.
I'd get on the freeway during rush hour, find my lane and stick with it. Another taxi would get on right behind, blow past me and go into a frenetic lane changing mode. We'd arrive at the airport at about the same time. Once in awhile, I'd even get there first.
The company gave me the worst day shift. There were about ten cabs for every customer. The radio dispatchers didn't "hear" me or, if they did, it was was for grocery pick ups. They never gave me trips out of the city. Half the time when I showed up my rides weren't even there. Other drivers cut me off and stole my fares.
I'd played sports in school but I never subscribed to a "winning is the only thing" philosophy. Like everyone else, I'd gone through a Buddhism phase in the 70s and had come to look upon competitiveness as destructive behavior. I wasn't about to race wildly down streets cutting people off like many of fellow cab drives just to make a little money. On the other hand, a little money was exactly what I was making - very little.
One slow Sunday afternoon (there are no fast ones), I took a radio call on 24th St in Noe Valley. Being given a call, however, was no guarantee of actually getting it. You still had to arrive at the address first. I got to the intersection, a few buildings away from the order, a clear 15 seconds before my competition. It was a busy two-lane street. If I pulled forward I would have had to double park and block off the other cab. I waved him on so that he could pass by freely.
To my surprise, he stopped in front of the address and, blocking me off, got out of his cab to ring the doorbell. He was thin, dressed all in black with a tattoo and an earring - a punk.
"What are you doing?" I asked incredulously as I stepped out of my cab. "I was just letting you by to -"
"I don't talk to drivers," he snarled, "you wanna steal my ride you can talk to Nate."
I snapped. I mean I went a little crazy. Being treated and talked to like that after I'd graciously done him a favor - threatening to get me fired when he'd stolen my ride - incensed me. I vowed revenge.
We worked the same shifts. I studied him for awhile. When he saw me watching him, he arrogantly stared through me as if I wasn't there. I started following him with my taxi whenever I came across his cab on the street, actually stalking him on slow days.
The first time I got even, he was stuck at a red light waving to a customer across the intersection. I swooped down the other lane and, timing it perfectly, cut him off just as the light turned green.
It felt good but it wasn't nearly enough. The Romans ruled their provinces by executing ten people for every one of their soldiers that was killed. It sounded like a good principle to me.
I lost track of how many times I stole one of his fares by either cutting him off or racing insanely to beat him to a radio call. I stopped counting at eight.
One time, I was hiding behind a small truck which was behind him at an intersection. I could see him in his side mirror but he couldn't see me. He frantically scanned back and forth. I had him paranoid. Seeing nothing, he finally relaxed. I made a double lane change, went out into a left-turn lane and swung back to cut him off and steal his fare again just as the light changed.
A few days later, I got a ride to the airport and decided to eat lunch while I was there. My favorite punk was sitting at a picnic table. He gave me a shy, nervous smile and started talking to me in a friendly way. I sat down. He showed me pictures of his wife and his little baby girl.
"They're the loves of my life," he told me. "It's okay if I don't make $100 every night but, if I come up short too many days, I can't cover the rent."
I ended the vendetta. I no longer cut people off or raced them for orders. But then, I didn't have to. Other drivers didn't steal rides from me anymore. The dispatchers were 'hearing" me. I drove better cabs and had been promoted to a night shift.
The Romans knew what they were doing. I had the reputation of being a driver that you just didn't want to fuck with. For better or worse, I was no longer a rookie.
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