I’ve often wondered what it would be like to work as a taxi cab driver.
OK, I lied. I’ve thought about what it would be like to work as a taxi cab driver once. It was a moment of introspection born out of a harrowing and impressively athletic cab chase down the streets of New York’s Third Avenue.
On this particular occasion I was in the city for an interview, or so I thought. The interview ended up being more of a humiliating rejection session and impersonal cattle call that was made only slightly bearable by an arsenal of free tacos and strange beer. Before I embarked on my blind journey to hell I had already decided that I would take a cab there. The expense of the trip outweighed the likelihood that I would end up sweating, lost and covered in a film of gross feelings after taking a subway or bus. I was certain this would be easier.
I quickly found out that it was in fact not easier.
Everything started off great in terms of getting a cab to notice me. I reached out my gloriously large hands with marvelous technical proficiency and beckoned a yellow transportation vehicle. My calls were heard and one came barreling toward me. Much to my surprise, the driver didn’t stop. He slowed down, took a hard look at me and then sped off. I was slightly offended, but chalked that cab request up to a misfire and threw my hand up for round two.
A second cab quickly followed, but also did not stop. Instead the driver slowly rolled passed me. As he did a soul-crushing realization that I was incompetent when it came to wooing cab drivers invaded my head. However, when he was about ten feet in front of me he rolled his passenger side window down and angrily hollered, “Where you going, girl?”
I was the only person around who had a vagina, so I took the liberty of assuming that his unnecessarily angry question was directed toward me. I’m not one to reciprocate rudeness, so I hustled to catch up with him. This proved to be difficult as he had continued to roll, which meant that I had to shuffle ahead alongside his car in a pair of remarkably uncomfortable heels.
In between breaths I choked out that I needed this fellow to take me to SoHo. He stopped abruptly. I tried to open the back door, but found that it was locked and that this cab driver was more of an asshole than I could have ever comprehended. I was unable to relay this thought to him due to the fatigue brought on by chasing a cab down the street in heels, so I poked my head around to the open window and gave him a moody look that said, “Let me in, bitch.” His response: “That’s out of my way.” He then sped off, leaving me standing on the streets of New York in a sweaty, irrationally angry mess.
At that point I thought about what it would be like to be a cab driver, but all I could think was that he better hope he doesn’t see me if I ever have tennis shoes on, especially if I’ve had a couple gin and tonics.