Eugene Salomon - Confessions of a New York Taxi Driver

Fortunately we arrived at Newark Airport without a problem, a smooth ride that left them plenty of time to make their flight. As we approached the terminal it occurred to me that there might be one other little way of determining their status in the Mafia – the tip. A boss at any level would surely be a big tipper, right? But a triggerman monster would be someone who knows in his core that everyone is his enemy and no one really exists except himself, anyway. And this lack of empathy would show itself in the tip.

We came to the end of the ride. The fare was $26.90. The younger guy got out of the cab and the older one remained seated while he reached into a pocket to find his money. As he handed me some bills, he reached forward and put his hand on my shoulder (this cab had no partition). And then, while keeping his hand right there – the hand of Death upon my shoulder! – he said these words, slowly and strongly accented:

‘I’m sorry, my friend, but I have not much money today.’

He had handed me a twenty, a five and two singles – $27. A ten-cent tip!

It was an insult to my dignity as a working man. Hit man or no hit man, I felt I had to say something. I could feel I needed all my inner strength to say to him what I wanted to say, so I reached down deep to come up with the right words. And then I spoke those words with a smile on my face and without the slightest indication of insincerity in the tone of my voice:

‘Hey, that’s all right, sir, have a good flight!’

He closed the door and walked off toward the terminal. I pulled out from the curb and drove away in the opposite direction. Quickly!

Ah, the Mob. I’ve wondered from time to time what exactly the charm is about these guys. Why do we usually see them not so much as criminals but more as a form of entertainment? The answer, of course, is that we view them in the abstract. It’s not really us that they threaten. They’re either killing each other or some fool who was stupid enough to cross them.

One’s attitude toward a criminal, however, can change rather abruptly when the victim is yourself. This was something I discovered first-hand on Christmas Eve in 1987…

As mentioned before, it’s quite common in my case to have someone get in my cab and suddenly express amazement that I’m an American. Or, if they don’t actually say ‘American’, they often say something like, ‘Wow, it’s really nice to have an English-speaking cab driver for a change.’ Immediately following this comment I will be told a story about how my passenger was recently in a cab with some driver who spoke absolutely no English and had to use hand signals to make this driver understand where he wanted to go. I’ve heard this story so many times that it began to give me the impression that there must be a small army of cabbies out there who speak virtually no English.

And yet I had never met one.

It struck me as odd that with all these reports about cab drivers who don’t speak English, I, who meet cab drivers all the time on the street, in garages, in front of hotels and at the airports, had never once found myself in a situation in which I could not communicate with a cabbie. Sure, there were lots of guys whose English was accented because their native language was Hindi, Arabic, Russian or whatever, but never did I have to resort to sign language to make myself understood, nor did I ever really have a problem communicating with words. So what was going on here? Why do I keep hearing about cab drivers who don’t speak English?

I had to become a crime victim myself to find out the answer.

On Christmas Eve, 1987, I was mugged. I had been at a party at a friend’s apartment on 9 thAvenue between 44 thand 45 thStreets with my wife and young daughter. The party went on late and it was after three o’clock in the morning when we were finally ready to leave. My daughter had long since fallen asleep so I decided to walk to 10 thAvenue, where I’d parked my car, and then bring it around to 9 thAvenue to pick up my family.

I made a mistake that I, as a veteran New Yorker and a cab driver, should never have made: I attempted to walk down a deserted street (45 th), in a not-so-great part of town (Hell’s Kitchen), late at night, carrying something that showed some value (two wrapped Christmas presents). When I was halfway to 10 thAvenue, I was attacked by three thugs.

The whole thing took less than fifteen seconds: I heard running footsteps coming toward me from behind, I was shoved into a doorway, and I had a knife held against my throat by one man while the other two grabbed the Christmas presents and went through my pockets for my money (about a hundred dollars). Having gotten what they wanted, they then started to run down 45 thStreet, back toward 9 thAvenue.

They say you follow your instincts in these situations, and my instinct was to let them get a bit of a lead and then run after them in the hope of finding a cop who could catch them and arrest them. I didn’t want to get too close to them – they had a knife – but I wanted to keep them in sight. So I started running after them in pursuit.

When the muggers got to 9 thAvenue they ran to the right and then were momentarily out of my range of vision. Then, as I got to the avenue myself, I saw them approaching 44 thStreet and run east on that street before disappearing once again from my view.

I stopped for a second and looked around, hoping to find a cop, but there were none around. I then realized that I was bleeding from the neck and that my shirt was covered with blood. Oddly, I wasn’t terribly concerned about that at that moment. All I wanted to do was to catch these bastards. And they were getting away.

Suddenly I had a brilliant idea. I would hail a cab and then follow the thieves in the cab until we found a police car. I ran out onto 9 thAvenue. Yes! – there was an available cab heading right toward me! My luck had turned. I threw both hands up excitedly to hail the cab and it pulled up next to me. I jumped in the back seat. This cab had no partition, more good luck because I’d be able to see the muggers more easily.

The driver was a young guy who looked like he might be Moroccan. He turned around to look at me so he could get my destination. I was obviously in a state of great agitation, but I calmed myself down enough so I could communicate.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I was just mugged. The guys who mugged me are running down 44 thStreet. I want to follow them ’til we can find a cop!’

My driver did not react. He just looked at me.

‘Go left on 44 th! Please! Go! Drive! They’re getting away!’

He continued to stare at me blankly. Then he started to speak. Out of his mouth came these words, and this is an exact quote:

‘Obbie de bobbie de bah.’

I was completely desperate.

‘Listen,’ I begged the guy, ‘I’m a cab driver myself and I just got mugged! Please! Go left on 44 thStreet! Go! Go! I’m a cab driver!’

‘Obbie de bobbie de bah?’ he asked.

I tried pantomime. I pretended I was holding a steering wheel in my hands and then pointed toward 44 thStreet.

‘Obbie de bobbie de bah?’

Defeated, I got out of the cab in disgust, slammed the door, and walked back to my friend’s apartment to tend to my wound. Although the cut in my neck had produced quite a bit of blood, it fortunately wasn’t very serious and a visit to a hospital wasn’t necessary.

The muggers were never caught.

I spent the following week ranting and raving to anyone who’d listen about cab drivers in New York who don’t speak English. What’s the matter with this city, I wailed, that they’ll let anyone whose breath can fog a mirror push a hack here? Why should we have to pay good money to morons who think Madison Square Garden is some place where they grow tulips? Why, why, oh WHY does the Taxi and Limousine Commission allow these hordes of immigrants who can’t speak a damned syllable of English to clog our streets with this morass of yellow clunkers?