Eugene Salomon - Confessions of a New York Taxi Driver

5. The Unmoveables – they can’t afford to live in Manhattan, but they’re too hooked to ever leave. These are the Gonnabees who never made it to the Comfortables. They range in age from thirty-five to ninety and could be anywhere in Manhattan, probably in a rent-stabilized apartment.

6. The Flying Cosmopolitans – wealthy, successful and smart, these are people from other countries or other parts of the United States who own apartments in New York but are here only occasionally. They could be living anywhere in Manhattan, but never in the boroughs. In fact, most of them have probably never even been to the boroughs except to pass through Queens on their way to the airport.

7. The Flying Workerbees – these people are working-class nomads from other places who are toiling in New York for extended periods of time and, in the case of Americans, may even commute back home on the weekends. They are either in Midtown or not far from Midtown. Both the Flying Workerbees and the Flying Cosmopolitans aren’t really residents and aren’t exactly visitors either. They fall in the middle. But there are enough of them in taxicabs to be recognizable as distinct types of passengers.

So these are the kinds of people who get into taxis in New York City (along with an occasional dog). And what about the ride itself? What happens during a ride in a taxicab? There are three possibilities.

The first: nothing. The driver drives and the passenger looks out the window or watches the damned television which the city has mandated to be in the rear compartment of every yellow cab. The second: the driver is a fly on the wall. He finds himself the sudden observer of a scene in the passengers’ lives. Middle-aged siblings are discussing their mother’s medical condition and the driver is just along for the ride. Literally. Or two movie stars (Sean Penn and Dennis Hopper) hop in and talk to each other about – what else? – old movies.

And then there is the third possibility … a conversation takes place. And this is where it gets interesting.

Cab drivers and their passengers find themselves in a unique human situation. It’s a business relationship but, like barbers and bartenders, it’s a relationship that shares a close space for a limited length of time. Due to these factors the shell that divides strangers is easily shattered by the act of communication, and the potential for just about any kind of conversation exists.

Politics, sports, what’s in the news today – these are common grounds for discussion, as well as the endless spectacle of whatever’s passing by on the street. Of course, you never know where a conversation may lead you. Sometimes it may take you into something that might be called an ‘adventure’. Like the summer day in 1984 when I picked up a man on 56 thStreet who was wearing white shorts and holding half a dozen tennis racquets in his arms. He turned out to be Martina Navratilova’s coach and was headed out to Douglaston in Queens for a practice session. Thirty minutes later I am standing on a tennis court with one of Martina’s racquets in my hand, trying to return the serve of a tennis pro. And Martina herself sits patiently watching as her coach has some fun with me.

Other times a conversation may flow so easily that the passenger and the driver find themselves talking to each other as if they were the closest of friends. I remember once bringing an elderly man, traveling alone, from LaGuardia Airport to Manhattan. There was a nice rapport between us, and this man told me about his life. He was one of the four Shorin brothers who had founded the Topps chewing gum company. He told me about the problems they’d had obtaining the raw materials used in making gum during World War II, and of the enduring love he had for his deceased brothers. ‘It was one for all and all for one,’ he said, as tears streamed down his face.

Others – on the assumption that the driver doesn’t know who they are and will never see them again – will spill out their guts about things they probably wouldn’t reveal to even their closest confidants. A man once bragged to me, for example, about how he cheated the city out of $80,000: he broke his leg at home but claimed he’d tripped at a municipal construction site and used his girlfriend as a false witness. Another time a man jumped into my cab in a true frenzy. Bouncing through emotions of anger and grief like a rubber ball, he wailed that he’d just been in a fight in a bar – and he thinks he may have killed another man.

Still others, trying to get a bargain by using their driver as a therapist, will ask for advice about anything from career changes, boyfriends and the stock market to how to buy a used car, how to make up a good excuse to his wife, or how to defrost a bagel. Amazingly enough, as years go by a taxi driver finds himself an expert in all these things and it turns out the passenger was wise to have sought his counsel.

So what it all comes down to is this: millions of people from every corner of the Earth - from Kathmandu to Katz’s deli - are jammed together on a small island called Manhattan. They get into taxicabs and talk with their drivers. Communication occurs. And as years go by, a cabbie, looking back, will realize he has been having encounters, perhaps even connections , if not with every person on the planet, then certainly with every type of person on the planet.

He has been having, you might say, a conversation with the human race.

So jump in. Let’s think of reading this book as being like taking a ride in my cab, except without the potholes. You want stories? I’ve got stories. You want opinions? I’ve got opinions. You want advice? Now why would you want my advice about… that ? Well, since you asked, I happen to be something of a streetwise scholar on that subject, so my advice you will get.

But where do we start? Well, I think we should begin with the question every single person asks me immediately after they say, ‘Wow, you must have some stories…’

‘What was the wildest ride you ever had?’

I have been asked this question so many times that you would think after all these years I would have a quick response to it. But I don’t.

The problem is there have been so many. Was it the girl who rushed out of the cab seven times to puke? Or was it the guy who, without the slightest provocation, would just start screaming? Or the basket case who got out of the cab in the middle of the 59 thStreet Bridge? Or the one who got out in the middle of the Williamsburg Bridge?

Hmmmmmm…

Maybe it was the poor guy who was mugged while sitting in the back seat. Or the perfectly nice couple going home to Brooklyn who found themselves sitting between two cops who commandeered the taxi into the middle of a crime scene.

‘Yeah,’ I think, ‘ that must have been the wildest’ – but then I remember the ride with the Mafia hit men – and I just can’t decide.

So what I do is this. When people ask me for my wildest ride, I ask them for a little help.

‘What’s your definition of “wild”?’ I ask. This actually makes it more fun for me. It’s my contention that I have some kind of a story for any category they can think of.

But I started to notice a pattern whenever I would ask this. First there is a pause. Then some giggling. And then, the BIG QUESTION: ‘Has anyone had – sex! – in your cab?’

Always ready with a quip, my reply is: ‘You mean tonight ?’

‘No, no,’ they say with big smiles, ‘ever.’

Soooo… this is what’s on everybody’s mind (surprise, surprise!). Well, who am I to deny the public what they want? What I’m going to do is rename this chapter. Let’s call it…