Eugene Salomon - Confessions of a New York Taxi Driver

‘Whatever’s faster,’ the female voice said.

‘The tunnel’s faster but there’s a four-dollar toll. Is that okay with you?’

No answer. The couple in the back seat had already reached the point of defining everything but themselves as the outside world and shutting it off. Which is to say, they were kissing, fondling, and doing whatever with significant energy. I started driving toward the tunnel.

I knew immediately that I had entered a twilight zone of human behavior. It’s one thing to have passengers groping each other in the back seat. But to have passengers groping each other in the back seat while a pretty girl sits next to me in the front seat in what was going to be a long ride… now that is quite another thing. I tried to think of something to say to her to fend off what I sensed could become the mother of all awkward situations.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

‘Estonia,’ she said, in that accent.

‘Estonia… Estonia… I know that’s somewhere. Where is that?’

‘Near it is to Finland.’

‘Ohhhh… it was part of the Soviet Union?’

‘Yes.’

Well, I felt I was getting somewhere. I could talk to her about what life was like in Estonia and what had changed since the breakup of the Soviet Union; we could chat about New York City; hey, we could even talk about Finland. Her friends in the back seat would settle down and the two of us up here could have a polite little conversation all the way to Brooklyn.

Yeah, right.

What happened next was the equivalent in the taxi world of being slapped in the face. Blonde Number One disengaged herself momentarily from her stud, reached forward, and slammed the partition window closed. This is a major faux pas as far as the driver is concerned as the partition is there for his protection, not for the privacy of the passengers – not that a closed partition window really offers any privacy, anyway. Under the circumstances, however, I thought it was perhaps not a bad idea and I decided to ignore the insult and attempt to continue the conversation with Estonia.

‘Uh, so how long have you been in the United States?’

‘A year and one half.’

‘All the time in New York City?’

‘For mostly, yes.’

‘Do you like New York?’

‘Yes, it is wonderful city, exciting city.’

We were approaching West Street, the major thoroughfare that leads to the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel. The activity in the back seat had calmed down just a bit and could, with some liberal thinking, be accepted as just a couple of crazy kids showing affection for one another. They laughed and chattered and pecked at each other like two canaries in a cage. It was kind of cute in its way and it allowed the bland conversation in the front seat to continue. Block by block I was learning more about life in the post-Soviet Estonia. It was starting to sound like a place I might want to visit someday.

And then we entered the tunnel.

Apparently this is what they’d been waiting for – the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel of Love . Blonde Number One immediately got herself on top of The Stud and went at him. Not in the more discreet taxicab position but flat out across the seat. Their thumping and bumping could be felt through the floorboard and her encouraging cries of ‘Yeah baby that’s it yeah baby oh yeah that’s it baby!’ could be heard quite distinctly up front. There could be no ignoring it: the canaries were fucking and they were fucking hard.

I glanced meekly to my right. Estonia’s eyes were staring down at the area around her feet in a complete non-confront of the situation. Her problem wasn’t only her selfish friend in the back seat. Her problem was me. And my problem was her.

When two people are sitting together in the front seat of a car they are sharing a close, almost intimate space. That’s why females usually do not sit up front with the driver when four passengers get into a taxi – the front seat is usually taken by a guy. It’s just a bit uncomfortable for a woman to be sharing that close a space with a man she doesn’t know. And what we had here was more than ‘a bit uncomfortable’. It was right up there with the recurring dream some people have of walking down a crowded street only to discover that they aren’t wearing any pants. It was at that level of uncomfortable.

Nevertheless I made a snap decision to tough it out. I would continue my conversation with Estonia. But I couldn’t pretend that there weren’t two people fucking just inches behind us. I felt it would lighten the situation if we acknowledged what was going on. Better to stare the tiger straight in the eye.

‘Uh… so how do the three of you know each other?’ I asked.

Estonia moved her eyes upward from the floor and looked out through the windshield toward the tunnel in front of us. She was coming out of her trance.

‘In restaurant we work together,’ she said.

‘You’re a cook?’

‘No, no, am waitress.’ She turned her head and motioned in the direction of the back seat. ‘She is waitress also.’

‘And him ?’

‘He is manager.’

‘Have they been going with each other for a long time?’

‘No, no, this is new.’

‘So you had no idea they’d be doing… this?’

‘No!’

So now I understood. Estonia was the unwitting accomplice of her sexually adventurous friend, as was I. With this shared reality I sensed that a small, yet perhaps meaningful bond had been created between us. We were both pawns in Blonde Number One’s game and we had to support each other. I felt a stirring of affinity within me. Did she feel the same way? I glanced over at her ever so slightly. Was she smiling or was this the way her face normally looked?

I considered the situation. I’m a man. Generally speaking, I am attracted to women. There are two people in the seat back there making love as if to say that everyone should be making love. The attractive girl sitting next to me seems to like me, maybe. I’m single again. Hey, this could be a gift from the gods. Should I cross the line of professional conduct and make a move?

At the end of the tunnel there is a toll to be paid, so I slowed down as we approached the booth. Blonde Number One and The Stud used this opportunity to take a brief rest, their faces popping up with grins on them that I would have to say could only be described as ‘shit-eating’. Then, as we picked up speed after the toll and were on the highway, they switched positions – The Stud now on top – and went back to work.

I knew I had only a short time to make a move if indeed a move was to be made because we would be at Seeley Street within five minutes. I tried to think of something to say or do that would give Estonia the idea that perhaps we should join her friends in this crazy, impromptu orgy. But I couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t make me come off as a complete jackass, so I did what in certain circles I am well known for doing – nothing. Nevertheless I felt that if I could somehow keep the conversation going, who knows? It might lead to something . So I turned toward her with the intention of making words come out of my mouth.

It was then that I noticed that Estonia had found herself a way out of the situation. She did what ostriches have been doing for millions of years. She closed her eyes, tilted her head to one side, and seemed to be pretending that she was asleep.

Apparently the orgy would remain in the back seat. I put my eyes back on the road, picked up some speed, and said to hell with it, I’d rather keep my dignity and my professionalism. But, then again, if she would just give me a sign perhaps I could regain my dignity and professionalism, uh, tomorrow.