Educate Yourself; or, how a taxi addict deals with a taxi fare hike

Something big happened yesterday.  Did you notice it?  It was subtle, at first, but we'll all start to feel it's effects soon.  It's one of those little things that, over time, will have a noticeable impact.

Taxi fares went up.  But, also, Michelle Obama's nail polish color at the DNC.  It was blue, it was grey, it was everything.

The old fare of 40 cents for every one-fifth of a mile or sixty seconds stuck in traffic has now been bumped up to 50 cents.  It's only a 10 cent increase, but it's just enough to make what used to be a sensible $8-$9 ride to work a $10-$11 ride.  Spending $8 or $9 on a ride to work every now and then was like spending some spare change.  $10 or $11-- that's a Chipotle burrito.

The last fare increase for NYC taxi's was in 2004, and it's been 6 years since cabbies have received any sort of raise, so it's far from fairly due.  The average driver took home only $130 for a 12-hour shift under the old fares.  With the new price increase, this should help boost their take-home pay to about $152.  Those numbers make a 10 cent increase hardly seem like close to enough.

Yes, the extra 2 or 3 bucks that my ride to and from work is now going to cost me is enough to make me stop and strongly consider how badly I need the ride.  But, considering I'm comfortable enough to admit to my own general desperation, I doubt it will deter my riding too much.  And, as I discovered yesterday after work, it won't deter too many other riders, either.

Perhaps it was my own naïvety regarding how many other people in this city rely on cabs the way I do, but I thought I had found the biggest silver lining in this whole fare hike business yesterday.  Based on my calculations, this ten cent increase would be just enough to discourage the average New Yorker from hopping in a cab.  Rain, snow, late night, hot days, broken legs--- ten cents more?  They'd rather just walk it, and save the extra money for a bagel or a NYMag subscription or something equally New Yorker-y.

Right?

Wrong.

Assured that I was dead on right, I left work yesterday in the pouring rain, refusing an umbrella and plastic bags for my shoes from my boss, because I knew I would be the only person willing to spend the extra money to grab a cab home.  I strode past the doorman and out on to the street, and just as I was about to reach my arm in to the air, the one taxi cab I would see that evening with it's lights on-- off duty, mind you-- sped past me, splashing me Carrie Bradshaw Sex and the City style, though far worse dressed.  It was as if the Taxi and Limousine Commission gods were looking down and laughing at my foolishness.

New York is a city full of taxi addicts, just like me.  If they raised the price of any of my varied addictions by 10 cents-- 7-11 iced coffee, HBO, strippers-- I'd still shell out the money for them.  That's what make them addictions, and not casual hobbies.  And, at the end of the day, no one really likes the feeling of being soaking wet on a freezing subway car.  At least, that's what I took away from everyone's sympathetic stares on the 6 train yesterday.

Not In Front Of The Lady; or, that time I broke up a fight.

In my time as a New Yorker, I've committed my fair share of un-New Yorker-like social crimes.  I've smiled at strangers on the subway.  I've hailed cabs in the bus lane.  I never locked the door to my first New York apartment.  Once, when I was dog sitting, I didn't pick up after the dog.  But, in my defense, how do you pick up diarrhea?  If there was a handbook on how to be a New Yorker, these would be the opposites of what you are supposed to do.  

But if there is one area in which I excel, it is ignoring people.  I have a whole handful of techniques for ignoring panhandlers.  There's the Something In My Eye approach, where you pretend to be too preoccupied with whatever is in your eye to hear the person asking for money.  This is very similar to the I Lost Something In My Purse trick.  My personal favorite is the I Don't Speak English technique, where I've gone so far as to pull my out my cell phone and speak complete gibberish in to it.  For those who are a little more advanced, you can always try the I'm Deaf approach, but you need at least a basic understanding of American Sign Language.  

But I digress.  For this post is not about my fear of giving strangers money-- that will come soon-- but, rather, about my knack for avoiding conflict.  I almost always turn a blind eye to fights or arguments that happen on the streets.  I once saw a man slap his girlfriend across the face, and every inch of my feminist instincts told me to do something, but my common sense kicked in after the man announced to the world "Fuck off, she's my girlfriend!", and I kept walking right along.  This might come off as harsh or heartless of me, particularly to those who don't live in New York, but these are the rules.  Just the other day, a man was stabbed after he asked a group of girls to be quieter on the subway.  These are just the rules.

So I am at a compete loss as to what overcame me this evening on my ride home from work, when I broke up a fight between my cabbie and a young man on a bike.

It all happened very quickly, and I'm not completely sure how the altercation began, as I was busy stalking my current crush on Instagram, but I heard a loud thump come from the front of the cab as we pulled up to a red light, just two blocks from my apartment.  My assumption is that the cab cut the biker off, but it's also very possible that he hit the biker.  Before I even had the chance to ask what had happened, the cabbie had hopped out of the cab, and began arguing with the man on the bike.  

Now, as I have said, my normal approach here would be to just look away and mind my own business. But, though completely unwarranted, this fight was my business.  We were two blocks away from my stop!  Why couldn't the cabbie ask the biker to meet him two blocks up ahead to finish their argument?  What peeved me even more was the cabbie hadn't even turned the meter off.  Every second of this pissing contest was costing me money!  Plus, the men's synchronized diving was about to start, and there was absolutely no way I was going to miss my nightly fill of men in Speedos.  

These were the thoughts that were running through my head, until I finally heard my cabbie yell "Go ahead and hit me!"  That was the breaking point.  I got out of the car, and slammed the door shut.  The two men stopped what they were doing and stared right at me, both of their mouths agape, as though they had completely forgotten that I had been there all along.  I gave them a nasty, dirty look, handed the cab driver $7 (NO TIP!), and screamed in a very un-lady like way "Really?! In front of a lady?!" before walking away.

Out of sheer disbelief of what I had just done, I didn't look back to see how it ended for the cabbie and the biker.  I would like to believe that the two men, ashamed by their behavior, shook hands and let bygones be bygones.  In fact, they felt so bad about how they had treated each other, they took each other out for beers, and discovered that they both have an appreciation for Miles Davis and NY Times crosswords, and go on to become the best of friends, all thanks to me.  But that's most likely my Disney-washed brain always looking for the happily ever after.

I made it home in time to watch the synchronized diving, and I didn't get stabbed for speaking up.  So, at least I got a happily ever after.  Unless my mother forces me to relocate back to Texas after reading this, which is a completely feasible possibility. 

Coming Home; or, that time I went out of town for way too long.

Hello loyal readers.

Thank you for baring with me through my brief hiatus.  I've been travelling the world, visiting such exotic places as Newport, Rhode Island and Davie, Florida, and though the adventures have been plentiful, the cab rides have been few and far between.

But, oh, how I've missed those shiny yellow cars.  I found myself feeling envious of a sad, stranded, drunk lady on the beaches of Fort Lauderdale after I gave her some money for a cab home (because I believe in cab karma).  Despite her intoxication and visible roots, this woman seemed to have it all in that moment: a home to go home to, and (thanks to me) the power to pay someone to take her there.  I was just a mere traveller, whose real home was on the other end of the country, and whose temporary home was a no-tell-motel with a questionable odor and poor lighting.  I was at the mercy of my hosts, relying on them to schlep me from Point A to Point B.  I was extremely grateful for the vehicular hospitality, but I hate being a burdon, and I was missing the freedom that can only be found in a New York City cab.

There aren't many things in life that I can commit to, as my career path, love life, and jean size can attest to.  I can only attribute this poor quality to a fear of failure.  I can call myself a comedienne, but what will I do if I never make anyone laugh?  I can give my heart to a man, but what will I do if he rejects it?  I can start working out, but what will I do when I remember that I hate working out?

For the record, the answer to all of these questions is eat french fries.


I can commit to a taxi, though, because a taxi has never let me down.  I don't have to look up possible service changes before hailing a cab.  I will never have to take a shuttle to a different corner because my corner is being repaired.  A cabbie has never told me that my hailing technique is weak and could use some more training, or that he'd like to pick me up some day, just maybe not right now.  A cab won't bother me if I want to walk, but will be there should I change my mind.  A cab has never complained about dropping me off at the airport, even when I'm going to Newark.

As long as I have some money and an address, a cab has always taken me as I am.  And that's something I can commit to.

After weeks of jet setting, bag hauling, and sleeping rearrangements, it was with great relief that I exited the airport, climbed in to a cab, and gave him my home address.  Sure, it had been a long time since we had seen each other, but it felt like nothing had changed for that yellow taxi and me.  If I had gained a few pounds or lost some of NYC edge, the cab never let on.  It was just happy to take me home.

They say home is where the heart is.  My heart just happens to lie in the backseat of a taxi.

Lost in Transportation: A Subway Story; or, how the L train ruined my day (almost)

A few days a week, I have to travel down to the financial district for work.  This is quite a trek from where I live.  In fact, I have to take three different trains to get there-- the 6 to the L to the 2.  On the bright side, I'm given a small stipend every week to purchase a weekly unlimited metro card.

If the title of this blog serves as any hint, you probably already know that I rarely use this stipend for it's intended purpose, and almost always shell out the $18+ for a cab.  I mean, three trains.  Come on.

However, every now and then, when the weather's not too hot or too cold, and when it's definitely not raining or snowing or humid out, I come to my senses and remember that it's absolutely insane to spend that much money on a cab, especially when a subway ride only costs $2.25, and it's generally the faster option.

I know that these moments of clarity are no great accomplishments, but I can't help but feel proud of myself when they occur.  I spend most of the day thinking about the benefits of making such a responsible decision.  Obviously, I benefit financially, and can use the money that I save on a more vital purchase ($18 will buy me two celebratory drinks later that night), but choosing to ride the subway comes with a few other feel-good perks.  It gives me the opportunity to finish last week's NYMag crossword puzzle, or outline a few sketch ideas, or catch up on some reading (though it's hard to get much reading done in public when you're reading Fifty Shades of Grey-- trust me on that one).  It's a decision that I know my mom and dad would be proud of me for making, and when you're a twenty-something art school graduate, those opportunities don't come along too often.

The other day, I had one of these moments.  I had dug out my metro card from the inside lining of my purse, slathered myself in hand sanitizer, and had Joni Mitchell cued up and ready for the journey.  I left my apartment at just the right time.  The 6 train was ready and waiting for me when I arrived at the station.  I sat in the car that I knew would drop me off right at the stairs that would take me to the L train.  I knew that if I put just the slightest skip in my step, I would catch the L train just as it pulled up.  Nothing could bring me down.

Nothing, except for the only train that has an entire website dedicated to how often it screws people over.

istheltrainfucked.com

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the L train was fucked.

My mouth dropped open as the bright, LCD-red words DELAY 15 MIN flashed in front of me.  They stared me down harder than an MTA bus driver's gaze after I've successively inserted my metro card incorrectly six or seven times.  All of my good intentions had been completely thwarted by the L train, and my heart sunk to the pit of my stomach.

I had to make a decision, and fast.  I knew waiting for the L train wasn't an option-- I had to be at work in 15 minutes.  I tried to figure out if any of the other trains at the station I was at could serve as an alternative, but my limited subway knowledge and poor map reading skills all pointed to no.  I was left with only two choices-- run the four or five avenues over to the 2 train, or take a cab.

I knew what I had to do.

I ran.

I turned around, and bolted up the stair case, around the corner, and out the turnstiles.  Not only was I experiencing the high of my excellent decisions, but I was about to throw a runners high on top of it.  I was beaming. I can only imagine how foolish I must have looked running through the train station with a big, goofy smile on my face.  And I've been trying desperately for the last few days not to imagine how much more foolish I must have looked when I tripped on the last step coming out of the train station, landing right on my face.

Oh man.  I bit it hard.

With bruised knees and ego in tow, I limped over to the curb and hailed a cab.

Perhaps this comes across like a story about giving up.  It certainly felt like I was giving up at the time, sitting in the back of the cab that I had tried so desperately to avoid.  But reflecting on it now, I see that this really is a story about perseverance.  Sure, it didn't work out exactly the way I had wanted it to, but in life, things rarely work out exactly the way we want them to, anyways.  We get knocked down-- sometimes literally-- and it's ok to admit defeat every now and then.  It doesn't mean we've completely lost the war.  Just means we have to be better prepared for the next battle.

Though I was disheartened by the turn of events, I enjoyed my cab ride downtown.  My cab driver was a nice man from Trinidad.  I told him the story about how I went to a leadership camp one summer, and my Trinidadian roommate stayed up with me all night one night, trying to teach me how to do her accent.  When I did it for the cab driver, he laughed, and told me it was "not bad, mama!"  Since I had already travelled part of the way by myself, the cab ride only cost me $10, so I still had enough money for one celebratory drink later that evening.  And I ended up getting to work early, leaving me enough time to spare on a deli trip for an Arnold Palmer.  By the time I got to work, aside from some sore knees, I had almost completely forgotten about the disastrous start to my day.

I have to go downtown for work today.  I'm taking the subway.  I'm going to check every website I can find to make sure that my trains are running on time.  I will make this work.

And I'm wearing my running shoes.  Just in case.

Snot, Tears, and Rock and Roll; or, what happened when I cried in a cab last night.

The past week has been rather emotionally and mentally taxing for me.  My head has felt clouded, and my heart has felt flighty, and my armpits have felt sweaty.  It's been really hot in New York.

Out of fear that this blog will quickly turn in to my middle school Xanga if I elaborate on why I've been feeling this way, I will just provide you with a simple break down:

54% is the bitch that is moving in New York City.  If someone ever figures out the science to doing that without losing sanity, I hope they publish a book.  I'd really like to know.

27% is the heat, and my anxiety level over figuring out how to buy and install an air conditioner.  There are so many numbers involved. 

11% is sheer desire for nicotine.  It's that time of the year when everyone sits outside and smokes and gets skinny and tan.  Of course, they die a lot sooner, too, so I guess I'm not missing out on too much.

And the other 8% are miscellaneous issues: bills, razor burn, my inability to finish that book on Queen Elizabeth, etc.

Can someone please check the math on that?

All of these things came to a head late last night, though, in the back of a cab.  The moment I slid in to the seat and shut the door, I felt overcome with loneliness.  Perhaps loneliness isn't the best word to describe how I felt, because loneliness has a negative connotation for most people.  This sort of loneliness came with a sense of relief.  I felt like I had been around people non-stop for the past few weeks.  For just the few blocks I was travelling,  I didn't have to be around anyone.   I didn't have to answer to anyone.  I could feel whatever I wanted, and didn't have to validate those feelings within someone else.  I didn't have to explain them to anyone or try to understand them.  I could just let them be.

And before I knew it, I had broken out in to full-on sobs in the back of this cab.  I'm talking big ol' tears, heaving breaths, snot going every where.  The kind of cry Strasbergian dreams are made of.  And it felt so good, because I didn't have to make sense of why it was happening.  Because I was completely alone.

Until I realized that I wasn't alone at all.  Just an arms-length away, in fact, was another person, because only in my weird, futuristic dreams do cabs drive themselves (and we can Google things with our minds, and tesseracting replaces air travel, and refills are always free).  My private moment was no longer so private.  This poor man was just doing his job, and there I was, in the back of his cab, letting my emotional run-off flow free.  I felt terrible.  What an uncomfortable situation to put this innocent guy in.  If I knew how to safely jump out of a moving vehicle, I would have done it then.

I had only begun to realize just how embarrassing the situation was, when we pulled up to my corner.   As I fumbled through my purse for my wallet, however, three incredible things happened almost simultaneously.

ONE my phone had a bit of a seizure, as it's been prone to do lately, and began playing my favorite song by the Jacob Jeffries Band called Take Me Out Tonight.  It's a song about a dog, and it always makes me giggle, and this was no exception.

TWO a cab pulled up to the red light next to mine.  In the back seat, a couple was having one of the most ferocious make out sessions I've ever witnessed.  I feared for the safety of their mouths.  I also realized that no matter what I had just done in the back of the cab, someone else had done something much, much worse.

THREE the cab driver handed me a tissue.  He didn't ask questions, or even look at me, really.  I didn't have to validate or explain anything.  It was the most simple human interaction I had experienced in a very long time.  And it meant the world to me.

Needless to say, this cab driver got a hefty tip.

Playing Pretend; or, why cab rides remind me of one night stands

I got my degree in playing pretend, though my parent's might tell you it's a BFA in Drama.

So, it should come as no surprise that every now and then, I enjoy playing pretend/acting out a role in the back of a cab.

Much like a one night stand, in the back of a cab, I have the ability to be whoever I please.  Because, much like a one night stand, 15 minutes later, I'm going to be saying thanks and goodbye.

(Other ways that cab rides remind me of one night stands:

ONE: I often forget to find out the guy's name

TWO: I just sit there while they do all the work

THREE: I know my parent's would be disappointed

But I digress.)

Though it's only happened a handful of times, when a cab driver asks me what I do for a living, I find it to be far too cliche to respond with the truth:  I'm a struggling actress, with a gazillion dollar degree from NYU, and my dad is paying for this cab ride, like he did my tuition, xoxo, spoiled brat.

Cab drivers are much more interested in carrying on conversations with therapists, film makers, political satirists, or ghost writers for an unspecified NBC comedy.  At least, in my experience.

Occasionally I feel guilty afterwards, realizing that I just lied to a completely innocent man.  He had been kind enough to take an interest in who I am in the first place, the least I could have done was given him the truth.  But then I remember two things.

ONE: I just paid the guy.  I usually feign interest in anyone who's giving me money.

TWO: I'm just acting out a fantasy.  How often in life do we get the opportunity to do that?

(I'm not talking about our Fifty Shades of Grey fantasies-- though that would work well with the one night stand metaphor previously mentioned.)

I enjoy fantasizing about being a different person and living a different life.  It has nothing to do with being dissatisfied with my own life-- I'm rather content with where I am.  I get a rush out of walking in someone else's shoes (or riding in someone else's cab) for a few minutes.  Just like when I played dress up as a little girl, plopping around in my mother's heels, it gives me the opportunity to see the world from another angle, if only for a few blocks.  It's probably part of what attracted me to acting in the the first place, and certainly what's got me sticking around.  

Perhaps it's a bit strange, but it seems rather harmless to me.  After all, the odds of running in to the same cab driver twice are pretty slim in this city.  

And that, my friends, is where a cab ride ceases to remind me of a one night stand.

Sidewalkers Lament; or, Why I Like Taking Cabs On Pretty Days

The weather in New York City is beautiful today. The sun is bright, humidity low, and, at a nice 70 degrees, my butt crack isn't sweating.  It is the perfect day for a cab ride.

It's not that I don't want to be outside on a day like today.  Completely the opposite, actually.  In fact, I'm sitting outside on my fire escape at this very moment.  It is the thought of trying to get from Point A to Point B by foot on a beautiful day that turns me off, and I think my reasoning for feeling that way is rather solid.

So, allow me to list a few of my reasons.

REASON NUMBER ONE: I sunburn like an Irish kid.  Honestly, I spend 15 minutes outside on a sunny day, and I'm looking at at least 15 days of pink skin.  This is why I wear bee keeper-esque outfits on the beach, and keep detailed charts and diagrams of all my moles and freckles.  From the backseat of a cab, I'm able to enjoy the bright sun from a shady place.  And if I'm listening to Eminem while riding in the backseat of a cab, I can enjoy the bright sun from a slim shady place.*

*That was so bad.

REASON NUMBER TWO: The sidewalks seem to be littered with temptations of all kinds on pretty days.  Food trucks and street fairs always seduce me with their overpriced grilled cheeses and Asian-inspired tacos.  The open windows and rooftop seating of bars and restaurants ensnare me in a way that I simply can not resist.  And I swear that Greenpeace has a bunker full of cute and persuasive boys that they release only when the weather is nice.  Ultimately, walking is just as draining on my wallet as a cab ride, and takes me twice as long.  So, really, I'm just being economical.   

REASON NUMBER THREE:  The city comes to life on days like today.  People look up on beautiful days.  They're less afraid to smile at or make eye contact with a stranger.  The footsteps of the city slow down-- even the hurried business man takes a minute or two to enjoy his favorite tree lined block.  The best people-watching-seat in the house is in the back of a cab.  I get to be a true observer back there.  A red light provides just enough time to see two people kiss, decipher whether it's a joyful hello or a sad goodbye, empathize with the human condition, and be gone before anyone even notices.  I get to be in on the private moment without invading the sacredness of it.  It's exactly my kind of theatre-- short, realistic, and well lit.

The list goes on, but with all the pretty summer days that lie ahead of me, I'd rather not waste all of my reasons in one post.  Better to save them for a rainy day.*

*That was pretty bad, too.