SF Cabbie Stories

SF Cabbie Stories

Friday, July 9th 2004 - 10:24:59 AM

//http://sfcabbie.com

Picked up an old hack in the tl. "Sutter and Jones", he says. Had driven over 30 years in the city for two different companies. Over fifteen years at each.

74 years old and finally due to get his medallion. "This is the first year I haven't renewed my license. Three heart attacks and two strokes. What good's it going to do me now?"

"Good point. Whataya gonna do?"

"How's your night going?"

"Neither here nor there. Can't really get a feel for it, but not trying to take it too seriously. This your stop?"

"Yeah, La Granada. Mostly old folks. Is a nice place to stay. What do I owe ya?"

"$4.20, or whatever."

"Here's six," as he hands me taxi script. Glad to see it.
"Give me a second to get out."

"Take your time."

He negotiates out of the cab with his cane and gives me a sincere thanks and good luck.

I do the same.

Saturday, February 21st 2004 - 05:12:51 AM

//sfcabbie

I haven’t picked up too many Sara(h)’s I didn’t like.

Tuesday, February 10th 2004 - 02:42:20 AM

//sfcabbie

//http://www.SFCabbie.com

Part of being a cabdriver is dealing with issues, mostly other peoples. In addition to your own on a slow night.

Saturday, January 31st 2004 - 05:44:20 PM

//sfcabbie

I get a call to pick up on Page. I pull up on a shady part of the block and two shady black guys walk out of the shadows and hop in.

“We’re going to Steiner and McAllister. But go up to the pay phone on Divis and McAllister. I have to make a call first.”

“Sure.”

“How’s your night going? You mind if I smoke?”

“Good. Go right ahead.”

I try to tune into the radio as we begin driving as it is apparent from the low tones in back that the two would rather I not fully understand the situation. Which is fine by me.

I’m zoning out on the Victorians and the words of some crappy radio station song when the director of the situation says “Here man. Pull up at that pay phone on the corner in the bus stop.”

“Okay.”

I pull up and the antsy one gets out to make a call.

“So, how’s your night going man?” says the other guy sitting directly behind me.

“Not so sure. I’ve been kind of on the fence all night. Could go either way at this point. I’m beat, but I need to hold out for a couple more hours.”

“Sunflower seeds,” the guy replies. “Truckers bennies.”

“What?”

“Sunflower seeds man. They’re like speed when you’re driving. They keep you awake. You’re digging around in the bag. Chewing them up. Spitting ‘em out. They’re coming back in on you. I used to drive a big rig for fourteen years.”

“How’d you like that?”

“I loved it man. I got to see the whole country. I been to Portland, Boston, Philadelphia, New York City, you name it. I saw a lot.”

At this point the antsy guy has made the call and comes back and hops in. “Okay, Mcallister and Steiner.” I head three streets over and pull up on the corner. The antsy guy is doing his whole scatterbrain routine and finally gets his shit together and gets out. Throwing some hair-brained instructions for those of us that might not know what we’re doing.

“So, why’d you quit driving?” I ask the guy.

“I got an ulcer. Always worrying, on the move, eating bad food.” He pauses for a second before adding, “The crank didn’t help.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Cabdriving can be hazardous to your health in more ways than one also.”

“Stop and get you a salad. Eat some salad everyday. It’s good for you.”

At this point, antsy runs back and gets in the car. “Okay, let’s go,” he says.

We begin pulling off and another guy comes running out. “Hey, hey,” he yells.

“Stop.” Antsy gets out and runs back up to the guy and they both go back in the flat.

“What the hell is going on?” I say.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure glad I’m in the cab with you.”

“I wish they would get it sorted. Yeah, salads are a good idea. I was thinking about stopping at Mythic in the Lower Haight. They’re open late and make good Greek salads.”

“Yeah, stop and get you a salad man. You’ll be glad you did.”

Now antsy is running back to the cab carrying what appears to be 2 potted plants. He opens the door and negotiates in with the plants spilling dirt in the rear floorboard. “I almost forgot the herbs.” The plants are indeed some sort of herbs (of the legal kind), which is the most surprising aspect of all the late night dodginess. “Okay, round trip. Right back where you picked us up.”

I beat it back to Page and the guys give me a $6 tip, in addition to the 20 minutes worth of amusement on a slow night.

Saturday, January 31st 2004 - 05:44:20 PM

//R. Hart

//http://www.taxi1010.com

Submitted by R. Hart

Who Takes the Picture of the Large City?

I drive taxi 1010 during the day and do research what to say back when people say rude things. I guess it all started when a passenger at United
said, "Take me to the Fairmont ... Do you know where it is?" I felt hurt. Years later I realized I could say, "And more!" and began to feel better.

Then I began to wonder the opposite. How do we hurt the passenger's feelings? What should a passenger say back if a cabbie says, "What do you mean? That's one block! You
don't need a taxi - You can walk right over there! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Maybe I'd say, "Who cares? ... It doesn't cost that much!" just to see if the cabbie has a sense of humor, and get another cab if they don't.

My name is Richard ... Richard Hart, and one day a passenger asked, "Are you the Night Cabbie?" Well, it was ten o'clock in the morning, so I knew the
fellow had a screw loose until he told me he was the editor for the Night Cabbie over at the Examiner (at the time) and had asked at least ten other cabbies if
they, too, were the Night Cabbie, and six of them had said yes. Now we know who has a sense of humor.

I think the strangest thing I've seen in this city is Brewster Street(s). There are two of them, both with a white street sign starting at "00" over there
at Bernal Heights. These two streets seem to be having a war, because the city put an extra green sign on the Brewster Street higher on the hill, proclaiming "Brewster Street" in a more forceful manner,with an arrow. However it's only a block long. The Brewster Street down the hill goes about an eighth of a mile.

There's a fellow who lives between the two Brewster Streets who used to work at IBM (as did I). He tells me when he calls a cab, he leaves his house,
climbs the hill and looks down to see on which Brewster Street the cab will arrive.

I used to hear Peter, our day dispatcher, earnestly talk to cabbies about Brewster Street(s) at least a few times a week until Yellow Cab went digital, and Peter got his own cab. Well, turn about is fair play. Now I can listen in
peace to distraught passengers letting off steam on their cell phones instead.

At least they no longer ask me if I know where the Fairmont is. And so far, only one has ever asked if I know about the two Brewster Streets, because he actually lives there, contributing to our overall sense of humor.

Who takes the picture of the large city? Each other.

Saturday, January 31st 2004 - 05:09:25 PM

//sfcabbie

//http://www.sfcabbie.com

American Girls

I’m driving down Market and pull up to the corner of Guerrero, when two supermodels in tight jeans, pointy shoes, $500 leather purses and cell phones stuck to their heads flag me on the next block. I pull over and they hop in.

“Chestnut and Fillmore,” the blond says as the short haired brunette keeps chatting away on her phone.

I begin heading up the hill on Franklin, turning up the radio to drown out the neurotic chatter of two different conversations involving four asinine people. I’m succeeding to a certain degree, when the brunette leans forward and says, “Can you turn that down, I’m trying to talk on the phone.” I act like I don’t hear her, and keep bobbing my head forward slightly, sometimes going side to side. She finally leans up and practically shouts, “I said, can you turn that shit down?”

At the next light, I pull into the bus stop and turn the radio down slightly. “This is the end of the line ladies.”

“What are you talking about? We’re going to Fillmore and Chestnut,” says the brunette.

“Not in this cab. I’m going to have to ask you ladies to exit the cab curbside.”

“Hold on Sara,” the blonde says into the phone. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I don’t want this to get nasty. So, would you please exit the cab.”

“You’re a crazy, fucking asshole,” says the brunette.

“That’s quite possible,” I say.

“You have no idea who my family is,” continues the brunette bitch. “My father is one of the Mayor’s best friends.”

“I’m very impressed that your father hangs out with fools. Now get the fuck out of my cab.” I turn around and quickly lean a foot into the back seat, as both girls simultaneously sink back. “Look,” I say trying to muster my most intimidating snarl, “don’t make me get out of this cab and drag your asses onto the curb, because I’m about 2 seconds away from doing just that.”

The brunette gives a huff and kicks the door open. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, you prick. I’m going to have your ass so fired it’s not even funny.”

“If you could work that out for me, I’d be extremely grateful. Here’s my card,” I say as I flick one at her ass while she’s getting out. “Make sure you get the cab number too, babe.”

“Fucking dick,” she screams as she slams the door.

I pull off, turning up the volume full blast as I continue heading up Franklin. “She was, an A-mer-I-can girl.” Shit, turn down Tom Petty. There are some lines you just don’t cross.

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