I Drove a Taxi Cab - Part 1

Draft 1.0

I drove a taxi cab, but I never was a cabby. Someone had hit and run my ‘76 Chrysler Newport[1], and after about 6 months the power-steering was fried. It was manual steering for right turns and wobbled all over the road. I was tiring of the constant battle, so I needed a new car pretty bad. A friend, who was a cab driver, hooked me up with a retiring ‘91 Chevy Caprice Yellow Taxi. It had “only” a quarter million miles, but Seattle requires taxis be not more that 10 years old. I got it for $600, and it was a good deal. I drove it from June 2001 until in October 20002 until it needed $1200 worth of work and I sold it for $250. The only problem I had was the window blower fan conking out. You would think I got a good deal, and I did, but there’s more to things than money.

At first, because the markings were not completely obliterated, I found it amusing that people would try to hail me. The fun soon began to get old when they sometimes acted as if I, who am white, was discriminating against them. It wasn’t as if I really was a cab driver. One thing that was fairly interesting is how well I got on with Africans, Arabs and others who are disproportionally represented in the world of cab drivers in Seattle. They figured I was part of the cab world, or at least friendly to it, and we would often strike up conversations. It definitely fit in the Central District, a very diverse neighborhood, where I had lived since 1995.

Then September 11 happened.

[1] They got much worse than they gave.