Riding in Taxicabs

A taxicab ride in San Francisco is fast and furious.

Rolling stops at intersections and then

your head-banging backwards when the cab accelerates onward.

Heart-stopping while speeding through yellow lights.

Eyes glued to the road ahead in dread.

But it gets you there and fast.

Tip as you see fit.

I always put on my seat belt

if there's one in the back and it isn't broken.

Yaffa never fastens hers.

Unfathomable.

After all, what will happen to her

when the taxicab inevitably crashes

spinning out of control as we tumble past Alamo square?

Taxicab drivers are usually quiet

but sometimes chatty

about the weather, sports and sometimes politics.

I always agree with the driver.

I don't want uncomfortable differences

to divert his attention from the road.

I took a taxicab from downtown to my home in the Castro.

For forty years this old hippie had driven taxis in San Francisco.

I was entertained by a stream of consciousness

as he commented upon the changes he had seen'

over his many years

on every block of my ride.

He did not tell me how much acid he had taken in his youth.

He got me home and fast.

It was an enjoyable ride and I tipped him well.

I know by heart the fastest way from the Castro

to Hayes valley and back.

One time a driver veered from this course

But I politely suggested mine as an alternative.

Cabbies usually accept alternative routes graciously.

But this guy got really ticked off and sped even faster

than an ordinary taxi would

with a deafening silence in the cab as the driver seethed.

Shaking I tipped him less than usual

I GOT IN A CAB WHERE THE NOISE WAS SO LOUD

I HAD TO SCREAM MY DESTINATION.

IT WAS A TALK SHOW FILLED WITH HATRED.

I YELLED TO THE DRIVER ASKING HIM TO IDENTIFY IT.

HE ANSWERED WITH DISBELIEF IN AN EVEN LOUDER VOICE

IT WAS HOWARD – HOWARD STERN.

I did not tip him well.

I was once admonished by a cabbie

that I smelled like cigarette smoke.

It was clear that he did not approve.

But what business of this was his?

I asked him if my odor meant that he would not drive me.

He grudgingly allowed me into his cab

and sped to get me out of it and home.

I acknowledged his graciousness with a teeny tip.

Yaffa and I had a cabbie who drove like a tourist unfamiliar with the city,

nice and slow at the designated speed (25mph or so?)

coming to a full stop at every intersection

resuming our ride carefully with no rocket-like acceleration.

He took the route we suggested with aplomb.

But nevertheless drove like a glacier

compared with the madness of ordinary taxis.

We were furious.

Was he running up the meter or what?

I think Yaffa said something but I did not.

When we reached home we paid our fare in a huff.

He got no tip from us.

A taxicab ride in San Francisco can be full of surprises.

If you can manage to catch one –

there aren't enough of them as anyone knows.

Try to disregard the potential heart attack

while barreling over the hills of the city.

And always remember after the ride

did it get you there and fast?

And don't forget to tip.