Big Yellow Taxi

I remember the first time I hailed a cab in New York City. I felt extremely self-conscious – was I doing it right? Was I supposed to hold my arm up high, or out and down? Could everyone streaming past me on the sidewalk tell that I had no clue what I was doing?

I realize now how silly that was – short of throwing yourself in front of a cab to stop it, no one cares how you do it. Just stick your arm out and pray that your driver is semi-normal, because – lemme tell ya – I’ve been stuck with my fair share of the crazy ones.

Once, while heading downtown with Skeazy E and K-Mother-Effin-S after work, a cab of the crazy persuasion found us. The driver careened recklessly through intersections and turns, paying no heed to our not-so-subtle back seat hollers and commentary.

I remember looking over at K, proclaiming that we’d stumbled upon a death cab. Which prompted Skeazy E to remark, “That must make us cuties, then.” Always word-smithing and punning, that one…

I’ve found since then that most cabs fit into one of two extremes: warp speed or agonizingly slow.

Some zip and zigzag through traffic dangerously like angry yellow jackets, while others amble along like affable bumble bees, drunk on pollen.

Most, however, seem to magically avoid accidents. I’ve decided there’s a higher probability for accidents on the highways of Texas than anywhere in Manhattan. Maybe because there’s less space here. Maybe because we’re able to drive at faster speeds there. Probably because one of them has scores of teenage drivers and the other doesn’t.

But, the other day, I witnessed my first full-fledged, taxi-related accident – and it wasn’t even the taxi’s fault.

I was standing on the corner, across the street from the office, waiting for the traffic light to change. Impatiently of course. It was snowing and I was cold.

Something made me pause for a beat after the white hand illuminated the cross walk. Or maybe I always do this but am now hyper-aware of it.

That’s when a huge white construction van barreled into the back of the innocent little cab stopped at the light in front of him.

I’m pretty sure I – and several other people – screamed. I definitely remember that my heart was racing. One onlooker ran over to the cab and opened the door. The driver spilled out onto the icy asphalt, writhing in pain, clutching his head. There were no passengers in the back.

The driver seemed pretty out of it, I’m sure shifting to park was the farthest thought from his mind. Which would explain the renewed screaming as the cab – left to its own devices – started slowly rolling towards a stationary bus full of people, stranded mid-intersection. Several men – transformed from ordinary suits to heroic bystanders – ran to either side of the moving car, restraining it by its side view mirrors.

At this point, a large crowd had gathered. An ambulance had been called. I felt compelled to stay and run at the same time.

In the end, I shuffled slowly into our office building, jaw still dropped. And it hit me, that no one I know ever wears a seatbelt while riding in the back of a cab.

Time to start.