New York Dead Wrong on Cabby Surcharge

Without question it was the most exhausting job I ever had. And I’ve worked as a construction laborer, factory foreman, farm worker, many hours in healthcare, factory welder, headhunter, and then some. But no job I ever had was as exhausting as driving a New York City cab. I did it for five years.



When I recently learned that NYC cabbies had come to Albany because the state government in its lack of wisdom wants to inflict a $1 surcharge on them for their fares, my only regret was that I didn’t learn of their protest in early enough so I could join them.



Anyone who holds to the belief that cabbies make good money, you can let go of it right now. Anyone who thinks a $1 surcharge won’t stop people from taking cabs, think again. When I was driving in the 1980s fleet cab drivers were compelled to charge a 50 cent surcharge for night fares. Many times I was waved off by someone who’d rather wait for a privately owned cab because it did not have the 50-cent surcharge.



Surcharges and extra fees can cause a fair amount of danger too. I remember once intervening, with the support of two of my passengers who, to my complete surprise and utter delight, turned out to be off-duty NYC cops, when I saw a cabby being savagely stomped and beaten in Columbus Circle by three passengers, two men and a woman, because the cabby asked for the 50-cent surcharge. The men were in fancyt suits and the women wore a long fur coat so no doubt the 50 cents would have bankrupted them. Believe me, I felt no qualms at all when I slammed one of the men face first onto the hood of the cabby’s cab and I felt wonderful when I turned to see my two passengers with their guns out ordering the other two to get up against the car and Shut the fuck up your yelling thank you very much.



When you are a cabby, everyone wants a piece of you. If you drive for a fleet, the union, which supports everyone and anyone but the cabby, has its monthly go at you. I don’t know what the dues are now, but when I was driving in the 1980s, ues were something like $15 a month plus you had to pay for a $2 union trip ticket every shift you drove. Shifts run 12 hours, by the way. So say you drove six shifts a week. Most of us did. Between the trip tickets and the dues, you were paying the union something in the neighborhood of $63 a month, that’s $756 a year.



When you drove a cab for a fleet, the days of working for a percentage of the meter are long gone, you paid what they called a lease fee each shift. So, back then, if the night shift cost you $65, plus you had to pay for your own gas, another $20, then tack on the $2 trip ticket and oh yeah the $5 you’d better slip to the dispatcher if you want a cab in a reasonable amount of time, you’re $92 in the hole before you even hit the streets. Which means you aren’t making dime one for yourself until you take in $92.



There were two instances in which the fleet owners could raise your lease rate. When they bought new cars and, wait for it, when the rates were raised. You think life won’t get more expensive for the cabbies with a $1 surcharge? – think again. When they instituted the 50 cent night surcharge our lease fees went up something like $10. If you had 30 fares that night, your net profit after the $10 lease increase was $5. Take into account the handful of fares that waved you off because they were pissed at you for having the fee, and you lost money.



One more thing, for anyone reading this who sees cabbies as just a bunch of immigrants and so who cares, meaning for anyone reading this who is in the poisonous grasp of bigotry, remember this; unless you’re a native American, you’re from immigrants too.



In the meantime, let’s hope the state government becomes one of the few realities that actually gives cabbies a break, like how about a discount on gas prices for cabbies and other professional drivers?



Now there’s a thought.

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Tell the Truth and Don’t Dribble

– She’s a kneebuckler, I’m sure of it.

– A what?

– Kneebuckler, you know kneebuckler?

– Not personally.

– No no. A kneebuckler is a woman so beautiful in who she is she buckles your needs. Retaining the ability to stand can be an issue.

– You mean it’s more than looks.

– Can be, of course.
– So meet her sitting down.

– That’s not all though.

– All what?

– That’s not all kneebucklers do to you.

– I don’t understand.

– When you meet someone you’re supposed to talk.

– That’s what they say.

– Who says?

– I don know, it’s an expression, that’s what they say, an expression.

– You’re supposed to talk –

– When you meet someone.

– Right. But if she’s a kneebuckler that can be difficult.

– Talking?

– Apparently you think I’m a kneebuckler because you’re not having an easy time talking yourself right now.

– I don’t think you’re a kneebuckler. Nobody’s think that.

– Then try concentrating on what I’m saying here.

– Okay.

– You meet a kneebuckler, retaining the ability to speak coherently is at risk.

– So what do you do?

– Try not to stare.

– That doesn’t make any sense, you have to look at her.

– I know I have look at her, but I don’t have to stare.

– Stare meaning…?

– Your eyes glaze over, you hope to God you’re not dribbling. And you try to remember to nod when she says something.

– What if she asks you a question?

– Tell the truth, always tell the truth.

– Tell the truth and don’t dribble.

– There ya go.

– Then maybe that’s the way you approach things like this.

– Tell the truth and don’t dribble.

– There ya go.
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Patience Is a Virture…… Sometimes

Many years ago my friend Dane said to me, “You’re too fucking patient with people.” At the time I think he was referencing my patience with a roommate who was about as committed to the apartment we lived in as someone who lived on the opposite of the globe who’d never met me.



Many years ago my friend Michael said, “You gotta stop trying to help everyone, take care of yourself.”



We were driving up Sixth Avenue in the village at the time he said this. We were approaching 10th Street and were in heavy slow moving traffic. I looked to my right and the guy in the car slowly moving next to ours, Michael was driving, was riding on a flat rear tire. I looked at Michael. “One sec, bro.” Rolled down the window. Shouted to the other driver, “Hey! Your back tire’s flat!”



He shouted back, “Fuck you!”



Michael said, “See what I’m telling you?”



Both Michael and Dane were, and, I am beginning to realize, still are right. Patience is indeed a virtue, a beautiful character trait. It has its place as long as you, I mean me in this case, are not cutting of your nose to spite your face. And trying to help everyone is an impossible task. I think the litmus test for the latter is helping someone is something that lands in the sweet spot of my bat swing if the person is willing to help themselves. If not, it’s time to let go.



As for being too patient, it’s something I’m working on but frankly I don’t have time to think about it right now.



Hey! Maybe I’m learning!

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A Beautiful Breathing Truth

What now this fear of love?

This fear to allow yourself full length into the heart of another, and allow them full length into your heart. What good the fear? What good if all it does is guarantee the solitude of your soul, keeping the undeserved chill in your heart perpetually, a chronic ticking loneliness.

What now this fear of love?

I challenge it. Alone now, maybe. But I lay down the challenge. Life is too short. Mine is. Isn’t yours? Anyone’s? To allow the fears born of our histories so much sway they rob us still? I say fuck that.

What now this fear of love?

Challenge it. Isn’t it really the fear of being unloved? Now that, my dear reader, is scary. Love is a beautiful breathing truth. It makes all things grow, flourish, breathe, live! The blooming tip of possibility unveiled! Yes, for you too.

What now this fear of love?

I say banish it.

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"Can I Hug You?"

“Can I hug you?” one said.



“Is it okay if I hug you?” said another.



And there were others with the same request of me after a speech I gave today to a room filled with nurses, social workers, therapeutic recreation therapists and a sprinkling of other health care professionals.



To be asked for a hug by people who give their heart and soul to helping others is, to say the least, humbling.



Today’s speech was given to members of the ADHCC (Adult Day Health Care Council), a wonderful council run by and for some pretty extraordinary folks.



I can tell you that I began the presentation by asking how many people in the room were nurses. More than half. I then told them that there were two things I wanted to tell them. First, it was people like them that helped save my life and, I added, “Foley catheters….Not funny.” A well-earned laugh and smile for all.



The request for hugs has grown over the past couple of years and I don’t know that I fully understand why. I do understand that the requests are honorable and heartfelt. And I do know too that many of those asking know, like I do, that the world is short on hugs.



Perhaps I am asked because of all I’ve been through. Perhaps I am asked because I do all I can to remind those in the audience that they count too. That they are just as special and worthy and valuable as any of the people they care for. That taking care of themselves is not an act of disloyalty to anyone else.



I am glad I’m alive. I’m glad I’ve lived life’s storms. I’m glad and grateful I am asked if I can be hugged, and I am glad and grateful that I can say yes and hug people back.



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