When A Ride Home Goes Wrong

Before I start in on a long apology for leaving all of my dear readers hanging for so long, I’m gonna go ahead and cut myself short, ‘cause I honestly know you don’t care that much and really I was too busy enjoying the holiday season to be concerned about following a blog schedule. So, with that being said, let’s get right to it, it’s 2014 y’all! Instead of the usual types of stories which I’ve been sticking to (girl meets boy, boy is the worst), I’m going to go a little off topic, but before you go getting your panties in a bunch, I assure you it is still something that we have all experienced at one time or another (even my select few men readers, I know you’re out there), terrible cab drivers.

I’m coming home one night after going to see a friends show. My friend is staying with me so we have all of his music equipment in tow, and it’s after 2am. Taking the subway just does not sound like a fun time so we hail a cab. I will preface this by saying, yellow cabs are not generally thrilled to pick up people going to Bushwick, but excuse me for not living in the ideal place for a taxi driver. We put all the music stuff in the trunk and jump in. We’re in the lower east side, so it’s really a straight shot across the river to our destination. However this amazing taxi driver turns it into one giant ordeal.

First of all, he asks us about 18 times where we are going. You’re a taxi driver, it’s your job to know where I am going after I tell you once. Isn’t that what a GPS is for? Anyway, we hit the Williamsburg bridge as planned and the taxi driver decides to get in the one lane where construction is being done. The lane where you’re not supposed to be and where traffic isn’t moving at all. Oh joy. To make things better, we sit at a standstill, not even moving an inch for about 10 minutes, meter happily running, before the driver manages to get over. Let me just say, it was not busy and there were barely any cars in all of the other lanes. We finally start moving again, about fucking time. The driver then ignores us when we tell him which exit to take, gets off early and proceeds to take us on a not-so-scenic tour of Brooklyn at 2:30 in the morning.

When we eventually made it to our destination, the fare was easily twice as expensive as it should have been and at this point, I’m pissed. Weird right? I started arguing with the driver about how he should have at least turned off the meter while he got us stuck on the bridge. He said “No, taxi drivers never do that”, which my friend and I both found weird as we had both experienced this previously, on separate occasions, a taxi driver turning off the meter for a short while when they had fucked up. This driver however seemed to have no moral compass. He then said “There are no rules, you just don’t want to pay the fare”. First of all, you’re a yellow cab, I’m very sure that there is actually an entire book of rules, and secondly, I am more than happy to pay you, I just want to pay what I actually owe you and not twice that amount. This went round and round for awhile when finally my friend got fed up and asked for the cab driver to open the trunk so that he could get his equipment and then he’d pay up. The taxi driver replied by saying he wouldn’t give us our stuff back until we had paid. Whoa, taking it to a whole new level.

At that point, I told the driver I was going to call the cops on him if he didn’t open the trunk. He said he still would not (with a few more profanities added in). I called the precinct located just blocks away from my house and, they were closed. Excuse me, the police are closed? That makes perfect sense. Next time someone tries to mug me, I’m gonna say, “Sorry, I’m closed. Come again soon.”  I then told the driver I was calling 911 unless he had changed his mind. He whipped out his phone and said he was calling 911 on me.

“Excuse me, but why exactly?” I asked politely.

“Because you won’t fucking pay me.” He said heatedly to me.

This was still not technically true as I had told him I would happily pay the appropriate amount. Then as is in some terrible Rom-com movie, we proceeded to call 911 at the same time and report each other. It was after this that my friend was finally over it, he paid the full amount (which I urged him not to do) and finally was able to get his stuff from the trunk.

 

Here’s the picture, my friend with all of his stuff on the sidewalk and me still in the cab, passenger door open. The cab driver turns over his shoulder and says “Get the fuck out of my car”. Polite, right? I looked at him and said “I am going to get my money’s worth, so I’m planning on sitting here for at least another 5-10 minutes, Sir.” He started yelling profanities at me and then, without warning slammed the gas pedal to the floor. We surged forward and my door slammed shut and I heard the lock click. I calmly asked the driver if he would like me to call 911 back and add kidnapping to the charges. He slammed on the breaks and told me, once again, to get the fuck out of his car. I reached up to the front seat and knocked his glasses off of his face (the closest I have ever come to hitting someone in the face in my entire life), told him he might be the worst person I had ever met and finally got out of the cab. I slammed the door shut and who did I finally see walking up? The police, better late than never? Not really the case at all in most circumstances that involve the police in the first place. Thanks for nothing I said to them and walked back up to block to my apartment.

 

Now, I’ve had some pretty bad taxi drivers since moving to the city (albeit a few good ones too, although always few and far between) but this one definitely took the cake. Abducted by aliens? More like abducted by cab drivers. Thanks New York City–sometimes, you’re a bitch. 

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About 25shotsandcounting

My name is Sylvia. I’m a 22 year old girl living in NYC. For reasons I wish I knew, I get hit on a lot. I don’t think it’s because I’m particularly more attractive, funnier or even more intelligent than other girls. I’m convinced that it’s some kind of weird aura that only men can sense. An invisible sign that says, “Well hi there, I’m open for business.” Ironically, I’m usually not. The idea for this blog came about while I was dating a bartender in Williamsburg. I would go his bar and have several drinks by myself while waiting for him to get off work. Like clockwork, it was usually only a matter of time before I had a parade of guys come and talk to me. So much so that it became a running joke between my boyfriend at the time and all of his co-workers, just betting how long it would take before I had my next victim. Sometimes flattering, sometimes annoying, other times like some sort of scientific curiosity, the unelicited attention became enough of a pattern to notice and, free drinks aside, generally dread. I seem to be a magnet for awkward pick up attempts, which sometimes lead to misadventures of one kind or another. I know this is a common phenomenon for young women in NYC, but I figured, why not write about it.
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