Hey Mami

Today’s story is a little bit different than usual. It didn’t take place in the normal bar setting, but it is a fact that men will hit on women in any situation no matter the inappropriateness of the situation. This particular time, it was in a taxi cab. However it wasn’t one of the bright yellow or green city cabs, it was a car service. The kind that makes you sometimes wonder, while getting in the car late at night by yourself, if it really is a car service or if you are willingly getting into an unmarked black car with a stranger. Maybe I’m the only one who has those kind of thoughts. The worst is when it’s a black unmarked SUV and you’re getting in thinking, yes I might definitely get abducted tonight. Anyways, let’s get back to the story, shall we? 

I’d been working late one evening (so I haven’t even been at the bar drinking, instead I am stone sober and tired as fuck) and the parents got back from their date night, or whatever it is that rich people do when they go out, and they called me a car (as per usual). The car arrives in the normal “five minute” (insert the appropriate foreign accent) time frame and I get into the car, greet the driver and tell him where I’m going. Now I know I’ve mentioned this in a previous post recently but it is one of my pet peeves when the driver doesn’t know where to go. In this case he just asked me to repeat myself about eight times (I could barely understand him so maybe the feeling was mutual). He looked confused for a second and then headed off. Now I obviously knew where I was going as it was from work to my house, both places that I know surprisingly well (shocker). Every driver has their own route that they prefer to take and all the various routes are usually the same distance and take about the same amount of time so I don’t interfere and just let them do their thing. However, with this particular driver, after about the fifth turn in the wrong direction, I spoke up, telling him he was going the wrong way/taking the very long way around to which he responded “Don’t tell me I’m going the wrong way”. I was slightly annoyed (wouldn’t you be?) and told him that it was my neighborhood, that I had a car and was very used to driving in the area. To that he replied by saying:

“Everyone drives.”

First of all sir, that is not at all accurate because this is NYC and if everyone did indeed drive, you probably wouldn’t have a job. Just saying. I didn’t push it though and let him continue on his weird back alley way. Then out of the blue he asked me “So when are you going to pick me up and drive me around?” I was somewhat unprepared for this type of question and jokingly replied, “Next time, for sure.” hoping he would leave it at that. I bet you have already guessed however, that he did not leave it at that. His next question was “How about you pick me up and we’ll go to the movies sometime soon?” At this point I had no idea if he was joking or serious but either way I was feeling more awkward by the second. I tried to avoid the question by mumbling something like “Yeah, sure, maybe”. The driver then asked me how I was gonna pick him up if I didn’t have his number (real smooth, sir). I said I guess I would have to call a car and hope it was him who picked me up. He wasn’t too pleased by this answer and kept saying, “Don’t say yes if you don’t mean it. How are we gonna see a movie if you don’t have my number?” I was feeling extremely awkward by this point and kept laughing and joking trying to keep me from actually giving him my number. I mean we were stuck in a car together, what else was I supposed to do? We kept going round and round until finally we got to (sort of) my apartment. Apparently giving him my street and the cross streets eight times wasn’t enough because he took me a block down from where I needed to go and told me that’s why he had taken the weird long way around (still not a thing that needed to happen, even if I did live where he thought I told him I did). I paid him and got out of the car and he rolled down his window trying to ask me for my number one more time. This was the first time I got a good look at him, graying, easily 50 year old black man who spent almost the entire car ride (which was probably easily twice as long as it needed to be) trying to convince me to go to the movies with him. Don’t I feel special? I thanked him and practically ran to my apartment (in hindsight, thank god he didn’t drop me off where I actually live so he doesn’t know where it is). I think the worst part was that in a bar setting at lease, it’s expected and not at all unusual for guys to try to pick up girls. In a taxi however, not so much. Even better, now every time I work late I have to hope I don’t get the same driver. I know odds are slim but even in NYC you run into weird “small world” scenarios. And with my luck, I’m sure I’ll see him again. 

This week’s theme song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuip8KUSt6U

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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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