It Can't Happen Here...

I've been thinking a lot lately of Senator Ted Kennedy's speeches from 1994. The polls looked horrid for Democrats in that year's congressional elections, and their candidates were running scared. Kennedy toured the nation addressing state and county party leaders, imploring them it was no time to run just a focused group's breathe to the left of their opponents. He exhorted campaigns to take off their gloves, stand up for their principles, and in turn the voters would stand up for them. His advice went largely unheeded. Many campaign's concerns were not entirely unfounded. When a small group of special interests fund the campaigns of both parties, as well as the media which provides most of us with our images of them, serving the interests of the people when they are in conflict with the interests of these financiers is not for the faint of heart. It could require several cycles of electoral defeat before people understood the new dynamic.

When I consider the results from last night's election, Republican Scott Brown's defeat of Democrat Martha Coakley to serve the balance of Kennedy's term, I wonder if nationally Democratic candidates will become more timid and cowering in the face of corporate interests, wheather our public debate will run a gamut beyond A to B, and where it all leads.

Early in the evening I had several fares who had come to Boston from Washington DC. In the course of conversation they identified themselves as Republicans who had once worked here and had moved on to other things. Not a good omen, but I took heart from my own neighborhood's high turn-out of voters, thinking it would aid Coakley's chances. That was until 8:05 PM, five minutes after the polls closed, when NPR reported a 40% turn-out in the suburbs and a 30% turn-out in the state's urban areas. From then on, as results trickled in, Coakley's odds grew worse.

Any cabbie in search of fares knows to play the losing campaign first.




I pulled in front of Coakley's headquarters at the Boston Sheraton beyond a bevy of satellite news trucks. 'If it bleeds, it leads', I thought to myself, as the party was hemorraging hope and guests.

I grabbed several fares and kept returning.

At 9:34 a black Chevy Tahoe Hybrid with Senator John Kerry in the passenger seat paused by my cab. His long face looked longer than usual, with two fingers to his temple and a countenance of disbelief.

A Hispanic girl entered my cab the next moment. I pointed to Kerry's vehicle, telling her he'd just arrived. Struggling to speak English, she told me she didn't know who he was. She was the coat check girl for Coakley's event, but as guests were leaving before removing their coats, she explained, she was being sent to the function at the Park Plaza, where Brown's campaign was headquartered.




I dropped her at the rear entrance to the Plaza, beyond another series of satellite trucks, and returned again to the Sheraton with my radio on and heard Coakley begin her concession speech.

In a moment I had another Sheraton fare. He entered the cab, begining the ritual of hello's and destination, which he suddenly dispensed upon hearing Coakley on my radio.

"The other hotel," he said curtly as he threw himself down into the back seat.

"The Plaza?"

"Yes."

"Are you with the media?" I asked.

"I'm representing the British government," he replied.

"I guess you're stuck with whoever we throw at you," I laughed.

"I thought I would be at the victor's party here," he said somewhat sullenly.

"So did I," I replied, "Until 8:05."

We continued to the Plaza discussing the race's implications for the future, and I probably became more bitter than I should have.

He wondered wheather he'd hear Brown's victory speech. I told him, as the hour hadn't yet reached 11:00 and Coakley was still conceeding, it was tradition for the victor to wait. He'd be sure to hear it.

As he exited the cab, I cautioned, "Don't eat too much at the buffet," adding, "It might not be easy on a full stomache." Oh- well.

I returned for the last time to the Sheraton, to find a long line of cabs waiting for guests who had already departed. I knew the new hotbed for fares would now be the Plaza, and began an empty cruise back.




As I approached the area, I could see the growing throngs of Brown enthusiasts filling the streets. I knew they had earned their night of joy and triumph, but couldn't trust myself to hold my tongue in the midst of it.

I headed off for another neighborhood and resigned myself to a night of diminishing returns. And I thought back on the senator who'd served us from 1962 to 2009, knowing, after today, I'd miss him just a little more.

Beans a la Carte

In the cab last night around 1:00 AM headed southerly along Dorchester St. between Perkins and Andrew Squares, I was flagged by a fellow in his early twenties.

I pulled over and he emerged from between two parked cars. I heard a thud on the windshield and saw a plastic shopping bag on it.

'Had he fallen?' I wondered for a moment, then noticed he was holding the bag in both hands and deliberately smacking the windshield with it. The bag quickly tore and revealed roughly a cubic foot of frozen green beans. I let off the brake, and he dashed up the street.

With nothing better to do, I made a u-turn and gave chase. The area is filled with conjoined housing, leaving him nowhere to go without yielding an address. After several blocks and zig-zagged turns, he became winded and stopped on the sidewalk.

I lowered my window: "What the hell was that all about?"

Between pants he replied, "A cab driver screwed me tonight."

"And what does that have to do with me?" I demanded.

He seemed to need a moment to think. "Nothing," he finally answered.

"You know- you flag for a cab; I pull over for you, and you pull this crap. That's fucking retarded."

I could actually see a slight look of shame when he conceeded, "I guess it is."

I shook my head and drove off to a nearby coffee shop where I picked the assorted mashed beans from the windshield and wipers. Given what's left lately after I pay for the cab and gas, I should probably have saved the damned beans for dinner.

Poetic Justice

It had been a long night. Not especially good or bad, just long. For the last couple of hours the fares had been few. It was 4:30 AM with my shift over at 5:00. I had just enough time for one more fare, but had my doubts over whether I'd get one.

I cruised up Dartmouth St. past the Back Bay T Station. A man in disheveled but expensive clothes flagged me. I pulled over.

"I'll give you fourteen for a ride to Newton," he said through my window. Fourteen was remarkably cheap.

"It's only a couple of blocks off exit 17; it'll only take you ten minutes," he added when seeing my grimace.

I took a moment to think. We were just a block from the pike entrance and I probably could do the job in ten minutes. After a toll and gas for the run, I'd be left with ten bucks. It was that or likely pass another half hour for nothing. It was marginal at best, but what the hell.

"Alright," I told him, and we were off.

It wasn't long before he issued an arrogant string of petty demands, complaints and insults. He was exactly the sort of self-important turd I would never knowingly have in my cab. I tuned him out to make the best of it.

Off at exit 17 and several blocks later I turned back to look at him.

"It's just a couple of more blocks," he said.

Several blocks later, I slowed the car and looked at him again.

"Two more blocks," he said with irratation.

I debated wheather to throw him out where we were or continue yet another 'couple' of blocks. For the sake of efficiency, I opted for the latter.

Suddenly he shouted, "Stop!", slapped a bill in my palm, and had his door open simultaneously. I'd seen the bill was a five, and before his foot was fully out the door, mine was on the gas.

The forward thrust of the car threw him deeply into the back seat and slammed his door shut.

"What the fuck!" he yelled.

I threw the five back in his face, slammed shut and locked the open partition, and told him, "The fourteen we agreed on was a bargain- asshole."

He continued screaming for me to stop. I pointed toward the small opening next to the sliding partition, "Put fourteen through the slot and I stop."

He began a tirade of variations on the theme of 'Do you know who I am?' I pointed again to the slot.

He then began screaming that his cousin was a Lt. Detective, did I really know how fucked I was, and finally that he would call the police.

"Good," I hollered at him, "You can save me the trouble!"

I had planned on taking the local roads back -alone- to avoid the toll. At this point my concern was that the bastard in my back seat didn't get anywhere for free, and was otherwise out of my cab as soon as possible.

We barelled down the pike and were back in front of the T station in no time.

"This is where you got in, and this is where you get out."

"I'm not leaving!" he yelled.

"Get out here, or the next stop is the police."

"Make it the police!" he shouted.

I could hardly believe it.

"Fine!" I said, and headed for the station.

We exited the cab, each with a wary eye on the other, and entered the station.

Once every few years, there's a situation that, regretably, is best resolved this way. I've learned to always allow the passenger to make his case first. Usually by the time they've finished, I don't have to say a word.

Remarkably, the officer on duty at the front desk, was one I had met before.

Two months earlier in front of the Garden/North Station, she'd motioned for me to pull up behind her prisoner transport wagon. It was in the wee hours in the aftermath of a hockey game and bar closing.

"You want a fare?" She'd asked me, nodding toward the wagon's locked doors.

In the collegiate jock bars of the area the guys outnumber girls by as much as 4:1. In order to impress the few girls available, the guys often resort to throwing fists at each other.

"They're really not bad," she'd said upon seeing my surprised expression. The officer had full round cheeks and as sweet a smile as any. If it weren't for the uniform, she'd have been central casting's go to for the young school marm. "We just had to get them off the street long enough," she continued, "before something bad did happen."

I'd understood. "Sure," I'd told her, then she'd released one fellow from the wagon.

The beer muscled lion had become a lamb, infusing enough pleases, thank-yous, sirs and maams in a breathe to set a record. When he'd stepped into the cab, she'd looked at him saying, "You DO have the fare don't you?" I recalled thinking at the time, 'This is my kind of cop.' And she'd been right, that fare wasn't bad at all.

Needless to say, in the current situation with my fare from Newton, I was glad to see her again.

I let my Newton fare make his case and everything seemed to form, except in a twist, he concluded by saying he wished to charge me with kidnap. The officer looked surprised, turned to me and asked, "And as I understand it, you'll be charging this man with fare evasion?"

With all the false enthusiasm I could muster, I replied, "Absolutely!"

She grabbed a clipboard and forms. Her demeaner and tone transformed completely from an understanding lady trying to apprehend the facts, to one hard assed bureaucrat who wasn't there to fuck around.

"I'll need your name, address and social security number," she sternly told my fare, meeting his eyes with a cold steely stare.

He staggered back and began stammering, before saying he changed his mind.

"Then am I to understand you intend to pay this driver $14 in order to avoid the charges against you?"

He fished through his pockets and retrieved a handful of ones and fives. He looked surprised, and kept fishing.

"Sir, you HAVE the fourteen?" she asked.

He stopped his search, counted out the fourteen, and handed it to me.

She gave us a nod as if to say 'Dismissed."

As we made our way to the exit, she called out to my passenger, "You are NOT to get back in to this man's cab; you ARE to go your seperate ways at that door."

To my surprise he responded. "What am I going to do?"

"I would suggest you find a doorway and take a nap until the trains run," she said.

After leaving the station, I went around to the driver's side of my cab. The former fare hesitated for a moment near the passenger side rear door, then, with a sudden jerk, pulled himself away.

I got in and drove away, thinking how impressive the officer had been. Were a florist open, I'd have bought flowers for her office, as it was, at this hour, Dunkin Donuts would have to do.

I asked for an assorted dozen of their best pastries. They placed them in a box and taped it shut.

I returned to the station.

"I just had to say thank-you," I said as I held up the box.

I could see it took her a moment to recognize me as the cabbie who had been there just moments before. It occured to me there was no way she recognized me as the cabbie who she saw at the North Station two months earlier -- maybe I don't cut quite as dashing a figure as I like to think. She offered a dutiful thank-you and I left. Oh well, I wouldn't have felt right if I'd done nothing.

I knew I was running late as I gassed up the cab. From the lights by the pumps, I noticed something in the back seat. I opened the door and saw two twenty dollar bills: almost exactly what it would have cost to have gone from the Back Bay T to Newton and back with the meter on. I recalled the fare's loook of surprise when he fished through his pockets at the police station, and his hesitation afterward as he paused near the rear door of my cab. He knew. I figured from the fourteen he'd paid at the station, less tolls, gas, and pastries, I had another five: my tip.

I left the cab at the garage to discover my day man wasn't in yet- late and no harm. I began my walk home and thought to myself: the night hadn't been long at all; the night had been poetic justice.

Fame

Here at the edge of another new year, I'm reminded of one from about a dozen years back. I had one of my rare brushes with fame (all the rarer still that I was aware of it before the moment passed- more on that another day).

First Night, New Years', is celebrated in Boston with a variety of events both public and private. Among the public in particular are ice sculpting and live music at various city squares. Each requires the closure of streets and re-routing of traffic amid unusually large swarms of pedestrians marching along from place to place in an effort to miss not one thing.

These are the kind of nights when cabbies need to plan ahead to select the lesser used roads and alleys that allow us to navigate in spite of the scene.

Near Copley Square, with both bands and sculptures, I would approach from Ring Road. Often I'd snag a fare from Shaws Supermarket, or, if not, I would continue to approach Boylston Street, stopping always with enough space to retreat with a u-turn.

On one such approach, Boylston teamed with cars nearly each at an angle across its lane, vainly attempting to get around the mess. From one of these vehicles, a stretch limo at that, rushed four men clad in torn jeans, jerseys, and knitted caps. They'd have looked more at home rushing from a VW camper, but as it was they raced to my cab, pleading, "Can you get us to the Orpheum?" They seemed sober, good natured, and serious.

"About ten minutes," I replied, and they hustled in.




A u-turn and drive up Huntington behind me, I began to realize things were moving more slowly than I'd expected.

"We better plan on fifteen," I said to the fellow seated beside me.

Very softly spoken, he replied, "Okay."

I paused when I looked at his unshaven gaunt face. The visage was somehow familiar. A moment later I looked over again, asking, "Are you Michael Snipes?"

He was kind enough not to correct me, pausing barely perceptably before the R.E.M. frontman Michael Stipe replied, "Yes."

I sensed a spot of unease from the back seat, and it took me a moment to mentally connect with his music, though when I did, I turned to him again: "You've done some really nice stuff."

He softly replied, "Thank-you."

(I'm sure he really needed me to tell him his work was nice- and, fortunately, for my own sake of embarassment, my slaughtering of his name didn't register with me for several more hours.)

He told me they were in a bit of a rush as Bob Dylan was performing at the Orpheum and they were to join him unannounced for a couple of songs.

"Wow. I havn't seen Dylan since he toured in promotion of 'Blood on the Tracks'. He was fantastic, not to mention his gypsy violinist. The concert exceeded his recordings. Has he still got it together live?" I asked.

"He's actually even better live now than he was then," Stipe told me. Another member from the band in the back seat agreed.

As we rounded the Common to make our way up Beacon Hill, Stipe remarked that the manner in which our trees were strung with lights seemed strange. To be sure. To me they have all the charm you could expect from any DPW rush job.



Stipe remarked, "It looks like a forest of glowing amoebases."

He turned to each face in the cab for response. One mate from the back met his glance with the assurance his observation was pure poetic genius. Stipe seemed happy and smiled without laughing. Oh-- to be a star.

He continued for a bit with his descriptions of the amoebases becoming more psychedelic as we went.

As we passed the State House, the throngs and traffic seemed unusually bad for this still relatively early hour.

"You know guys," I mentioned, "If you jump at the corner of Park and Tremont, as opposed to circling around, we'll save a lot of time. You only have to cross the street, head two doors left, and you're there."

"Is it safe?" Stipe asked.

"Yes."

One from the back seemed uncertain. "Is it REALLY safe?" he questioned.

I smiled and replied, "Disgustingly so. You'll be running through baloons and baby carriages as you go."

He was still demurring, when another one shouted, "Let's go!" And, as if they were a single unit, they bolted from the cab, with one stopping briefly at the window to cover the fare.

Within not much more than the blink of an eye, I lost them in the crowd of similarly dressed revellers.

Blackmail

Take my cab,or the cat don't get fed.

Every day my old bud Sneaks watches as the layers of cab gear are assembled, worn, tossed in a duffel, and slung over the shoulder as I make my way out for a twelve hour shift. She always gives me that impish expression, suggesting it really would be fine should I loiter and run a stick through the door. But I always remind her, to work I must go- in order that we continue the lifestyle to which we are accustomed. Sometimes I thank God, she can't talk.

Silent Nights

This is what a momentary thaw looks like from the cab stand at Mass General Hospital Christmas morning. Thaw or no, we've entered that phase where "Silent Night" denotes more than a carol: it describes only too well the nights between now and New Years' Eve.