You know, before I would think, my cab driver hates me. Now I think my limo driver hates me.
When there's not ten feet of snow on the ground I ride my bike down the streets of New York, and I literally hear two things out of car windows as cabs pass by me: They either yell, "Hey, dummy," or "Hey, Mayhem."
My first job was with an auto plant, Kansas City - they treated you like slaves. From there I went back to Chicago, worked in steel mills, drove a cab, stuff like that.
Being a cab river is not unlike being a magician--minus the top hat, the cape, the rabbit, an the gorgeous assistant. But you do have an audience.
The Park Avenue of poodles and polished brass; it is cab country, tip-town, glassville, a window-washer's paradise.
Accept people, don't stereotype people. Don't think because right now they're driving a cab, they're not going to have a master's degree or that they're dumber than you.
The irrational may be attractive in the abstract, but not in cab drives, dinner guests, or elderly relatives.
Somalis have made my city of Wilmington, Delaware, [their home] on a smaller scale. There is a large, very identifiable Somali community, i might add if you ever come to the train station with me you'll notice I have great relationships with them because there's an awful lot driving cabs and are friends of mine. For real. I'm not being solicitous. I'm being serious.
New York has made me so paranoid, too. Whenever I visit another city, I always act like I'm from there, so the cab driver doesn't rip me off. I'm always like, "Yeah, it's good to be back home. Back here where I grew up. Yeah. Here in Tokyo. ... Uh, driver, I need to go to my old stomping grounds. That would be the Holiday Inn. And the address appears to be the pound sign."
I was in a cab in New York. The cab had a sign, "Please do not smoke, Christ is our unseen guest." This guy was reaching. I figure, if he could overcome being nailed to a cross, I don't think a Marlboro Light's gonna faze him that much.
In New York City, a lot of people think "the great outdoors" is the area between your front door and a taxi cab.
In all my years of New York cab riding I have yet to find the colorful, philosophical cabdriver that keeps popping up on the late movies.
Manhattan cabs are born old.
I moved to New York when I was 10, from Rio de Janeiro. So there was no need for driving: I took the subway, cabs and the bus.
If I am going to get in a cab to go home, and I see a sign for an open house, I will go in. I like real estate because I am the boss.
The first time I landed in New York and got a cab to my hotel, I was completely struck by it: a feeling of life and chaos, 24 hours around the clock, just like in London. And whatever your problem is, it's insignificant. You're just a small part of something very big.
Yeah, I'll pay your cab fare home, you can even use my best cologne, just don't be here in the morning when I wake up.
From folk to tribal to Cab Calloway, Cole Porter, Gershwin to the Rolling Stones, whose first record was all covers, to country-western, bebop, blues, and even the referencing in classic hip hop to cliched love ballads of the '80s or whatever - that is kinda gone, and that's just terrifying to me.
Objectively, class differences in accent, dress, manners, and general style of life are very much smaller; and one cannot, strolling about the street or travelling on a train, instantly identify a person's social background as one can in England. Subjectively, social relations are more natural and egalitarian, and less marked by deference, submissiveness, or snobbery, as one quickly discovers from the cab-driver, the barman, the air-hostess and the drug-store assistant.
I never really drove a cab, but I do have a hack license in case of emergencies - like no money.
When you're in Los Angeles, everybody you meet is writing a movie, and they want you to be in it. Every cab driver is writing a movie!
My name is not Mara Dyer, but my lawyer told me I had to choose something. A pseudonym. A nom de plume, for all of us studying for the SATs. I know that having a fake name is strange, but trust me-it's the most normal thing about my life right now. Even telling you this much probably isn't smart. But without my big mouth, no one would know that a seventeen-year-old who likes Death Cab for Cutie was responsible for the murders. No one would know that somewhere out there is a B student with a body count. And it's important that you know, so you're not next.
Now this is over thirty years later and the guy said he was that cab driver. He apologized and he was serious. I felt awful. He might have been spending his whole life thinking he had jinxed me, but I told him he hadn't. My number was up.
I leaned on him for support when I got out of the cab, and he just crumpled to the ground. That's how we found out.
I never met a Cab I didn't like.
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