7am: I flag down a yellow on 116th street and say good morning. we discuss the best routes from Harlem to Sutton Place and I say it’s too bad the park is closd but just take Central Park West or 5th Ave and BOY I am right quick sorry for even mentioning the park because now he’s gotta show me that it’s open even though it ain’t and here I am with the only cabbie in nyc who doesn’t know the difference between crosstown and downtown because of COURSE it is open for crosstown, it is ALWAYS open for xtown because if it closed none of us would ever get from east side to west side again until the unknown end of time. third time he shows me (72nd street by now) how it’s open not closed I point to the police barricade ominously strung across the entrance to the southbound drive and he says OH you mean the park DRIVE and what the fuck would I have meant since ain’t we trying to GO downtown but anyway he’s nice enough, no worries except that it feels like the bottom of the cab is about to fall out and we’re creaking and rocking way past the (admittedly modest) speed limit. then I think about writing this blog and figure I’ll call it good morning hashim or whatever his name is so I look up at the license to see if he’s abdul or mohammed or what and there’s NO LICENSE there — I mean none, a blank and empty scratch of plexiglass — in many decades of ridereism I have never once been in a yellow nyc cab that had no license tacked onto the bulletproof divider. and I think here’s a guy that doesn’t even know downtown from xtown jesus CHRIST and no picture or name or license he’s obviously not a cabbie and what have I gotten myself into. but he’s nice and drives OK and isn’t speeding any more than everybody else and I’m gonna be late for therapy if I get out to look for another ride so I start playing brickbreaker to distract me from impending doom and next thing he’s saying “left side, right side miss? and were already here and I wasn’t raped or hostagized so its all good. he even has receipts! an honorable, noble cab driver. after tipping and opening the door I ask if it’s a rental cab and he says yes and I say well you better put your license up there then and he says Oh Shit! and we’re both smiling and my good deed for the day is already done before I even got a chance to buy some coffee — and still a few minutes early for the shrink. on my way into his office there’s a newspaper with the world-changing Daily News headline about a 500-pound nypd cop.
still sitting on my desk from yesterday is another daily paper with a long article about the NYPD’s crackdown on policial facial hair. mustaches are tolerated, dreadlocks and turbans are legally sanctioned and guys with doctor’s notes about facial shaving bump syndromes can get permission for a beard but STILL no goatees or hairline beards nor anything resembling contempory facial hair configurations.
I thought I had a lot to say about that topic, as it was after all on the same page with some murders and robberies and kidnappings and other things that you think NYPD would find the time to make some rules about but I have been disheartened. if it’s OK to be 500 pounds and in charge of protecting my life but not OK to have cool-looking rather than nerdy facial hair while doing that same grim task the NYPD must be privy to some arcane equation about safety checks and balances that I can’t imagine unless assisted by a massive infusion of hallucinogenic aids. maybe I can buy some from a cop with a goatee, those shady, rule-defying characters. who am I to second-guess the brass?
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