Discrimination or Logic?

In which the author explores the above in the context of driving a taxi…

     Back in the nineties, due to a series of unexpected events* I found myself driving a cab for a company that for legal purposes shall be called “L’orange et Blanc.” During my term of employment I commandeered the seemingly brakeless “vehicles of death” all over Huntington Station, the Village and distant lands such as Greenlawn and Centerport. No crimes were committed against my person and nothing untoward occurred except one time I was asked by the owner of a motel to break up a knife fight. He handed me a pot holder to accomplish this task.

     On my first day I was christened “Driver 12”, but it seemed there had been a previous and much beloved other Driver 12 and the cabbies, upon hearing that handle on the radio became emotional and unable to drive.  So I was renamed “18” and took to it right away, remembering the old Alice Cooper song “I’m 18 and I like it!”

    Many offers came my way to enjoy beer (or cerveza), do lines, unite in carnal knowledge or even go to church.  I am proud to say I rarely accepted any of these generous invitations.  I initially lied and told men I was Catholic and married but that was often met with an enthusiastic “me too!” so I started claiming I was a Jehovah’s Witness and that acted on men as kryptonite to Superman.

     One time two tough looking women on E. 11th St. hailed my cab, which was not the usual procedure and frowned upon by management.  They hopped in, stated they were detectives and said “Mami’, follow that green car!” I felt like I was in a movie and had a lot of fun chasing the green car for awhile until we lost it.

     A few times I truly felt like I was in the right place at the right time as the only female driver.  Technically a passenger could not request any particular driver by name, or ask for a female or male driver as that was illegal.  However there were some instances where it seemed logical and sensible to have a female driver.

     One young passenger had a job as an exotic dancer at some establishment on Jericho Turnpike. I drove her fairly regularly since she preferred not having to deal with some of the less gentlemanly drivers who would make incorrect insinuations about her. She had a sad story, of course she had wanted to be a “real” dancer but that did not work out. The money was too good to resist and the joint was considered a protected establishment by the mob or bikers or some such.  The girls were kept safe from the customers.  She said she usually needed two drinks to start dancing and that made the time go by quickly. I was glad to help out and never asked any nosy questions, just listened if she wanted to talk.

     In those days domestic violence shelters were called “battered women’s shelters” and I drove quite a few women and their children there.  There was a lot of subterfuge involved and the address of the safe house was never broadcast on the radio. It was assumed a female driver would be better suited for this and less likely to give away the address. I remember one woman could not stop crying and I had to use all of my rudimentary Spanish to calm her down.

     Many young mothers who had Medicaid used L’orange et blanc to take their kids to doctor’s appointments.  I noticed that they all seemed to have nose rings and I inquired of one (rather snarkily, on my part) if the nose ring came with the Medicaid card.  The girl answered in all sincerity, that no, she bought it on her own and her friend pierced her nose.

     One time two young ladies were in the back seat discussing whether to invest their limited funds in Pedialyte for a sick child, or new nails.  There was to be a big house party and old nails would not be sufficiently dope or fly or whatever was the happening phrase that year.  Complicating the issue was an impending beef to settle with another female.  I sensed an opening here and interjected that if the fight went off as scheduled, nails would be snapped off, torn or otherwise broken so it made more sense to get the Pedialyte.  I can’t say a male driver would not have reached the same conclusion, but my advice was gratefully accepted and I can only assume that the baby was hydrated, a party was attended and the appropriate butts were kicked.

     A call came in one time for me, the woman driver, to take a young Orthodox Jewish woman to the train station.  It would be inappropriate for her to be in a taxi with a man alone. It was seen as dangerous for her and could also dim her marriage prospects, as I understood it. (I could be wrong.)  I drove the truly charming young lady to “the rail”, as we called the train station and she told me about the tremendous academic pressure she was under.  A medical degree in gynecology or pediatrics was expected of her and she felt overwhelmed with the huge responsibility.  I don’t know if she would have opened up like that to someone from her own community, but again, I was glad to provide a sympathetic ear.

     I only did this job for about 7 months, but it was something I always wanted to do and don’t regret at all. I feel grateful for all the supportive passengers and was glad I was able to help out a little on a few occasions. Ultimately, it probably was against the letter of the law to request a female driver but sometimes there is a higher law to obey; the one that says “Just do the right thing!”

“Due to a Series of Unexpected Events...” may be the title of my memoirs. Publishers, start the bidding war!