Driving the Oak Bar
Plowed on scotch and soda
While I long ago grew tired of escort stories, I can’t say the same for cabby anecdotes. I don’t know exactly what it is but even the most boring hack can hold me spellbound with the recounting of some surreal event that happened to him (or her) behind the wheel.
Enter my buddy John…now retired from the biz. Though I’ve known him for over 30 years, I still somehow haven’t heard all his ridiculous taxi tales. And low and behold, he had a new one for me last night.
First, I should let y’all know that when a New York passenger happens up on an American-born cabby, he or she will often engage that driver in conversation if for no other reason than to observe the novelty. So unless you have this look on your face that says “don’t fucking talk to me”…they generally will.
Mostly, I wore that look as I drove. At least until late at night. But John is a friendly Irish lad who I don’t think ever wore that look. And so one night about 8 PM, a scant 4 hours into his 12-hour shift, John picked up a suit in the East 20’s who was on his way to the Plaza Hotel.
En route, the fare engaged his talk-to-me-anytime-I’m-a-friendly-guy type verbally and within just a few blocks had confessed to my buddy that it was always his dream to drive a New York City cab…whereupon he offered John a deal he couldn’t refuse.
The man wanted to commandeer John’s cab for 2–3 hours and simply drive around Manhattan picking up fares and talking to people. In exchange for the privilege, the man offered John $150 and a free pass to drink all he could consume at the famous Oak Bar inside the Plaza.
In John’s shoes, I would have laughed the guy out of my cab. What if he had an accident? Or simply got a ticket? There would be hell to pay on my end. In a million years, I wouldn’t have gone for the deal. But John? Slack I-don’t-give-a-shit mother fucker that he truly is? You know the answer to that!
And so…they pulled up to the Plaza and parked the cab for five minutes while the fare introduced John to the bartender and closed the deal. And quickly John was seated at the bar getting totally polluted on free scotch and waters while his fare tooled around Manhattan picking up only women (as per John’s request).
Three hours later the guy returned to a shitfaced cabby. Thankfully, he’d had no problems whatever and there would be no repercussions. Except for John having to drive back to the garage at 15th Street and 9th Avenue in a drunken stupor. Well…John cleared the last hurdle and had a happy story to tell decades later to his old buddy Dollar Bill.
A little piece of me was jealous after he was done describing this chapter in his cab-driving past. Because he’s a more reckless individual than am I, he got to experience this once in a lifetime thrill. I would have passed. What does that say about me? I’m responsible? I’m a pussy? Probably both. What can I say? I’ll have to live at least part of my life vicariously through John and be at peace with it.
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