Mrs. Toad's Wild Ride

I don't know about you, but in my experience, when I share a taxi with someone one of us ends up getting screwed.  (Incidentally, the screwed person in question is usually me.)  Why should last Saturday evening have been any different? 

It began innocently enough: Around 10 pm, I joined Hubby and his co-workers at an Irish pub in Midtown.  By the time 1:00 am rolled around we'd had more than our fill of festivity and decided to head home. 

As I scanned the street for a yellow cab, Hubby beckoned to a co-worker (whom I'll call Kevin, though that's not really his name) who lives in our neighborhood and asked if he'd like to share a cab with us.  No sooner had the question been asked than we noticed that Kevin was swaying ever so slightly.  Oh dear.  Looks like we've got a live one here, folks.

As I slid into the taxi a pungent, sickening stench invaded my nostrils.  Good God, what was that smell?  I leaned forward and conversationally asked the cabbie if someone had gotten sick earlier in the evening.  He said no.  "Really?  It just smells a bit..."  He was adamant, though: nobody had thrown up in his car all night.  Nobody! 

In a desperate ploy to freshen the air, I scoured my purse for my travel-sized vial of Hannaemore and spritzed like mad.  The scent was a welcomed reprieve; now the air smelled of vanilla.  Vanilla and barnyard. 

I began to notice Kevin was turning rather pale, and soon he was sticking his head out of the window, which is never an encouraging sign.  Immediately the cabbie pulled over, in a not so good section of town.  (Think whores, thugs and drug addicts.  Not that there's anything wrong with these types, but...)

"He's thrown up!  He's thrown up in my cab!  You must clean it up!"  the cabbie screamed.  We all got out of the car.

Seeking to remedy the situation, Hubby asked: "Do you have any paper towels?  I'll clean it up...," but unfortunately the driver had none.  Hubby tried again: "OK, I have some at home, just calm down, drop us off and I'll grab some spray and clean it up."

Not that I'm keen to relive the details, Dear Reader, but the barfage in question was not terribly substantial, as Kevin had conveniently managed to aim mostly for the glass of the window.  Hubby had gallantly managed to wipe most of it up with a newspaper, but alas, it was already too late.  This man did not want us getting back into his taxi. 

Kevin, who was already behaving borderline belligerent, became even more so.  (Always a wise way to act when you've vomited on someone else's car, don't you agree?) 

For my part, I was exhausted and hungry, my cheap wine buzz wearing off with every passing minute.  In lieu of this, I anxiously remained silent.  Nevertheless, soon the cabbie turned on me, pointing his finger in my face, hissing: "She said it smelled like shit!  She said it smelled like shit!"  (I would like to go on record here that I never used the term shit, although this would have been a perfectly accurate word to describe what the car smelled like.)

The curbside debate raged on; the cabbie was actually kicking us out of his car, at nearly 2:00 am, on the dark, crackwhore-strewn street. Yay!

"That's illegal!"  Hubby exclaimed,  "You can't strand us here!"  Oh, but he was.  And now Hubby was pissed: "Fine, leave us here, we're not paying you the fare."  This latest development, as you can imagine, did not go over very well.  Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20, and if I'd had any that night, I would've given the nut-job his lousy ten bucks.

I voted for walking home, but hubby wanted to hail another taxi.  This proved extremely difficult, as the cab driver was waving off every cab that approached us.  Each time one stopped, he'd yell out, "Don't take them!  Don't take them!" 

Eventually we hailed a taxi down that didn't drive away.  Feeling desperate, I stuck my head into the car and pleaded: "Sir, please ignore that screaming cab driver and do a good deed and take us home, please..."  Just for good measure, I added that we'd give him a good tip.  Miraculously, and despite the fact that Crazy Cabbie #1 attempted to pin us in with his car, the man agreed.

It was quite the chase.  Cabbie #1 was hot on our trail, avidly in pursuit.  What the?  Actually, what the?  What was that smell?  That's strange, why does this cab also smell like a barnyard?  So, it hadn't been a stinky cab after all.  On the contrary, it was our stinky companion.  Our stinky companion whom I think may have also thrown up prior to leaving the bar?  That sounded about right.

Kevin, his face looking pale, soon decided he was close enough to his apartment and staggered out.  I felt very worried for him, but simultaneously worried for Hubby and myself when I remembered Cabbie #1 was still tailing us, now taking frantic snapshots of us with his camera phone.  Say cheese! 

We decided it was best if we didn't get dropped off at our apartment.  (So much for going home, ordering chicken fingers from the 24 hour diner and watching Top Chef on the DVR.)  "I know!  Let's go to the quickie mart!"  I shrilled.  Our cab pulled over, but with horror we realized the quickie was closed.  Dun-dun-DUN!

I decided quick action was necessary if we were going to make a speedy getaway.  The fare was eight bucks.  I shrieked at Hubby to give him a twenty.  I looked around and spied blue lights emanating from a door across the street.  They were coming from our favorite neighborhood restaurant, whose bar was mercifully still open!  Oh, thank you, Baby Jesus!  Now all we had to do was shimmy past Nutso, who had parked on the curb and was still screaming, "I'm calling the police on you!  I have your picture!"   

"I've already called the police on you, pal!"  Hubby retorted.  And indeed he had.  "You can't just strand people!"  Incidentally, why do people sometimes call each other pal and buddy when they're very angry?  It's funny, don't you think?  Not funny ha-ha, but more funny hmmm-hmmm.

We ran past the taxi, (for a moment I really thought was going to swerve at us), into our safe haven, where we were met by concerned, familiar faces.  We told everyone of our harrowing tale as we waited for the fuzz to arrive.  The owner, bartenders and I watched as Hubby spoke to the officers, who appeared slightly amused by our bizarre ordeal.

It was well after 3:00 am when we finally emerged, peeking over our shoulders for any signs of yellow cabs.  The coast was clear...

The next morning I experienced a funky, disturbed sort of feeling, probably because I wasn't entirely certain who had been 100% in the wrong: the puker for puking, the cabbie for stranding us, or us for refusing to pay him?  In all my years of taxi-taking I've never encountered a problem such as this!

This week, every time I see an effing taxi my belly does a sick little flip-flop.  I imagine I hear the music from the Wizard of Oz, the Wicked Witch of the West's theme song: do-do-do-do-do-doo-doo, DOO!

I'd like to mention that Kevin got home over an hour before us, sans mingling with the law, sans paying, and sans getting his photo snapped by a maniacal cab driver.  Ah, Reader.  At 28 and three quarters, I fear I am far too elderly for such shenanigans.  Which is why I've put into effect a new rule, one that I shall firmly adhere to from this day forward:

I, The Odd Broad, being of (semi) sound mind, will never, ever share a cab with anyone born after the year 1982.  And if I do, I will be sure to get dropped off first.

PS- Kevin has since apologized to Hubby and feels really badly.  Though I've only met him once, he does seem to be a very nice boy and I fear perhaps I wrote too harshly?  It's not that The Odd Broad hasn't been there herself, (though never in a cab, but once on the front steps of my dormitory), it's just that I didn't feel like going there that particular evening.  I felt like going home.  In hindsight I find the story pretty funny, although I'm still freaked out by cabs.  xoxo

Comments

[The Odd Broad]

I feel I must add, there are exceptions to this rule. I do know plenty of lovely people under the age of 25 whom I would gladly share cabs with! Also, I'm not 100% certain I would've shared a cab with MYSELF when I was 21...or even 25...I must've taken a bitter pill when I posted that.

XOXO,

The Odd Broad