The Cab Driver
I’m a nice guy, or at least, I really try to be. I’m always very polite to cab drivers and tip them well. I know they really work hard and it’s difficult to eke out a living driving a cab.
But last week, I was struggling with a case of pneumonia. That’s right. Pneu-freaking-monia. I felt awful, needless to say. I did manage to work from home all last week and finally slithered in to work for about three hours on Friday.
When I was leaving work to go home, it was raining, cold, and windy. Even though I live only six blocks from work, I decided to take a cab. There was a long line of them waiting to turn into the Hyatt Regency next to my workplace. They often wait along the street and, one by one, zip into the Hyatt hoping to pick up a passenger heading to one of the airports at forty bucks a pop.
Here they are, all aligned and waiting:
I opened the door to the last cab in line and before I could get in, the driver yelled something I couldn’t understand.
“Pardon me?” I said.
“Where are you going!” he snarled.
“To Marina Towers,” I replied.
“Where’s that!” he hissed.
“300 North State Street,”
“Ugh!!” he huffed in disgust.
Mind you, I really don’t have a temper. But I had a temperature, was punchy, and I sort of snapped. After all, I had purposely chosen the last cab in line, knowing that he hadn't been waiting at all for a nice juicy passenger. This cab driver was really nasty and I was standing in the cold rain.
“Oh, f**k you!!” I yelled and slammed the door.
I surprised myself with such a reaction. But I have to admit, I felt better as I walked home.