Hack: Stories from a Chicago Cab

by Dmitry Samarov

  Others broach the subject differently. “It’s so great to have an American driver,” a woman says. I ask what it is that thrills her about this, and she can’t really put her finger on it. She assures me that she’s no racist, then says she likes that I speak English. I tell her it’s not my first language, and she’s floored. Now it’s suddenly fascinating to find out where people are from. There are wows, oohs, and aahs. She wears that appreciative smile that says she’s learned something. Would she bother if I was wearing a turban and a full beard? A dashiki and cornrows?

  Apparently even immigrants and minorities assume that a taxi driver is likely from the bottom of the barrel (or from a lower caste, color, or creed than whatever the passenger happens to be, at the very least). A black guy tells me that I’m not like most cabbies. “You know what I mean, man . . .”

  “No, I don’t,” I answer.

  An Indian student tells me that most drivers are Indian or Pakistani, and it shocks and confounds him to see me. “Why are you doing this?” he asks.

  It’s easier to condescend to a cabdriver if he has a thick accent, wears foreign garb, or can in any other way be thought of as lesser than oneself. Driving a cab is a first step for immigrants in this country. The education most gained in their home countries isn’t recognized by our institutions, so they do what they have to, to put a roof over their heads. In that way I’m no different. Though my family came over when I was just a kid, in a sense I still haven’t arrived here, and getting paid for what’s important to me is but a pipedream. This is not to advocate for some color-blind, class-free utopia; having been born in one of those, I have no wish to return. Only a simple hope that new arrivals could be treated with a little more respect in a country founded by castoffs and mutts.

  The Others

  It’s rare to run into a lifer who’s happy about it. Most of them are burnouts, punch-drunk from breathing in exhaust for twenty, thirty years. One of the few I’ve met who is different is a guy named Ed. He loves to drive, has to do it every day. He owns his own cab, a Dodge Intrepid. We cross paths in our aimless treks around this town; sometimes I see him with his old lady at the Music Box Theatre.

  Last night one of the oldsters sat at a green light ahead of me. After waiting a reasonable few seconds, I tried to maneuver around to his right. He rolled down the passenger-side window and started screaming. Neither my customers nor I could figure out his problem, to be so obviously wrong yet act with such righteous rage. The confrontation ended with him being forced to brake after I very intentionally cut him off; sometimes a point has to be made.

  Most drivers aren’t that far gone. They chatter to each other on their cells, argue loudly at the airport, race one another down Michigan Avenue. There are occasional feeble attempts to unionize, to band together against the powers that be: the city, the cab company, the customers, the wives. All these efforts are likely doomed to failure because the job is for lone wolves, and part-time ones at that. We’re all aspiring to be elsewhere, and like the fares who slam the door behind them as they exit, most of us want out in the worst way.

  Burnout

  I saw him in the left turn lane on LaSalle the other day, waiting to go west on Chicago. He rolled down the window and yelled out a question to a couple walking past. Obviously dumbfounded, they kept walking as if the cabbie had never engaged them in any way, while he smiled to himself, continuing the conversation under his breath.

  I used to see him at the Checker garage before it went out of business and was absorbed by Yellow Cab. A worn puffy winter coat with a hood, thick black glasses, a black shirt with the top button buttoned and dandruff dotting his chest like a light dusting of snow on a winter’s eve, white hair groomed in a ’50s sort of way, buzzed short around the ears and neck. His skin reddened to an unhealthy hue, though probably not from boozing; he doesn’t seem like the type—though what do we ever really know about people when they’re out of our sight? He’d be in line to pay the lease on his cab, trying to shoot the shit with the others, coming off like some sort of space alien, causing them to take a step or two back, as if the distance would keep his insanity from crawling up their legs.

  His name is Mike—his last name escapes me. He’s been a taxi driver a long, long time. He’s got a collection of plastic garbage bags that he hauls around like luggage; the big black one has a note written in thick marker taped to it. I’ve never been able to make out what it says, though it starts with his name and goes on to cover most of the side of the bag. When he’s waiting at the long table in the drivers’ room, it’s his pillow when he’s passed out.

  He’ll only drive a Checker when most of the fleet are Yellow cabs—this means that he’ll wait many hours longer more often than not. No incoming driver escapes his interrogations: “You dropping? Is it a Checker? No . . . Oh, all right.” Many drivers back up or take the long way in an attempt to evade his attentions. Save for once telling him to get the hell away from me when he stood too close in line, I’d almost avoided any substantive interaction with him over the years. But one time we’d both been at the garage for hours, and on one of my strolls outside, he cornered me. He talked about his loneliness, of his landlady raising his rent; he asked if I had family, saying he had none. There was no graceful way to disengage, short of just walking away. So that’s what I did.

  He’s the walking embodiment of our worst fears—a solitary, forgotten man twisted and broken by a job that tests the endurance of those much better equipped than he ever could’ve been. He’s what we end up as in our nightmares: barely tolerated in this world, just enough to be able to draw breath.

  Blessed

  He haunts the taxi barn. He stows his belongings behind the enclosure where new cars are spray-painted into cabs—coats, lawn chairs, and other discarded treasures arranged to approximate a living room of sorts. His head pops up to greet drivers slinking in to pay their lease or argue about the disrepair of the vehicles that the shop has foisted on them. Other times he’s outside earning a few bucks, wiping down the cars fresh from the wash. He’s scarecrow-thin and wears his Kangol backward over a stocking cap.

  I leave cigarettes for him next to a boom box that blares R&B. “He wanted me to wash his personal car, and the water froze as soon as it hit the hood, no point in it. Why even bother in this shit?” he wonders aloud. When asked about how he’s doing, he always says he’s blessed. “Cuz I don’t worry, no use to. I seen ’em die doin’ this job. Know why? They worry and it kills ’em. They say, ‘You’re homeless, you got nothin’, how do you get by?’ and I tell ’em that the Lord’ll take care of me.”

  He shares his Bugler tobacco if I’m out and compliments my easygoing disposition. A few remaining teeth show in the smile that doesn’t spread to his eyes. “You smoking today?” he asks, knowing that the answer is almost always yes.

  He knows not to ask for money but for rides instead. He usually goes to the gas station at the edge of what’s left of the Cabrini-Green housing projects. “Gotta get me some food—give me a lift?” He has me drop him across the street so as not to be seen getting out of the cab; don’t want to seem like you’ve got more than you do—in case someone’s watching. One time he said he was going to see a woman he had up in the high-rise. “Only way to get warm,” he said. “I’m blessed.”

  Queues

  We spend hours waiting: hundreds of Crown Vics, Intrepids, Scions, and minivans of various make line up at O’Hare and Midway airports, queuing to be dispatched out to the terminals. Time is passed wiping the winter grime off quarter panels and windshields with soiled newspaper from overflowing trash barrels, wetted by spray bottles or graying slush. Clusters of drivers commiserate about lousy tips and inconsiderate passengers, about overzealous cops and clueless airport workers. The politics of a couple dozen countries is dissected, debated, and argued over again and again. Accented English in every variety as well as some hundred foreign tongues clash then disperse into the frigid winter air.

  We walk up and down the row
s and rows of cabs for exercise; we go to the restaurant and buy food and then loiter around the counter talking to buddies, blocking the way of others trying to put their orders in; we buy porn DVDs from the guys walking around hawking all matter of useless wares; we pray to Allah in a strange glassed-in area provided for that purpose; we gather in backseats, fogging the windows with our words, peering out occasionally to check on the glacial flow of lanes; we hope for that home run, the fare that makes up for all these hours lost, for the daily dry spells that test even the hardest of veterans; we stare at the hundreds of vehicles around us and wonder why such an awesome fleet assembled for conveyance makes us feel like we’re going nowhere, or maybe we sit and hope the next fare will be our last.

  No matter how long it’s been though, every lane will have that one cab that stands mute and inert when the time to move comes. The driver’s asleep in the backseat, using the bathroom, or across the lot obliviously solving the worries of the world. The chorus of horns is quickly followed by a parade of detouring vehicles, artfully dodging the loping dawdler, who desperately sprints back to his suddenly lonesome-looking taxi.

  Back in the city, every hotel and office building hosts its own collection of idlers, all hoping to go back to the airport. Lunch trucks dish out African meals as the cabs inch slowly toward the entrance, and panhandlers walk up and down, greeting each new arrival with the same futile request. The doorman hauling luggage inspires an extra-eager pump of the gas pedal, followed by a jolting stop, inches from the quarry.

  During off-hours, the car washes attract hordes, every few drivers struggling to negotiate the runners leading inside, tires slipping, sending the car rocking back and forth until the course is righted. Homeless men wait on the other side, hoping to earn a few bucks wiping the excess freezing droplets off the dripping taxis.

  At any time of day, the cashiers at the garage take money for the privilege of sitting behind the wheel for another twenty-four hours. At the window, the litany of excuses is never-ending. There’s always a very good reason why we shouldn’t pay the late fees, why we haven’t paid for three days and shouldn’t be expected to. When we’re informed of the amount due, there’s a mad search through pockets, socks, and satchels for crumpled bills; as if the preceding half hour of standing around couldn’t possibly have prepared us for this unexpected development. The price of the lease seems to blindside us; a novel and heretofore unforeseen hardship. As the rest—our money ready in hand—groan and wince, the wronged man continues to plead his case, then leaves, either with eyes averted or defiant and unbowed.

  Outside, we navigate past haphazardly parked comrades, in and out of potholes and rutted blacktop, back onto the thoroughfares of the city. We search for spots to linger, the spots that lead us to far-off places, to that one place where the driver’s door can be closed behind us, not to be opened again.

  Relief

  One of the few true hardships of driving a taxi is that there’s no bathroom provided in the office. This makes one a crack detective and true connoisseur of public facilities—from the lowliest shitter to the most well-appointed powder room.

  The men’s room at the O’Hare Airport taxi staging area may perhaps represent the most extreme test for the driver with a full bladder. Used by thousands of malodorous unhappy men each day, there’s just no way the custodial staff could possibly keep up even if they wanted to. The reek at times attains a physical shape and force such that to merely hold one’s breath is of little use. Besides that, the place seems to function like a drawing room or parlor to some—conversations continue stall to stall and side by side at the urinal trough. Those waiting to use the stalls stand sentry between the sinks and entrance, often requiring deft circumnavigation in order to shorten one’s own stay.

  A steady stream of pigeon-toed cabbies pours into the side entrance at the Hyatt Regency on Wacker. The combination of easy access and availability of temporary parking in the hotel’s cab line makes this one of the premium stops downtown. Rushing past lolling guests and employees is quick and easy, and one can be back on the road in no time. The only downside is the traffic we must vanquish in order to reach this little oasis; this, of course, will make eventual arrival that much more hard-won. When the ladies at the coffee kiosk in the lobby compliment you on your haircut, you know you’ve been a cabbie for a good long time.

  Fox & Obel offers a worthy alternative, though the fifteen-minute standing zone can hold no more than five vehicles at a time. Fox & Obel is a gourmet market catering to the privileged, so the latrines are kept spic-and-span, which is much appreciated by the weary driver. Overpaying for a cup of coffee while in the company of the moneyed class is an added bonus.

  Dunkin’ Donuts dot the city and attract hacks as well as cops, bums, and drunken revelers at all hours. The bathroom locks here vary according to the whims of the franchisees that oversee these establishments. From buzzer systems operated from behind the counter, to keys attached to worn chunks of wood or plastic that must be passed from user to user in an awkward, stuttering relay race, to plain old first-come, first-serve—depending on one’s level of need, these obstacles can be tackled with greater or lesser good humor and equanimity.

  Gas stations are beacons. However, their welcoming neon glow is sometimes fool’s gold. From the dubious “Out of Order” signs that mysteriously appear as the sun sets, to reticent security personnel who take the request to unlock the loo as a personal affront, the simple journey to empty one’s bladder or bowels may be fraught with unnecessary and unforeseen detours. On the flip side, some friendly and understanding clerks don’t give a second look to the desperately hustling men dashing past aisles of candy, if said men are regular paying customers.

  An awareness of port-o-potties located just off the highway can be the difference between a pleasant afternoon and dire embarrassment. There are times sitting in gridlock with a fare in tow that my prayers have been known to be addressed to Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, and any other relevant authority for safe and unsullied passage to our destination. Passengers have related stories of other cabbies using bottles and jars kept for just such emergencies. Perhaps it’s my Eastern European upbringing, but that’s a bridge I have yet to cross. When worst comes to worst, an alley or abandoned lot and an open cab door or two provides sufficient shelter to take care of impending emergencies.

  All in all, no matter our supposed sophistication, this daily reminder of our physical ties to the natural world serves to put even the mightiest among us on equal footing. We’re all just animals looking for a little relief.

  Five Percent

  “You take credit, right?” the girl stumbling from the bar asks apologetically. Hearing a yes, she exhales, relaxes, and tells of the many times that the answer was no. The fact that I’ve made this exception for her by allowing payment with plastic makes me the “Best Cabdriver Ever!” in her eyes. She’s not alone, but merely the latest of many riders overjoyed to take advantage for the first time of an option that’s been mandated for some five or six years—the city requires every taxi in Chicago to accept credit cards.

  When the credit card rules were instituted, the cab companies saw an easy way to cash in—they slapped an extra 2 to 3 percent on top of the usual processing fees, diverting a steady trickle their way on every single transaction. That 5 percent is what’s made the equipment in many a taxi suddenly cease to function at the prospect of plastic; the flustered customer, not knowing any better, agrees to the detour to the ATM that the driver helpfully suggests, and everyone’s left with a sour taste in their mouths. Most cabbies don’t want to lie, but the guarantee of losing some crumbs from the precious scrap they’ve worked so hard to snare is more than they can stomach; the passenger feels like he was taken advantage of or treated rudely at minimum, when all that any hack wants is to be paid what he’s owed.

  Aside from yammering on cell phones and not being “American,” this has been the top complaint I hear about other cabdrivers for as long as I can remember. It puts m
e in the unenviable position of ratting out colleagues while also losing precious pennies, all to appear aboveboard. It’s not much of a victory having to inform a customer that the way to make the card swipe in other taxis magically function again is to threaten a call to Consumer Services. The sad fact is that none of us are in much of a position to take a stand, so when drivers refuse to accept credit, it only makes the rest of us look bad.

  Touch screens have started appearing in our town. The local cab companies imported these backseat credit card systems from New York. The stated aim is to allow better customer service, but the real purpose is to squeeze out a few extra coins at the expense of the drivers’ fraying nerves. The ads and programming haven’t yet begun, but they’re just around the corner. This was confirmed when I had to take a cab with a malfunctioning screen in to the shop. There was a creepy industrial hiss on a constant loop escaping from the speaker. While this would’ve been a fitting soundtrack to a David Lynch film, two weeks’ worth of it was driving the unsuspecting public a little insane. The mechanic got rid of it by yanking one of the wires wedged between the front seats and the partition; but soon the humming and wheezing will be replaced by commercials, and many of us will be taking a hammer to those screens if there isn’t a mute button.

  For now, a silent slide show of Chicago boosterism must suffice for entertainment. Shots of the Art Institute, the lakefront, and the skyline with the unbuilt Chicago Spire flash past those not too bleary-eyed to take note. Many late-night debates have ensued from the architectural rendering of that ill-fated corkscrew tower. “Where the HELL is that supposed to be? That isn’t here . . .” is the consensus. Otherwise, upon spying the flickering images, they’ll declare, “Oh cool, you got a TV back here, bro! Got porn?”