Phil Cohen War Stories: The Fine Art of Hustling
War Stories By Phil Cohen
Editor’s Note: This is Part III of Phil’s three-part saga returning to his wild days driving a cab on the streets of NYC in the early 1970s. Here’s Part I and Part II in case you missed ‘em.
Part III – The Fine Art of Hustling
Every afternoon as I took my seat in the taxi, regardless of exhaustion levels or mood, my awareness shifted into overdrive. I felt like a fighter pilot about to go out on a mission. From the moment I hit the streets I was in a state of pure reaction time. If a cockroach tweaked its antenna in a garbage can a thousand yards away, I’d sense it. The street has zero tolerance for people who let their guard down. One has to constantly remain prepared for the unexpected and the only thing that can be trusted is instinct.
I became an expert at knowing when to increase my earnings through the illegal practice of adding mileage to long trips. When a businessman entered my cab at the airport or hailed me for a trip to another borough I always asked, “What route would you prefer?” When they knew the shortest way no harm was done and I simply obliged, usually getting a good tip because they appreciated being given a choice. But when someone declared themselves to be from out-of-town and replied, “Whatever way you think is best,” I did what was best for me. I remained true to my code, however. When a working person requested a longer route, I saved them money by suggesting a better alternative.
During a rainy afternoon rush hour when customer demand was high, the real money was to be earned by staying in midtown Manhattan and taking consecutive short rides. A doorman flagged me and I was furious at myself for stopping as a well dressed man with luggage got in and instructed me to take him to LaGuardia Airport via the 59th Street Bridge. Normally airport rides were welcome, but not on an evening like this.
“I need to tell you that there’s been a major accident on the 59th and traffic is at a standstill. We’d be better off taking the Triborough Bridge,” I lied without missing a beat.
“Isn’t that a longer route?”
“Yes it is but at least the traffic’s moving. It’s your choice.”
“I’m already running late for my flight so let’s do it.”
As we headed uptown I learned that my passenger was Republican Senator Jacob Javits. Unfortunately for him, traffic was moving unusually slow across the Triborough. “God damn it!” the senator exclaimed. “I’m gonna miss my flight and just blew an important meeting with Governor Rockefeller. Well, might as well drop me at the airport anyway. I’ve still got to get to Washington.”
I felt honored that Fate had chosen me to sabotage the meeting between two conservative Republicans, and in fact rewarded me just as the senator stepped out when a stray passenger approached, providing an instant ride back to midtown.
Upon dropping a passenger at LaGuardia, taxis usually entered a large parking area and waited for an hour until becoming first in line, then were directed by a network of dispatchers to a terminal where someone requested service. But on Sunday nights following a major holiday, the numbers were reversed. Long lines of travelers returning home waited for over an hour while the parking lot remained empty. I was inspired to invent the mother of all hustles.
I’d park my cab in the empty lot, grab my hack license and approach the back of a long line. “I’m putting together a group ride to midtown,” I’d exclaim waving my credentials. “I’m a medallion driver, not some just some guy with a car.” I’d announce a per person fare that was one dollar less than the going rate. For a few minutes people remained uncertain but when the first person finally said, “Count me in,” folks began tripping over each other to claim a seat.
I’d pack five people into the taxi, run the meter and circle through Manhattan dropping of my grateful passengers, most of whom generously tipped me for sparing them a long wait. I was left with one ride to split with management and four more in my pocket. I’d immediately turn on my off duty light and head back to the airport, making the lucrative round trip a half dozen times. I was surprised to never encounter another driver at LaGuardia who’d figured out a similar scheme. When holidays drew to a close, the airport was all mine.
Taxi drivers also had to remain vigilant about fare jumpers. The fleet still took its share of the unpaid ride and cabs weren’t yet equipped with electronic door locks. Shortly after 11 p.m. on a windy November night, I was hailed in Greenwich Village by two men about my age, requesting a ride to 4th Street and 8th Avenue. We arrived at the intersection ten minutes later with $2.45 on the meter.
“Where the hell have you taken us?” shouted one of the passengers as he looked around. “This isn’t where we’re going!”
“You told me 4th Street and 8th Avenue and that’s where we are.”
“We meant 8th Street and 4th Avenue. You should have known that! Take us there now!”
I obliged and we arrived with $5.25 on the meter. One of the men put $2.50 into the cup and opened the door to exit.
“Hey!” I screamed. “Where’s the rest?”
“Fuck you, man!” he responded. “You drove us all around town and we’re not paying for that!”
He had one foot out the door when I hit the gas and accelerated from zero to fifty in two seconds, heading uptown on 6th Avenue while maintaining my speed and going through red lights with the door still open. The horrified protests of the two startled riders were music to my ears. I was searching for a policeman, reasonably certain he’d take my side, but ended up driving until 52nd Street, where one stood outside his car blocking a dangerous pothole.
I leaped out and explained the situation. Most New York patrol cops had a friendly attitude towards taxi drivers as we were all out on the street earning a living and facing similar dangers. He walked to the open rear door and ordered the two shaken men to exit.
“How much is on the meter now?” the policeman asked me.
“$12.75.”
“Pay the man,” he instructed my unwilling passengers.
“Not all of that…he kidnapped us and…”
“Two choices,” the officer interrupted. “Either pay the full fare right now, or spend the night in jail!”
The money was grudgingly handed over moments later. “What about us?” demanded one of the men. “We’re stuck up here and live all the way downtown!”
“That’s not my problem,” answered the cop as he turned his back. There’s much truth to the old street expression you can’t hustle a hustler.
The New York winter descended with its customary brutality and my clientele increased accordingly. Working Christmas and New Years Eve was similar to snow days in that demand far outweighed supply, but without the risk of a skid one might not recover from. I spent the final Sunday night of the two week holiday season at LaGuardia. My savings account was beginning to acquire some substance.
Nineteen-seventy-five began with a new set of rules at taxi garages, essentially putting an end to most off-the-meter rides. Drivers were now expected to bring in at least $60 per shift and maintain a tight ratio between the meter and odometer in order to keep their steady cab. When mileage overly exceeded earnings, it was assumed to be the result of unreported trips. The concession negotiated by the union was that when fares surpassed the minimum requirement, drivers received an extra five percent of the difference.
Giving suspicious-looking people the benefit of the doubt was a short road to annihilation. Whatever one’s values about being a good person, they had to be compartmentalized when red flags went up. A common expression at the garage was cover your own ass Jack, because if you don’t, ain’t no one gonna do it for you.
After spending the customary hour inching my way toward the front in LaGuardia’s taxi lot, anticipating a ride back to Manhattan on a typical Wednesday night, a dispatcher finally waved me forward and another directed me to the terminal of a recently arrived flight. Four poorly dressed young men without luggage opened my rear door. One tried to get in the front but I explained that my door was broken. They were headed to one of the most dangerous housing projects in Bedford Stuyvesant.
I glanced in my rear view as we headed toward the airport exit and none of this felt right. I began probing to confirm my suspicions in the guise of a friendly conversation. “Where y’all coming from?” I asked.
“Miami”
“Were you on vacation?”
“Yes.”
“How long were you there?”
“Two days,”
That said it all. I couldn’t afford a round trip to Miami for only two days and no one goes on vacation without luggage.
I turned onto the Grand Central Parkway sorting through my options. All I knew was that if I pulled into those projects, something very bad awaited me. After driving several miles I suddenly began swerving back and forth between lanes as if struggling to maintain control. “The steering’s all fucked up,” I told them. If we keep going like this were gonna crash. I’m gonna drop you off at a nearby taxi stand and you can consider this part of your trip to be free.”
I pulled off at an exit leading to a large hack stand in Forest Hills and as the four guys departed, knew they’d be in search of a less resourceful victim. But that wasn’t my concern. If a driver didn’t know how to handle the street, he was in the wrong business.
But on occasion, instincts led me in a different direction. After dropping off a passenger on 22nd and Lexington I turned west on 23rd to head back uptown on Park Avenue, passing a location where one usually observed a dozen sex workers. But on this night the street was empty. As I waited at the light to make my right turn, a young black woman came rushing out of a doorway, screaming for me to wait. She got in and told me she was headed to Brooklyn.
We arrived at her building with $9.45 on the meter and she slid a five dollar bill through the partition. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I told her.
“It’s all I’ve got.”
“Gimme a break! You’ve been out there hustling all night and you only have five dollars?”
“I didn’t get to work. Five minutes after I showed up the police raided us and took all the girls away. I managed to slip into a building and waited there for hours.”
I looked into her eyes, saw the fear and exhaustion, and knew she was telling the truth. Besides, hookers with a purse full of cash didn’t quibble over chump change. She no doubt expected me to suggest making up the difference in trade.
“OK,” I said. “I believe you. Take care of yourself out there.”
A month later I returned to the garage at 4 a.m. to see traumatized men standing around a taxi that looked like it had been crushed by King Kong. Blood was liberally splattered across the doors and seat. I learned the driver had been returning from the Lower West Side near the docks when he was cut off by a tractor trailer with Alabama plates. He flipped his middle finger at the trucker who immediately swerved his rig to block all exit routes and got out with a tire iron. The truck driver systematically mangled every square inch of the cab, unlocking doors through shattered windows, and then proceeded to dismantle the driver who was now fighting for his life in an intensive care unit.
It was a “There but for the grace of God” moment for hardcore cabbies who gave someone the finger a dozen times per shift. This could have been any one of us.
By comparison, I had only love for muggers and other assailants compared to rich people who were lousy tippers. I once picked up a businessman at JFK airport which normally generated a minimum tip of two dollars, waited patiently while he disembarked in front of his classy building, and then discovered a handful of loose change in the payment cup, amounting to a sixty-five cent tip. I opened the passenger window, calling out, “Hey you!” and then threw the coins in the man’s face in front of his doorman and neighbors. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” I told him before driving away.
Late one night I was hailed by a woman on the Upper East Side who was going to a bar downtown. She left a meager tip of nickels, dimes and quarters equaling far less than fifteen percent. My passenger was ten feet behind me, walking toward the bar when I got out of the cab and threw the money at her, making the suggestion reserved for these occasions. I glanced in the rear view mirror while returning to traffic and was amused to see the well dressed woman on her hands and knees, reaching under parked cars to retrieve her discarded change.
As the seasons rolled around once more, I became increasingly weary of the grinding tedium that defines ninety percent of taxi driving in a large city. Feeling the need to shut the door on my past and step out into the unknown, I began working twelve hour shifts, including weekends. My goal was to save enough money so that six months later, I could disappear across the ocean for as long as my cache held out.
Every driver’s fantasy was an out-of-town trip, for which the regulations actually required charging twice the meter to compensate for the empty return ride. But it was rarely a dream come true because busses and even airplanes were much cheaper.
During an unseasonably cold night when business was slow, I found myself in Greenwich Village as exhaustion overwhelmed me. A young man with a somewhat disheveled appearance knocked on my driver’s window which I cracked open an inch to hear what he wanted. “Will you take me to Providence Rhode Island?” he asked.
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” I responded.
“No, I’m serious. My car got towed and I have no money with me but my parents will pay you.”
This felt rather dodgy but a very large carrot was being dangled before me. “I’ll tell you what: gimmie your phone number and I’ll call your parents. If they seem legit, I’ll take you.”
Fortunately there was a phone booth on the corner. I called collect and explained the situation to the woman who answered. “Oh my God, you have our boy,” she exclaimed once I’d finished. “We’ve been worried sick about him all night. He has some…well…emotional problems and knows he’s not supposed to run off like this, but he took my car and…”
“I don’t mean to be rude” I interjected, “but we have to discuss the cost. It’s double the meter for out-of-town trips and this is going to be very expensive.”
“I don’t care about the money. Just bring our boy home.”
I was clearly talking to an overly-distraught, upper middle class suburban mother. A criminal who was sufficiently talented to mimic that personality type wouldn’t be running small time street hustles. My next call was to notify the dispatcher who simply replied, “Good luck.”
I returned to my taxi and agreed to let my new passenger ride up front. As we headed toward the FDR Drive, I asked him on impulse, “When’s the last time you ate?”
“I don’t know…guess when I had breakfast this morning.”
I made a slight detour, told the young man to wait as I entered an all night diner and returned bringing him two burgers and fries.
We were just past the city limits and approaching the Tappan Zee Bridge when my passenger turned to me and asked, “Did you ever wonder what would happen if you died on this trip? I mean…you’d just disappear. No one would ever have any idea where you were or what happened.”
I didn’t respond because my mind was racing. This had felt a bit surreal from the beginning and here was the red flag suddenly flying in my face. I could simply object to the implied threat and take him back to the city with only an hour lost. But the gambler in me had to play out the hand.
I envisioned every possible scenario as we crossed the bridge. If the guy reached out and attacked from one angle, my first move would be an elbow in his solar plexus. If he tried a different approach, I’d back-fist him in the face.
Following an hour of silence as we continued north I stopped for gas and glancing to the right, saw that the passenger had fallen asleep. My strategy had revealed itself. I kept the cab running with the heat on high while filling the tank, closed the door very quietly and gently turned back onto I-95. I nurtured his sleep like one would a baby, driving for hours with the radio off and dripping sweat from the toasty-warm enclosure. If successful, when I had to awaken him for directions once we finally reached Providence, the strange young man would be disoriented and whatever he had in mind, I’d have an edge.
It all played out exactly as planned except that, once aroused upon hitting downtown Providence, all he wanted was to get home and articulately provided directions to a large house in an affluent neighborhood. His mother greeted us at the door and invited me to sit with her in the dining room as the young man headed straight for bed. She offered me breakfast and I remained in her company for another hour while she explained her son’s mental illness and assured me that while extremely dysfunctional, he wasn’t dangerous. I refrained from sharing his earlier remarks. Double the meter came to $335 and the woman, casually reaching into her purse, handed me four hundred dollar bills while profusely thanking me for being the gallant knight who’d returned her little boy.
But the adventure wasn’t over yet. I stepped outside into a torrential downpour that I had to drive through in a state of utter sleep deprivation for the next several hours, avoiding every potential skid, shaking my head back and forth to stay awake, and eventually walked into the garage at midday. Harry Foreman came out of his office to greet me. “If I’d known you were going to Rhode Island I wouldn’t have approved it,” he said, “but all’s well. Glad you made it back in one piece. Take the night off and come back tomorrow.”
Several months later, my pocket stuffed with traveler’s checks, I boarded a taxi to Kennedy Airport, this time as a passenger, and then got on a plane.
Many years later I was delighted to learn that every member of the New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission had been indicted for corruption.
Phil Cohen spent 30 years in the field as Special Projects Coordinator for Workers United/SEIU, and specialized in defeating professional union busters. He’s the author of Fighting Union Busters in a Carolina Carpet Mill and The Jackson Project: War in the American Workplace.