Editor’s Note: This is Part Two of Phil’s three-part saga about his days driving an illegal taxi [otherwise known as a “gypsy cab”] on the streets of New York City back in the late 1960s when he was still just a teen. Part One is here.

PART II:  There’s Always Action in Jamaica

The Lower East Side began at 3rd Avenue and 14th Street, becoming progressively more dangerous as it approached the East River. Once you hit Alphabet City the transition accelerated. Avenue D bordered the river.

For a month Irene and I lived off my savings and tried to salvage our relationship. One night, strolling down Avenue A, we were approached by a man who invited us to “a big neighborhood party.” He said it was in a tenement on 7th Street at the corner of Avenue D and gave us the apartment number.

“This sounds like fun!” exclaimed Irene. “Let’s go!”

“It’s a setup,” I told her. “Look at the location...and why the hell would he invite us?”

“You’re just being paranoid. I’m going. You can come or not.” I accompanied Irene as she strode to 7th Street and turned east, failing in my efforts to reason with her. I was certain if we walked through that apartment door we wouldn’t be coming out.  I was infuriated by my girlfriend’s obstinate naivety, but couldn’t abandon her as she went like a lamb to the slaughter. “I survived driving gypsy cabs only to die behind this bullshit,” I thought to myself.

We entered the front door of a dilapidated building on Avenue D and ascended three narrow flights of stairs. We arrived at a final, short staircase leading to a small landing with one apartment off to the left. We climbed the stairs and stopped in front of a faded green door.

“Do you hear any music?” I asked Irene. “Do you smell pot coming through the door? Don’t you think we would it there was a party going on inside?”

Irene reflected on this and finally said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

A week later I was down to my last $20, went to the bank, and discovered Irene had emptied the account. I couldn’t bear the thought of menial labor, having already been there. Big Mike hung up on me after thirty seconds, no longer interested in a man who disappeared for a month after returning his cab without payment.

Within a few days I found a small fleet in South Jamaica, occupying a storefront with taxis parked on the street. The drivers, dispatchers and owners were a close-knit group. The office resembled a clubhouse, with a soda machine, pool table, television, and even a couple of beds where one could grab some sleep. Proceeds were split 50/50 and drivers had to buy their own gas, so I was back to earning $25 per night, but the friendly atmosphere and lack of pressure made up for it.

I roamed Jamaica at night in old green cabs without meters. There was only modest radio traffic but it was relatively safe, as the company had a regular clientele. I supplemented this by hustling rides on the street and at the Long Island Railroad station on Sutphin Boulevard. I’d call the dispatcher to inquire about the fare, make one up, or just tell passengers to pay me whatever they wanted, which often resulted in more than the standard charge. I kept a few trips off the books but that was expected and part of the game.

The taxi stand was a relaxing place to unwind when I was tired of driving and it made no difference that I was the only white face in the crowd. If anything, I was respected for being there and accepting the added risks of my unique situation.

One night, I got a flat beneath a long overpass on a back street. The old taxi floundered as I attempted to exit, while the resident street gang pounded on the vehicle and shouted insults. The tire was completely blown and I wobbled twenty yards further before stopping to avoid destroying the wheel. I checked my rear view mirror and noted the fifteen young men hadn’t changed location but were all looking in my direction. My only option was to open the trunk for the spare tire and pray I survived its installation. I looked inside and to my enormous relief, the jack was missing. It meant I could call for assistance. I sat in the driver’s seat with doors locked for ten minutes until the dispatcher arrived with a jack. As he walked back to his vehicle I asked, “Do you think you could stick around while I change the tire? Those guys are gonna kill me if I’m out here alone.” He glanced over his shoulder and replied, “I hear you, man. No problem.”

Irene and I finally reached the breaking point and I moved to an apartment in Flushing, Queens, recently occupied by friends who were happy to have another person split the rent. It quickly became the nexus for wild parties in our neighborhood, as most people our age still lived at home. College bound guests dropped acid while street gang members preferred crystal meth and heroin. Hardly anyone ever noticed I never consumed more than a few drinks. I valued my edge and clarity above all else and didn’t care to pickle my brain with chemicals. But I still enjoyed myself, surrounded by naked, stoned-out hippie girls, who believed the boys from the Apartment redefined cool.

On a pleasant evening, beneath the elevated subway on Jamaica Avenue, I picked up an elderly Irish drunk, headed out of the city to Long Island. Upon learning I was unfamiliar with the route, he became irritated and began to exit. I saw a substantial fare slipping away and promised to get directions from the dispatcher. But beneath the tracks, all I could hear was static. “I’m getting another cab!” he shouted. Before he could reach for the door I made a sharp right at the corner, assuring him of better reception. I grabbed the radio as I drove but something made me look over my shoulder. The man was leaning forward with a long butcher knife poised above my back, a demented leer on his face.

“This is the last ride you’ll ever make!” he declared as I shoved the gears into park, jumped out the front door, wrapped my garrison belt around my fist with the buckle dangling and screamed, “Get the fuck out of this cab!” He departed and walked back toward the avenue. The transmission was destroyed in the process and I notified the dispatcher.

Back at the office I explained what happened to one of the owners, a former driver named Al. He wasn’t upset about the car but was disappointed I didn’t force the passenger to pay a couple of dollars for my time. “What was I gonna do?” I asked, “beat the shit out of an old man?”

“If someone’d taught him when he was younger, he would’a known better by now,” replied Al. “If he ain’t had an ass kickin’ when he was young, he’s got an ass kickin’ coming to him now.”

In the spirit of fatherly advice, he shared a story about a man he’d picked up in Brooklyn who asked him to wait by his apartment building while going upstairs for money. Sensing what was coming, Al waited by the back exit holding a “lead pipe with tape wrapped around the handle.” He shattered the man’s knee cap, took his wallet, counted out the exact fare and threw the rest back in his face.

As much as I appreciated the camaraderie at the stand, I was becoming weary of low hourly earnings, further impacted by frequent breakdowns. Most of the old taxis were discards from medallion fleets, with several hundred thousand miles already on the odometer at the time of purchase. One night while driving around, I spotted a yellow. metered gypsy with a “Drivers Wanted” sign on the door and a phone number.

The garage was located in East New York, the Brooklyn neighborhood situated between Queens and Bedford-Stuyvesant. I walked through a parking lot strewn with dilapidated cabs, amounting to a parts department for usable vehicles. I was surprised upon entering the office to learn the fleet was owned and managed by a middle-aged white man named Irv.

“Come on Phil, what’s a kid like you doing driving gypsy cabs?” he asked. “Be honest with me. What are you addicted to?” It was a ludicrous interrogation, considering I was probably the most sober street kid in New York. Despite my responses, he remained convinced I was a junkie, but I nonetheless managed to talk myself into a job.

The next morning, I hit the streets in a reasonably new yellow cab with a meter, virtually indistinguishable from legitimate taxis. The rent was only $12 per day and returning with a full tank of gas. It seemed like a gypsy driver’s dream come true.

I’d leave the garage at 7am, picking up fares in East New York and Bedford-Stuyvesant until making my way to Flatbush Avenue and over the Manhattan Bridge to pass as a legitimate taxi. I also discovered mace—the best street weapon other than guns. It offers the element of surprise and doesn’t require close contact to neutralize an assailant.

Driving around the muggy summer streets, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, arm dangling out the front window, I was pulling in $50 per day, good money for a working guy at the time. Occasionally, I’d visit Irene on the Lower East Side. We’d talk and argue for awhile, and then I’d throw her down on the bed. The hot, lusty debauchery shared with the woman I once loved was far more exciting than any of The Apartment girls.

I became acquainted with a gang of junkies who hung out on tenement steps across from the garage. I passed the time with them while my car was being serviced and learned two interesting things about Irv. Both of his sons were recovering heroin addicts. He was also a regular customer of the group’s stolen merchandise. However, spending time with them only served to validate the hypocrite’s impression of me.

Irv continued to lecture me about my presumed addiction whenever we crossed paths. One morning, I walked into the garage and discovered my regular cab had been given to someone else. In its place the fleet began assigning me beat up black and gold vehicles that could barely pass as automobiles, let alone medallion taxis. So I resigned myself to working Brooklyn and Jamaica. I was certain the mechanics knew some of the cars weren’t road-worthy.

One morning, with a lady in the back seat, I hit a pot hole and the drivers-side rear wheel fell off. When I returned to work the next morning, Irv made me pay rent for the previous day. I resigned and spent my savings traveling up and down the East Coast for a month.

PART III: In Debt to the Mafia