The female cop looked at me as I was looking at her. The expression on my face said, ‘I am enduring the torture of serving in a professional capacity two animals who don’t have the decency to care how their actions are affecting other people.’
I rolled down my window. She rolled down hers.
‘Is this legal?’ I asked, the tone of my voice implying that it would be great if she could find a way to bring a little justice to the situation.
She was right on it. She picked up her microphone (all police cars in New York have sound systems) and, with a big smile on her face, went to work.
‘Hey, you back there in the taxi!’ her voice boomed, ‘What are you doing back there?’
My passengers remained oblivious to the proclamation and continued humping on each other. People on the street, however, had begun to take notice.
‘Hey, no sex in taxis!’
Now everyone within earshot was staring at them and beginning to enjoy the show.
‘Hey, you, lady in the taxi – get off of that guy right now!’
The girl looked up. Suddenly realizing that she was making the day of about a dozen people on the street and, worse, was under direct orders from the police to cease copulation, she dismounted in horror.
‘That’s better! Now behave yourselves!’
There were still about ten seconds left before the light turned green. People near the intersection were laughing and one man actually began to applaud. It must have seemed like an hour to my passengers before that light finally turned green and they escaped from the scene of their public humiliation. And, you know, that little jaunt up to 24th and 2nd turned out to be as calm and sober as a ride to church on a Sunday morning with the minister and his missus.
Funny how passion can turn on and then suddenly disappear, isn’t it? Go figure.
Awkward, defined
I was driving down Perry Street in Greenwich Village one evening when a pretty, blonde-haired twenty-something darted from the sidewalk and hailed me with what I noticed was an above-average determination. Most people just raise their hand and get in. This one was different – she had an agenda.
‘Could you wait here for a minute?’ she asked.
No problem. I pulled the cab into an open space near the curb and started the meter as my passenger-to-be returned to a townhouse and called out to someone. A second blonde emerged from the residence and was escorted to the cab by the first blonde. There was a brief conversation between the two of them and then, to my surprise, the front right door opened and the second blonde was ushered in beside me by her friend, who then walked back toward the townhouse.
‘You’re going to sit up here?’ I asked the second blonde.
‘I guess so,’ she said in what might have been an Eastern European accent. She seemed a bit confused.
I knew something was up. This never happens.
After a few more moments Blonde Number One, who turned out to be an American, returned, but she was not alone. She had with her a good-looking guy – dark hair, about thirty years old. They jumped into the back seat and sat together the way lovers always do – no distance between them and their eyes locked into each other.
‘We’re going to Brooklyn,’ the female voice from the back said. ‘Seeley Street,’ said the guy, ‘take the Prospect to the 10th Avenue exit.’
I drove down Perry Street to 7th Avenue South and made a right.
‘Do you want the Brooklyn Bridge or the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel?’ I asked.
‘Whatever’s faster,’ the female voice said.
‘The tunnel’s faster but there’s a four-dollar toll. Is that okay with you?’
No answer. The couple in the back seat had already reached the point of defining everything but themselves as the outside world and shutting it off. Which is to say, they were kissing, fondling, and doing whatever with significant energy. I started driving toward the tunnel.
I knew immediately that I had entered a twilight zone of human behavior. It’s one thing to have passengers groping each other in the back seat. But to have passengers groping each other in the back seat while a pretty girl sits next to me in the front seat in what was going to be a long ride… now that is quite another thing. I tried to think of something to say to her to fend off what I sensed could become the mother of all awkward situations.
‘Where are you from?’ I asked.
‘Estonia,’ she said, in that accent.
‘Estonia… Estonia… I know that’s somewhere. Where is that?’
‘Near it is to Finland.’
‘Ohhhh… it was part of the Soviet Union?’
‘Yes.’
Well, I felt I was getting somewhere. I could talk to her about what life was like in Estonia and what had changed since the breakup of the Soviet Union; we could chat about New York City; hey, we could even talk about Finland. Her friends in the back seat would settle down and the two of us up here could have a polite little conversation all the way to Brooklyn.
Yeah, right.
What happened next was the equivalent in the taxi world of being slapped in the face. Blonde Number One disengaged herself momentarily from her stud, reached forward, and slammed the partition window closed. This is a major faux pas as far as the driver is concerned as the partition is there for his protection, not for the privacy of the passengers – not that a closed partition window really offers any privacy, anyway. Under the circumstances, however, I thought it was perhaps not a bad idea and I decided to ignore the insult and attempt to continue the conversation with Estonia.
‘Uh, so how long have you been in the United States?’
‘A year and one half.’
‘All the time in New York City?’
‘For mostly, yes.’
‘Do you like New York?’
‘Yes, it is wonderful city, exciting city.’
We were approaching West Street, the major thoroughfare that leads to the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel. The activity in the back seat had calmed down just a bit and could, with some liberal thinking, be accepted as just a couple of crazy kids showing affection for one another. They laughed and chattered and pecked at each other like two canaries in a cage. It was kind of cute in its way and it allowed the bland conversation in the front seat to continue. Block by block I was learning more about life in the post-Soviet Estonia. It was starting to sound like a place I might want to visit someday.
And then we entered the tunnel.
Apparently this is what they’d been waiting for – the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel of Love. Blonde Number One immediately got herself on top of The Stud and went at him. Not in the more discreet taxicab position but flat out across the seat. Their thumping and bumping could be felt through the floorboard and her encouraging cries of ‘Yeah baby that’s it yeah baby oh yeah that’s it baby!’ could be heard quite distinctly up front. There could be no ignoring it: the canaries were fucking and they were fucking hard.
I glanced meekly to my right. Estonia’s eyes were staring down at the area around her feet in a complete non-confront of the situation. Her problem wasn’t only her selfish friend in the back seat. Her problem was me. And my problem was her.
When two people