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It was the summer of 1971. One 26 year old was driving a New York City Taxi. His purpose was to have fun and make money. He enjoyed driving and specialized in working the night line, where traffic was relatively light. He used to come on around 5 PM and knock off any time from around 4:30 to 6 the next morning.

One beautiful New York summer afternoon, he had just discharged his ice breaker (the first trip of the day), and was sitting by the curb at the corner of 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue, just before Broadway. With the meter flag up, he knew the roof light was on, so he took his time putting notes on the trip sheet. By blowing a light, he maximized the good chance a fare would snatch the cab with no extra work on his or the taxi's part.

Sure enough, while he was still writing, and before the light had a chance to change a second time, the passenger door opened and a fare plopped himself on the rear seat.

He knew better than to drop the flag before exchanging "How do you do s?" because every once in a while, a fare changes his or her mind and then you are left with a flag drop you have to pay the company more than 50 percent for. These can mount up. As the driver, the first order of business has to be to see what you are dealing with.

When he turned in his seat, he was alarmed to realize he had a drunk in the cab. "Hi," our driver said into the holes in the Plexiglas between them..

The drunk appeared to be deciding if he would throw up or pass out. He emitted a long, powerful burp that hung in the air like green flammable fog. Then he giggled.

This was real trouble. As our young driver saw things, he could get out, walk around and pull the guy from the cab, which would clear him for more business, or he could play psychologist, and just try to reason this person into some kind of viable platform of communication.

"Where to?" Gently prodding By pretending everything was fine he was trying to induce the passenger to react in the rhythm of normal routine. He was just hoping his fare would not vomit.

"Whaaaa?" This response was not a good sign.

"Where to?"

The drunk sat up and looked around as if he did not know how he had arrived in the back of a taxi on this early summer evening in New York City at the corner of 42nd Street and Broadway. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Hi," our driver said again.

The drunk focused on the driver as if he was seeing him for the first time. "Times Square!" he blurted. "And be quick about it."

The driver turned around in his seat and looked through the windshield at his beloved, throbbing city. The light was about to change again. Broadway and 42nd Street is Times Square. People, cars, trucks and busses were every where. Theater lights were just coming on for blocks around.

Very deliberately then, he dropped the flag. The clock, loud as a cartoon bomb, started ticking. The drunk fell back in his chair as if he was ready to be hauled up that first chain pulled incline on a roller coaster.

When the light changed, he let the cab roll on across from the South West Corner to the South East Corner. It took only a few moments of course. He braked smoothly and raised the flag. The clock stopped with little more than the drop rate on it. "Times Square!" the driver sang loudly, like a train conductor.

"Huh?" The drunk sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Ya sure?"

For a reply, the driver tapped the meter with his pencil eraser and began to write on the trip sheet. He recorded the beginning and ending locations, the digits from the smaller start and stop windows below, the time of day, the rate charged ... each done with a visually loud, silent flash of finality.

The drunk said, "That wash fasssshh ..." He pulled out his wallet. "And cheap too!" He paid and staggered forth leaving the door ajar.

With a sigh of relief, our driver stretched out, pulled the door to, and took off with the sun at his back.

Headed for the airport. Let the day begin.

Deciding Principle: Aristotle's Golden Mean: "Moral virtue is the appropriate location between two extremes." The goal was to get the drunk out of the cab so our driver could continue to do business. The tactic of pulling him out by force would have accomplished that purpose, but too harshly and with the possibility of concomitant excessive repercussion.

Reasoning with the man would have been oxymoronic. He was drunk. Logic is for the logical. The solution turned out to be right in the middle: Driving carefully so the passenger would not be disturbed. His request was satisfied. All needs were met without out excess or deficiency.

New York City Cab Drivers drive backwards better than the average person drives forwards. They have the experience of constant negotiation. New York City Cab Drivers represent the very epitome of practicality in dialog and mission.

For a N.Y.C. Cab Driver to get his own Medallion as opposed to driving for a big company, is equivalent to buying and running a Bodaga or Deli. It is an investment that is big and risky. It is an endeavor that guarantees a lifetime of very hard practically thankless work.

Shortly after the Broadway incident related above, on a hack line at the American Airlines LaGaurdia Terminal one time, one of those very independent drivers was showing off his new Checker Cab. Our driver was watching a demonstration of how quickly air-conditioning took the fog from the windows of the big bright new Checker.

By contrast, in the quick little company Dodges driven by our driver, when it rained, the only way you could defog the windshield was by putting some heat in the defroster. On a hot night, that process was always simply miserable.

"That's what I want to do," our driver told the independent.

"What? Get a Checker?" The veteran cabbie asked.

"Yeah, but really, I want to get a Medallion," our driver responded.

"Kid, forget about it. Your back will hurt, you'll be in debt, there will be days when you won't want to go in ..."

Our driver listened and heeded. Real New York City Cab Drivers do know what they are talking about. They are honest, and in life, they drive their Yellow Cabs right down the middle of Aristotle's Golden Mean:

Perpetually headed for the airport, they are yet never among those left off; those who are actually on their way to the sky.

OUR ADDRESS: Club Services
Wheeling, West Virginia 26003
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