Welcome to Club Services'

It must have been the great copper summer of 1972. I took my beautiful burnished Dodge out of the Terminal Garage, on 12th Ave. Hack License in the holder, I turned East on 57th Street ... a busy but pretty sure way to get that icebreaker.

It was early evening. The sun was bathing the rear window. I was laying stuff out: The changer, the clipboard with the trip sheet... a pencil. I started in the right lane, but moved around a bus to the middle of the six lane two way Blvd. across the middle of Manhattan called 57th Street.

On West 57th ... about half a block from crossing 9th Ave... I thought I saw the movement of a potential fare. I could not read an eye chart, but the vision test I remember was limited to knowing when the light was red, green or yellow. Raise your hands when it's yellow. Maybe.

Later, I carried a front seat buddy ... (2nd Wife ... Jeanette) ... on trips ... to point out fares. "There's one!" She'd say ...
and I'd have to respond with ..."Where?"
And she'd say ... "There!"
"There?"
"You just passed him!"

As a driver I learned how fares could best catch a cab from anywhere to anywhere. I remember one time a guy strode off the curb with big Ichabod Crane kind of kicks and waving his arms like a train was coming.

I liked it like that. Another good technique is to find a hack line. If one driver doesn't want to go to Brooklyn, for example, the next one may well be over joyed to get a call for Brooklyn.

On this evening, I got caught out between a city bus and I don't know . I wanted what I thought was a fare. The bus was just ahead of me now ... on the right ... pulling away from the curb where I wanted to be, and he was coming into my lane ... as if to ward me away or shield me from this movement that could have been a fare.
And he kept coming.

I had the choice of darting into West bound traffic, across the double yellow line ... but I didn't see well enough to cross double yellow lines; I could have come to a stop and let the bus go. I should have done that.

Instead I kept going. In my lane. And the bus driver felt like it should be his lane. Even if his vehicle was slower and had no right to just take my lane.

And he kept coming.

So I hit him. With the side of the cab. Fair and square.

He kept coming.

I hit him again. Fair and square.

He kept coming.

I stopped.

The bellowing bus waddled on. Taking possession.

At a subsequent light, I sat waiting for the green, as the Hack Bureau specified, and the bus pulled up behind me. The driver tapped a beep at me. I saw him make a motion for a clipboard and writing.

His bus had no damage that I could see. I didn't know ... or didn't dare to know the condition of my quick shiny Dodge.

I shook him off ... Naw ... I was saying. The bus driver sported that thick seal brush mustachios so nice He shrugged. OK with you OK with me. He was saying.

I took off for the 59th Street Bridge and the airport. JFK. I didn't want to look. I didn't want to see.
On the hack line at TWA, the back hack line ... more like an active parking lot ... some drivers played gin rummy and didn't really drive at all ... there I pulled up, switched off, and went around to take a look.

She had no features. She was oily black and her pretty yellow paint only showed through in streaky patches. There were no door handles. She was totally flattened and blackened.

I walked to one of the gin rummy cars. Sometimes I'd seen them with a beach umbrella and a cooler. They weren't exactly there to fight over fares. I'd asked to play before, but they'd declined ... refused ... the reason ... friendly enough ... was that they played very seriously. For money.

"I play seriously," I'd said.

"Do you count the cards?"

"I try to count the cards."

"That's what we mean. We can't let you play in these games. It wouldn't be right."

So there was a bond? A respect?

A history of interaction.

I asked them now to come and see the flat taxi.

Advise me of ... The Way

Two or three came over. One hung back and looked. The hanging back one said, "Just tell them you parked, went for a sandwich or something ... and when you came back ... it was like that.

Perfect. Simple. I nodded my thanks and we all turned to go.

But wait a minute ... the damage was to the right side of the car. How could I park for a sandwich and get a thing like this on the curb side?

I took the toothpick out of my mouth and ran after them. "Hey!" I called.

They sensed me coming. Slowed up a little ... I felt their ears cocked back at me, like friendly antennae.

The "dent" is on the right!" I said ... coming up.

The hanging back one waved his hand in the air without even turning around. One hand hung in his loose pants pocket. Strolling. He reminded me of Frank Sinatra.

"Tell them it was a one way street ..." he said ... turning a little.

"Oh... thanks ..." I appreciated the common sense, knowing that it was ... until this moment of sharing ... but a loan.

Passing it on can be the right thing to do.

I took the cab back to the garage. I told the dispatcher I wanted to switch cabs, because of the accident.

They gave me another number. When I went out to the lot to pick up the replacement cab, I saw them refueling the one I'd just bought in. She had another driver, and she was going right back out.

My story was prepared ... but told only to me .... an now, unto you.

OUR ADDRESS: Club Services
Wheeling, West Virginia 26003
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