Phil Cohen War Stories: On the Right Side of the Law…Almost
The New York City Taxi Driver’s Union had been organized in 1966 and Harry had been an activist during the bitter struggle leading to its formation. Part of the sweetheart arrangement ultimately arrived at by the parties was that all the local union leaders were promoted to management, leaving the newly-certified Local 3036 without any backbone or teeth.
War Stories By Phil Cohen
Editor’s Note: This is Part I of Phil’s three-part saga returning to his wild days driving a cab on the streets of NYC in the early 1970s.
The truth is that life is hard and dangerous…. joy is only for him who does not fear to be alone; life is only for the one who is not afraid to die - Joyce Cary
During the fall of 1973, I was paying the rent by writing stories for second-string magazines and handing out flyers for an abortion clinic on 42nd Street. The latter was a strange job but allowed me to return home to my Flushing Queens apartment without feeling stressed or exhausted. This was the first time in several years when danger and confrontation weren’t part of my daily life, other than occasional outbursts from religious zealots, but I was sick of living month-to-month.
Reading the newspaper one evening I came across a story about how the New York City Police Department was converting from a hard-copy to computerized filing system and that numerous outstanding citations were getting lost in the process. I wondered how this might impact the numerous arrest warrants for administrative code violations still hanging over my head from the year spent driving illegal gypsy cabs, making it impossible to renew my driver’s license or risk a background check. The option of earning a decent living driving legitimate taxis had remained out-of-reach.
I leafed through the Yellow Pages, found an attorney who felt right and scheduled an appointment, during which I learned that two-thirds of my outlaw past had vanished into cyber space. Seven hundred dollars to cover legal expenses and negotiated fines would transform me into a citizen with a clean record.
Of course I didn’t have that kind of money but established a good rapport with the lawyer who agreed to a one-hundred dollar deposit, followed by installments once I was hired by a taxi fleet.
Six weeks later I applied for my hack license, which amounted to passing a written test documenting a crude understanding of New York landmarks and driving regulations. I was surrounded by several dozen other people sitting at classroom-style desks and doing the same, while a woman patrolled the room looking over our shoulders and offering corrected answers. The truth is that the city was desperate for more taxi drivers.
Shortly thereafter, I walked through the door of a taxi garage in Long Island City, Queens and presented my newly-acquired credentials to a dispatcher standing behind a waist-high wall separating the drivers’ lounge from management. The attorney’s level of trust in me had been less magnanimous than it sounds. Anyone showing up at a fleet waving a hack license was guaranteed a job. There were always more cabs available than people crazy enough to drive them longer than a few months.
The garage foreman entered a door from the maintenance area and directed me to his office. We took seats on opposite sides of his desk and he introduced himself as Harry Foreman. This isn’t an attempt at literary frivolity. That was really the guy’s name—talk about someone whose destiny had been prearranged before birth.
The New York City Taxi Driver’s Union had been organized in 1966 and Harry had been an activist during the bitter struggle leading to its formation. Part of the sweetheart arrangement ultimately arrived at by the parties was that all the local union leaders were promoted to management, leaving the newly-certified Local 3036 without any backbone or teeth. But at the time I was yet to learn about this.
Harry handed me a union card which I was very excited to sign, having always been deeply inspired by the labor movement. I was instructed to report to an office in Manhattan three days later for union orientation. That was it; no interview and we’ll get back with you. I had a valid hack license and the balls to use it.
I was looking forward to attending my first union meeting and hearing what the representatives had to say as I took my seat in a crowded room later that week. Two men wearing suits entered, set up a motion picture projector, and strode to the podium up front. For two hours we listened to them babble on about never taking rides off the meter, correctly filling out trip sheets and handing in all earnings (other than tips) to the dispatcher when our shift ended. As if the point hadn’t been sufficiently made, the presentation included a film with the same message. There was no discussion of our rights, fair treatment, or representation. I left feeling disillusioned, realizing this was a corrupt union in bed with fleet owners.
I called the garage and asked when to report and was gruffly told, “Whenever you’re ready…hold on…I gotta go.” I preferred night shift and made my appearance before the dispatcher at 2pm the next day and was instructed to hand over my hack license.
“When do I get a car?” I asked.
“You gotta shape up until you get a steady cab.”
“No offence, but what does that mean?”
“It means,” he responded with annoyance as if the answer was obvious, “that I put your license at the bottom of this here stack and after everyone ahead of you gets a car, the next available one is yours.”
Three hours later the dispatcher finally called my name and told me the taxi sitting at a gas pump outside was mine. “Next time, if you want to catch all of rush hour, I suggest you show up earlier.” But it felt good to be sitting behind the wheel of a legitimate taxi, no longer an outlaw and about to start earning some real money. The yellow Dodge wasn’t new but in decent condition and I was soon crossing the 59th Street Bridge into Manhattan.
I returned to the garage at 4 a.m. with $51 in fares which I handed to the dispatcher along with my trip sheet. The $8 in tips was mine to take home. The money on the meter was supposed to be evenly split between the driver and fleet, so I asked where my half was.
“You get paid by check at the end of the week, minus taxes of course.”
“When should I show up again?” I asked.
“That’s up to you. Come when you want, hand in your card and shape up. All we ask is you return with an undamaged vehicle and at least $40. But before you leave, wait until your car is gassed up and find a space in the parking lot under the bridge.”
It was remarkable to have a job with flexible report times and no fixed schedule. I pulled my cab into the unlit lot under the 59th Street Bridge, began walking to the subway station half a mile away, and had my first look at the neighborhood at night. Now a flourishing, gentrified community, during the 1970’s, Long Island City was a dimly-lit industrial wasteland of garages, small factories and tenement buildings. Looming behind the parking lot and bordering the East River was a large housing project with a reputation for crime and violence.
One side of Queens Boulevard was lined with bars, some with a few shady characters standing outside near the door. The other side was deserted and a large traffic island separated cars headed either toward or away from the bridge. I realized from experience that every set of eyes understood that someone walking from the taxi parking lot toward the subway was a driver carrying money. With one hand in a jacket pocket holding a can of mace, I kept my wits about me and made it to the station without incident.
It took forty-five minutes for the train to arrive and following a half hour ride, I waited nearly an hour in the cold for a bus to my neighborhood. The sun was rising when I finally entered my apartment building.
During the next couple of weeks I developed a routine, presenting my hack license to the dispatcher at 1pm, walking around the corner to have breakfast at a small diner, and then returning to the driver’s lounge. While waiting for a car, I began getting a sense of my coworkers. Demographically, about two-thirds were white and the rest primarily black. The majority of the whites were veteran drivers with ten to twenty years behind the wheel and personalities that reminded me of Archie Bunker. There were also a number of college kids who thought driving cabs would provide easy money with a schedule that could be wrapped around their studies. The street had some big surprises waiting for them.
When I reviewed my first full week’s paycheck, I was surprised to see a meaningful percentage deducted for insurance premiums. I approached the dispatcher, an even-tempered man in his fifties, always clad in a sports jacket without a tie, to inquire.
“That’s for the Health and Welfare Fund,” he told me.
“When do I get to sign up for medical benefits? No one ever spoke to me about this.”
“You don’t get health insurance unless you’re assigned a steady car. Until then, you’re considered part time, no matter how many hours you work.”
“How the hell can I be forced to pay for a benefit I don’t receive?” I asked, trying to suppress my anger.
“Don’t ask me. Talk to the union. It’s part of the contract.”
I was initially all ears when approached by a young driver named Albert who said he belonged to a movement within the union called the Taxi Rank-and-File Coalition that was pushing for a major overhaul within the local. We were on the same page when it came to ways we felt sold-out by the current leadership, including the lack of a union rep who visited the shop and a grievance process to address day-to-day issues. There was a rule that all fares had to be deposited in a safe located on the floor to which only management had a key. Nobody used it. Even naïve college students understood that failing to pay off a mugger was the most certain way to get one’s throat cut. But when a driver was robbed, he was not only reprimanded for not using the safe but also required to reimburse the employer’s share of the meter out of his next check. It amounted to working two days for nothing.
Albert handed me a newsletter explaining the dissidents’ strategy to remedy these issues: The Coalition would force all fleets to sign over ownership of their business to the workers, who would then run it as a socialist collective. There were no thoughts about how this might actually be accomplished.
“This is the most unrealistic bullshit I ever read in my life,” I told him. “What’s your plan for getting multi-million dollar fleets to just hand over everything and walk away?”
“You’ve got to have faith, brother,” he responded. “We’re all down for the struggle and the workers will prevail.”
I quickly grew to loathe Albert and his cohorts as much as the old timers. While there may have been differences between us regarding social and political values, we all understood the real world and despised intellectuals with big mouths promulgating idiotic fantasies.
My experiences didn’t arouse anti-union sentiments in me and I acknowledged we were at least getting a larger share of the meter as the result of our contract. I was sufficiently pragmatic to realize that even a half-assed union was better than no union.
Hanging out in the driver’s lounge I began developing relationships with senior drivers and was schooled in tricks of the trade for lining one’s pockets at the employer’s expense. The existing union structure had no viable challengers but there were ways a man out on the streets alone could take matters into his own hands.
The most basic strategy involved taking rides off the meter and getting away with it. It meant the driver could keep the entire fare and not even pay taxes. The challenge was avoiding hack inspectors, bounty hunters employed by the Taxi and Limousine Commission, prowling the streets in unmarked vehicles, searching for occupied taxis not running the meter. This was easily distinguished because the roof light displaying the cab’s registration number went off when the meter was thrown. They issued hundred dollar fine citations and were paid a cut for each bust.
But every bureaucracy has a loophole. Holding the ignition key at a certain angle shut the top light, giving the appearance of a taxi running the meter. My income began receiving a steady infusion, more than compensating for any inequities. When consenting passengers inquired about the fare, I’d reply, “whatever you think it’s worth,” and was usually paid more than the meter would have run along with a good tip. The difference between working people in New York City and those in more rural communities is we know when we’re being screwed and find a way to even the score.
The weeks passed and one night at 8 p.m. I was initiated into the other side of the game. A businessman boarded my cab on Third Avenue and 52nd Street and barraged me with inane chatter as I began aggressively navigating through heavy traffic. Momentarily overwhelmed by sensory overload, I forgot to throw the meter. I always reserved undocumented rides for later at night through less populated areas. After travelling six blocks I realized my mistake and engaged the meter. A minute later as I waited at a light, a car halted beside me and the driver shouted at me to pull over, waving a large sign reading Taxi Inspector. I knew he wasn’t officially a member of law enforcement and had no legal right to stop me, but was also certain he’d already taken down the cab’s registration number. Besides, I’d turned on the meter before being aware of his presence, documenting my good intentions after a moment of confusion.
“So, you admit you were driving the taxi for six blocks with the meter off,” said the bounty hunter who preyed on the livelihood of others. “You were violating the law during that time.”
I was issued a citation ordering a morning appearance before the Taxi and Limousine Commission two weeks later. When the day came, I hoped the hearing officer, a professional appointed by the city, would be more reasonable than his minion, but he had no interest in my explanation and fined me a hundred dollars. “Now I know what a kangaroo court is” I thought while waiting in line to pay.
At the elevator, I encountered a man who’d been ahead of me at the payment window and inquired about his experience. “I had an argument with a passenger and he filed a complaint with the Commission and actually showed up at my hearing,” he answered. “So, after listening to both sides, the man behind the desk rules in my favor, saying I hadn’t broken any laws by expressing my opinion. The passenger then says for the first time, ‘but he also said fuck you.’
‘Well, that’s a different matter’ says the hearing officer and fines me $100. I swear before God I never cussed the guy out.”
Cabbies called before the Taxi and Limousine Commission were considered guilty unless proven otherwise. The rules of evidence didn’t apply and there was no union rep to set them straight.
Driving a New York taxi during the 1970’s was comparable to driving a stagecoach in the old west. It wasn’t unusual for guys to get robbed and on occasion, seriously injured or killed. The cars weren’t equipped with radios and cell phones didn’t exist. One was trapped in an isolated bubble with their passenger, moving through a sea of chaos. Whether an arrogant executive or psychopathic junkie, whatever transpired was without recourse or hope of intervention. Hours of tedium would be interrupted by unexpected encounters that pushed one’s survival instincts to the limit.
Fortunately, the cabs were designed with a bullet-proof partition between the front and back seats. If one was diligent about keeping it locked, along with the doors, a lot of potential misery was avoided. However, the young, politically correct college drivers self-righteously proclaimed a different viewpoint when I suggested they make certain to take these precautions, especially in dangerous neighborhoods.
“You’re so negative and paranoid,” they’d tell me. “I was up in Harlem for hours last night with my window and partition open, just grooving with the people and getting paid for it. If you put out good vibes you’ll get them back in return!” This philosophy seemed self-validating until one night they felt a switchblade pressed against their throat or were staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
An unexpected encounter with deadly force forever changes a person who’d previously lived within the confines of their condescending intellect. I’d encounter them two days later, standing with a couple of Archie Bunker types in the lounge, passionately talking about the “damn n-words.” Within a couple of weeks they’d disappear from the garage entirely.
I was an angry young man attired in T-shirt and jeans, spending much of my evenings driving well-dressed businessmen between airports, hotels, restaurants, bars, massage parlors and back home to affluent neighborhoods. They referred to me as “driver” or “fella” and tried to make small talk. I kept them at bay with monosyllabic responses, like any self-respecting cab driver. A fascinating quirk about people who lived in expensive condos was that if the fare came to $1.65, after sliding two bills through the partition’s rotating cup, they’d ask for a nickel back, so their tip didn’t exceed twenty percent. I always wondered what plans they had for the extra five cents. A working guy would just slip you the deuce and exit.
These same Upper East Side executives who counted their pennies were surprisingly sloppy when it came to real money. On occasion I’d glance at the fare in hand and discover a twenty dollar bill stuck to the back of a single. I’d quickly palm it and bid my passenger goodnight, but not before handing over the requested nickel or dime in change. At other times, they’d leave their entire wallet on the seat. I’d keep the money but being the nice guy I am, mailed back the driver’s license and credit cards. But I developed a double-edged ethical standard. When a working person committed similar oversights, I’d block traffic to chase them into their building and return the over-payment.