Although I drove a taxi in Arizona for a few years, I no longer do so. There are three excellent reasons why I stopped doing this. First, twenty-five hundred taxi cabs are licensed and operating in Maricopa County, which is about twice as many as are needed. Second, many of my passengers were too strange for my taste. And third, I became tired of being robbed at gunpoint. (I did not care to be robbed in any manner, but guns are much more distressing than, say, a slingshot or a water pistol.) Anyone who has ever ridden in a taxi (or robbed one) may find my point of view on the subject enlightening.
When I began driving a cab in 2005, the state had licensed only about 1,200 taxis in Maricopa County. At that time I owned my own taxi and my business was very good. Granted, I worked fourteen hours most days, but the money was excellent and because there were far more people who needed me than I could possibly accommodate, many customers were literally begging for my business. I liked it when the customer begged. It gave me a sense of being in control. But far too soon, the State of Arizona began issuing licenses to almost anyone who could pay the fee. As a result, in Old Town Scottsdale, for example, hundreds of cabs would circle the blocks for hours hoping for a fare. Fortunately, I charmed my way into the good graces of some front desk people at nearby hotels and their business kept me going. But the money was not quite as good.
Another thing that changed with the times was the nature of my passengers. When I began the job, most of the people I picked up were professional types who wanted to go to the airport or to some other easily identifiable location. But as more and more cabs flooded the market, many of my customers became quite odd. Many were intoxicated. I recall one evening in Old Town, five drunken women tried to get into the back seat of my Lincoln Town Car. There was not enough room, so one of them crawled over the seat and climbed up front with me. In the process of doing this, her six inch heel punctured a styrofoam cup of mine that was filled with Coca-Cola. Once she finally disgorged her heel from my drink, a thin spray of soda shot out through the hole and landed in her lap. She drew her hands up to her face, turned to her friends in the backseat and told them she had wet herself. I did not bother to correct her. I had really planned on drinking that Coke myself.
To be fair, I could have endured both the unfair competition and the insane passengers were it not for the added disgrace of getting robbed. After the first time someone held me up, I wised up a bit and began carrying two wallets: one with thirty dollars in it and another with my real money. Few robbers expect a driver to be smart enough to carry two billfolds. Then again, I did not expect a robber to be smart enough to figure out my scheme. Maybe intelligence thrives on holidays. I say that because on Christmas Morning, 2007, I was parked near Broadway and 40th Street, standing outside my taxi, trying to read my map and figure out where in the world I was going. I heard a voice behind me ask if I was lost. It was such a stupid question that I ignored it and went on scanning my map. The voice repeated itself. I was very flustered by now and spun around with the intention of telling the guy off, when I noticed he was wearing a floppy Santa Claus hat, holding a small revolver and pointing it at me. He took the wallet I handed him and then asked for another. At least he did not wish me Merry Christmas.
I hung up my keys the following day. Since that time I have worked in a few other capacities in different industries, none of them having anything to do with transportation. The jobs have not been especially interesting, I’ll admit. But so far no one has punctured my cup with her shoe. And no one has robbed me on Christmas Day.
When I began driving a cab in 2005, the state had licensed only about 1,200 taxis in Maricopa County. At that time I owned my own taxi and my business was very good. Granted, I worked fourteen hours most days, but the money was excellent and because there were far more people who needed me than I could possibly accommodate, many customers were literally begging for my business. I liked it when the customer begged. It gave me a sense of being in control. But far too soon, the State of Arizona began issuing licenses to almost anyone who could pay the fee. As a result, in Old Town Scottsdale, for example, hundreds of cabs would circle the blocks for hours hoping for a fare. Fortunately, I charmed my way into the good graces of some front desk people at nearby hotels and their business kept me going. But the money was not quite as good.
Another thing that changed with the times was the nature of my passengers. When I began the job, most of the people I picked up were professional types who wanted to go to the airport or to some other easily identifiable location. But as more and more cabs flooded the market, many of my customers became quite odd. Many were intoxicated. I recall one evening in Old Town, five drunken women tried to get into the back seat of my Lincoln Town Car. There was not enough room, so one of them crawled over the seat and climbed up front with me. In the process of doing this, her six inch heel punctured a styrofoam cup of mine that was filled with Coca-Cola. Once she finally disgorged her heel from my drink, a thin spray of soda shot out through the hole and landed in her lap. She drew her hands up to her face, turned to her friends in the backseat and told them she had wet herself. I did not bother to correct her. I had really planned on drinking that Coke myself.
To be fair, I could have endured both the unfair competition and the insane passengers were it not for the added disgrace of getting robbed. After the first time someone held me up, I wised up a bit and began carrying two wallets: one with thirty dollars in it and another with my real money. Few robbers expect a driver to be smart enough to carry two billfolds. Then again, I did not expect a robber to be smart enough to figure out my scheme. Maybe intelligence thrives on holidays. I say that because on Christmas Morning, 2007, I was parked near Broadway and 40th Street, standing outside my taxi, trying to read my map and figure out where in the world I was going. I heard a voice behind me ask if I was lost. It was such a stupid question that I ignored it and went on scanning my map. The voice repeated itself. I was very flustered by now and spun around with the intention of telling the guy off, when I noticed he was wearing a floppy Santa Claus hat, holding a small revolver and pointing it at me. He took the wallet I handed him and then asked for another. At least he did not wish me Merry Christmas.
I hung up my keys the following day. Since that time I have worked in a few other capacities in different industries, none of them having anything to do with transportation. The jobs have not been especially interesting, I’ll admit. But so far no one has punctured my cup with her shoe. And no one has robbed me on Christmas Day.
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