The King Gino Report II

This post is about

Rude people, mental judo, The Apollo Theater, aging, injections, fear, Far Rockaway, Polo Grounds projects, Far Rockaway, Cornell Weil Medical Center, taxi, New York City, money

My first fare last Tuesday was a real winner. An older white man, a younger Hispanic man and a gray shaggy mutt. The human passengers struck me as being gay. I was going down Second Avenue at around 103rd Street when I picked them up. The older white guy told me they were going to 92nd and Broadway. Simple enough, go to 97th Street, hang a right and go all the way across the 96th Street traverse through Central Park to the West Side.

The older guy starts yelling "where the fuck are you going? Go up Park Avenue. " I said "sir, why would I want to go up Park Avenue? " Here I'm guessing that the guy wants me to go up to 110th Street on Park and go West from there. Not too sensible, but it's his ride. Going up Park at 104th or 105th or so he yells "Where are you going, Jackass." I stop the car and stop the meter. "Don't you pull that crap on me, I'll make a call and the TLC will have your license so fast your head will be spinning." I tell him I'd like to offer him the opportunity to leave my taxi at no charge, but he wasn't having it. He wants a U turn on Park (it is legal there) and a ride down to 97 th a right turn, cross the transverse, he wants to know how long I've been driving a taxi "Can't be too long, Jackass you don't even know how to cross town." for good measure. I tell him "Sir, you're right I am a jackass." The traffic glaciates. No motion for minutes at a time.about ten minutes later we reach 102nd Street. I could have said nothing and proceeded. It might have taken another 15 - 20 minutes to reach the next possible turn - 97th Street to the transverse but I tell him I want to hang a right on 102 over to Fifth Avenue. "You think that'll be better?" He wants to know. I tell him it won't be worse. One-two-three we're on the West side where we could have been fifteen minutes sooner. He doesn't apologize but wishes me a good night and tips me five dollars. I said something like "uh huh."

      Far Rockaway is one place I'm afraid to be in, and I grew up in Queensbridge.

I like to pick up passengers at the Well Cornell Medical Center. It has this circular driveway, I sit and wait my turn and get a passenger. They used to let us use the restrooms in the ER but they stopped that one uncomfortable night. I will at one time write about what I've noticed is their practice of releasing patients unaccompanied who need to have a friend or family with them for safety's sake, but I digress. I got this young lady passenger all the way to Far Rockaway, one place I'm afraid to be in. The fare was $60.00 when we.pulled up to the door. She tells me she has to go inside to get the money. I let the meter keep running when to my relief, miracle of miracles, her boyfriend comes out and gives me $60. I took it with gratitude and glee. 

In the morning I went to get these protein injections into my knees for my arthritis then I made the video of this report in front of the Apollo 5, until an employee shoo'd me away. And that in brief is the second King Gino Report. 

The King Gino Report I

Now, because I amble rather than walk, carry a black and silver  walking stick, and maybe due also to my white beard, big belly one of the African drivers has dubbed me "the King ." Others call me Gino. Here's the first King Gino Report.

This is about:

African Americans, Africans, Bronx, Cuba, Cuban refugee, Facebook, Frankie Boy, gay bar, Jeff Blankfort, leather bar, night people, race, strip club, strippers, taxi, the Bronx, The Eagle
I told you a little bit about Frankie Boy and his reports. I was being kind.  Gloves off .

Frankie Boy is a taxi driver who might remind you of the Jackie Gleason character Ralph Kramden. He's big and loud. And truth to tell, crude. I'm old, arthritic and walk with a cane so I've not wanted to invite a beating which could end my working days.

At times Frankie Boy would ventilate his frustration with trips to the depths of Brooklyn or the Bronx, with no tip at the end of it. When Frankie Boy's face gets red and he goes off on Black passengers I worry for him in a way. You see, most of the drivers in my garage are African immigrants. Most barely react. There's one African guy who takes polite exception I sometimes tell Frankie Boy to can it, or stop over generalizing, and that if he doesn'tcalm down he's going to have a stroke . Frankie Boy is son of Cuban refugees. I don't think there are many of them driving taxis, but Frankie Boy is one, just like I'm a New York Jew. There are surely more New York Jews driving taxis than Cuban Americans. I never asked Frankie Boy his story, but part of it is probably about his dissappearances and trips to Cuba, trips he enjoys immensley as he reports. He's crude. He whips out his cell phone to show images of attractive naked brown skinned young women. He can work like a dog for a few months, save up a relatively small stash and live like a rock star for a month in Cuba. When you drive for a taxi fleet you can come and go as you please.

Anyhow I think he's on to The Frankie Boy Report. I've told him that some of his reports vaguely remind me of highlights of my own shifts, but while he seems to remember virtually everything that happens on his shifts, I remember next to nothing. If I want to have a really successful Taxi Driver Blog I'd better get working on remembering stuff.