Welcome to New York, Out of Lubrication.
After my plane lands, I ask
an idle airport worker for directions to Supershuttle. He points and says
"It's right over there." So I walk in that direction, read all the
signs, and I find they say nothing about Supershuttle. Confused, I walk back
inside, thinking I will search for signs there. It turns out he pointed in the
right direction but failed to mention the WALL that separated us from it.
Welcome to New York.
The ground transportation desk is surrounded by people who look exhausted and
frustrated, which should have been a good indicator of what was to come. But the
Supershuttle is $15 and I was sure a cab would greatly exceed this charge, so I
continued. The woman behind the counter was on the phone, and I found it
very hard to discern whether it was a personal phone call or a business call
that had become casual enough to annoy everyone in line. It was the latter, it
turned out. She made the reservation for me, slowly and with plenty of annoying
laughter. Before I walked away, I asked her how long it would be.
"20-25 minutes," she said. Thanks.
After a few minutes of sitting and hearing people complain of how long they'd
been waiting, I noticed in very plain sight on my ticket, "Pickup Time:
9:22 PM." As my cell phone had died, I thought it wise to ask someone the
time. "Excuse me, sir?" I asked the person nearest me. "Do you
have the time?"
Holding up one index finger, he replied, "One second." He proceeded to
make a phone call. He turned and paced while talking. As I waited, I watched him
slowly walk out of my view. This fucking city. I began to remember that it
doesn't pay to be meek with strangers here, so I found someone else and did
something I hate doing.
"Do you have the time, BRO?"
It was 8:40. The woman had lied. Just glad to have not supplied a credit card, I
walked immediately up to her and told her to cancel my ticket. I walked outside
angrily to find a taxi.
This vaguely ethnic character calling out "taxi" approaches me. I need
a taxi, so I start following him. On the way though, I can see there is a taxi
line just full of properly marked yellow cabs. His cab is unmarked, and I ask to
see his license. He fiddles around and shows me, but I still can't find it in me
to trust him. So I tell him, "I'll just wait in line." Of course, he
fights me all the way with his awkward accent, but there is nothing he can say.
So I pay $45 for a cab. And this cab driver tells me that the unmarked
cabs often demand $60, $80, or even $100 for their ride. Glad I read this one
the right way, I'm happy to be heading into Manhattan again.
This is the way New Yorkers tell stories, rife with mid-paragraph tense changes.
But I like that. Don't like it? Don't go to New York.
© 2006 FussyPucker.