Who Does That?

I was reading an article in the New York Times this morning about some New York City bus drivers who are taking extended leaves of absence because they're being abused by disgruntled public transport users. Now I’m not talking about yelling, arm waving, eye rolling, frothing at the mouth, heavy sighing, foot stomping or any of the other displays of anger that I myself am guilty of committing. As I wrote last week, we are one angry city. But this new phenomenon is worse. It’s spitting.

I know this isn’t very eloquent of me, but all I can say is EWWWWAAA. Seriously? Who does that? Spitting has to be one of the most vile things a person can do. Already, far too many people hawk it up in public, spitting on the sidewalk and forcing pedestrians to dodge not only ubiquitous dog droppings, but their germafied spittle as well, or on the train tracks where they cough up their cigarette-induced morning phlegm. Some do it discreetly and quietly into a tissue (t.g.), while others feel the need to really crank it up with an accompanying rumbling gurgle that makes me wanna puke. FYI: use the bathroom and do it out of earshot, people, not on the train next to me.

But this is worse than the semi-innocent and seemingly necessary part of life that is clearing one’s throat and expectorating. To actually launch your unwanted bodily fluids at someone else is just lame. And it spreads illness…nobody wants your swine flu or tuberculosis, mmmkay?

In the article, Nancy Shevell, the chairwoman of the authority’s bus committee, suggests that going home and taking a nap might help solve the drivers’ post-traumatic stress of being spit on, and that leaves of absence may be excessive. Sorry, sleeping it off doesn't cure being spitballed. It's not just a matter of brushing it off and going on your merry way. It’s humiliating, gross, dirty and unnecessary. For someone who goes to work every day and has to haul around all of New York’s demanding, irritating, and now rabid, commuters, I too think I’d say why the flying F should I go to work today and put up with this shi-at? I can just imagine angry authors coming in to my journal and spitting on me because I put an en dash in place of a hyphen.

The article also had some interesting insight. Apparently all this time I was writing angry posts about commuting, I didn’t realize that I was suffering from a syndrome called “Aisle Rage,” which Alan E. Pisarski writes about in his report “Commuting in America.” I feel so much better that it's an actual condition and that I'm not alone.

While I can certainly understand the annoyance evoked by declining mass transit and increased costs, drivers are not to blame, and can’t be anywhere near as horrible as us passengers, so we’d do better to show a little more appreciation. Let’s grow up a little, and keep our saliva to ourselves.

Chatty Taxis

After working abroad for ten years, I missed the Metropolitan Museum, ubiquitous Asian nail salons and Lenny’s turkey sandwiches. But perhaps the most important: a quiet taxi ride. In Barcelona, taking a taxi was like being a therapist for ten minutes, as I heard all about drivers’ woes, affairs with Cuban women, how much they hated the PP (partido popular, the right-wing Spanish political party), and especially, upon hearing my accent, long tirades against our former President.

If the animated chatter wasn’t enough, taxi drivers in Barcelona often smoked with the windows rolled up, or had a drink while on duty. One driver complained about the new strict breathalyzer limit. “I can’t even have oil and vinegar on my salad,” he shouted, throwing his arms in the air, and off the wheel, while driving. Another got angry when I suggested a specific route and asked if I’d like him to pull over and let me drive. After a sheepish “No,” he offered me an olive branch: “Hey, my son is about your age. Maybe you could go out with him? Best way to learn English is an American girlfriend!”

I was happy to be back in the New York, where I’m lucky if the cabbie mumbles an acknowledgement when I get into the car. Sure, they zigzag across the Manhattan grid as if on crack and the leather seats spew funky smells, but NYC cabs are usually fast, efficient and quiet. Whispering in mysterious languages in their terminator-like ear attachments, they rarely want to talk to me – and the cool new (at least, new for me) TV screens in the back give me an excuse to zone out.

That is, until recently. Two weeks ago I was heading downtown when the white-haired Jamaican driver turned around and said: “Are you a movie star?” Flattered, I smiled and said I wasn’t. “You look like movie star,” he insisted. I blushed and said, “I wish.” Suddenly it was as if I had slipped him and extra 20 bucks to be my own personal Dr. Phil. “How can you say you are not a star? You have to believe you are a superstar. If you don’t believe in yourself, who will?” This went on for the rest of the ride and ended with me shouting, “OK, OK! I am a superstar!” As I got out of the car, he asked me if I was married or looking for a man. Disturbed, I passed him a five dollar tip through the window and politely declined.

A few days later I hopped into a cab in Battery Park to go to the Upper East Side. It was a long ride on the FDR and I planned to close my eyes and sleep. As soon as we set off, the dishevelled Eastern European driver started to drop F-bombs. I checked if the barrage was directed at me – but he didn’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular and was not wearing a Bluetooth or cell phone wire. Was he angry to have to drive so far uptown, or was he suffering from a flare-up of Tourette’s syndrome? The insults got louder until, much to my relief, we pulled up at 77th and York. As I gathered my cash to pay, he turned to me with a genuine smile and said, “It’s supposed to be nice out later. Let’s hope so. Have a really nice day.”

And just the other day I had a disgruntled chauffeur with a serious grudge against the NY lotto. “People don’t need that much money,” he insisted. “Why do you need 100 million dollars? What could you possibly spend it on? It will make you crazy. One, two, even three million, and maybe you are still Okay. More than that – you’re crazy. I know a guy drove a cab for years, then he won the lotto. You know what happened to him? He’s crazy. Spread it around, I say – give more people a chance. I hate the stinkin’ lottery.”

“Yes, it’s better not to play,” I agreed, desperate to end the conversation.

“Not to play? This is crazy talk. You have to play to win!”

Maybe I'm just moody and antisocial or have no patience. Possibly I'm a hypocrite because plenty of cab drivers have had to suffer my annoying cell phone calls to friends, relating last night’s drinkfest and subsequent hangover, the excruciating pain of my recent bikini wax or other mundane details of my life. Or I’ve changed since living abroad. Whatever the case, I never thought I’d yearn for a spin in Barcelona, where at least I could pretend that I couldn’t speak the language. And with the new laws preventing cabbies from chatting on their cell phones, I think there's gonna be a whole lot more talkin going on!