In June of 1982, the author of this book, at twenty-three, was looking for alternate ways to make money while pursuing passions for both writing and music.
"Why'n'cha drive a cab?" an older brother counseled. "You meet all kinds o' people. There's no boss looking over your shoulder. You drive when you want, rest whenever you feel like it..."
What this brother didn't mention was that, between leasing and gas costs, it could take anywhere from six to eight hours just to break even, that to make any money at all meant spending at least twelve hours hunched over the wheel. He didn't mention the backaches and leg cramps, sore ass and bladder woes, nor did he speak of the longstanding, tough-to-navigate enmity between Blacks and cabbies that still persists today.
What he didn't mention-and couldn't have known about-was the spate of cabbie murders that would cast a pall of fear over the city that summer to haunt the young cabbie's nights and culminate in a harrowing near-death experience.
What follows are that fledgling cabbie's adventures, all true, all chronicled exactly as they unfolded.
Are you strapped in? Good. The meter's running...
In June of 1982, the author of this book, at twenty-three, was looking for alternate ways to make money while pursuing passions for both writing and music.
"Why'n'cha drive a cab?" an older brother counseled. "You meet all kinds o' people. There's no boss looking over your shoulder. You drive when you want, rest whenever you feel like it..."
What this brother didn't mention was that, between leasing and gas costs, it could take anywhere from six to eight hours just to break even, that to make any money at all meant spending at least twelve hours hunched over the wheel. He didn't mention the backaches and leg cramps, sore ass and bladder woes, nor did he speak of the longstanding, tough-to-navigate enmity between Blacks and cabbies that still persists today.
What he didn't mention-and couldn't have known about-was the spate of cabbie murders that would cast a pall of fear over the city that summer to haunt the young cabbie's nights and culminate in a harrowing near-death experience.
What follows are that fledgling cabbie's adventures, all true, all chronicled exactly as they unfolded.
Are you strapped in? Good. The meter's running...
In June of 1982, the author of this book, at twenty-three, was looking for alternate ways to make money while pursuing passions for both writing and music.
"Why'n'cha drive a cab?" an older brother counseled. "You meet all kinds o' people. There's no boss looking over your shoulder. You drive when you want, rest whenever you feel like it..."
What this brother didn't mention was that, between leasing and gas costs, it could take anywhere from six to eight hours just to break even, that to make any money at all meant spending at least twelve hours hunched over the wheel. He didn't mention the backaches and leg cramps, sore ass and bladder woes, nor did he speak of the longstanding, tough-to-navigate enmity between Blacks and cabbies that still persists today.
What he didn't mention-and couldn't have known about-was the spate of cabbie murders that would cast a pall of fear over the city that summer to haunt the young cabbie's nights and culminate in a harrowing near-death experience.
What follows are that fledgling cabbie's adventures, all true, all chronicled exactly as they unfolded.
Are you strapped in? Good. The meter's running...
