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HACK

The University of Chicago Press

Contents

Preface.............................viiGreetings...........................1Cab Life............................3Monday..............................23Tuesday.............................39Wednesday...........................49Thursday............................59Friday..............................69Saturday............................80Sunday..............................90Holiday.............................104Postscript..........................119Acknowledgments.....................123

Chapter One

A raised hand generates an almost irresistible magnetic pull on a taxi driver. After some years, my mind is trained to seek its abstract form in light poles, reflections in parked cars, windblown tree branches, and, on a slow night, just about any likely shape into that desired signal—the symbol of time not spent in vain. Depending on the hour of day or night, what follows that hopeful gesture will vary from absolute silence to aggressive and often unwanted camaraderie, but in almost every case it begins with some sort of greeting.

On afternoons in the Loop, terse one- or two-phrase directives abound. Words like Ogilvie, O'Hare, Wrigley, Lakeview, Bucktown, Midway, Michigan and Randolph, Ontario, and Chicago, on and on. Like pushing the elevator button, they name their wish with no need for further communication. To expect more than an occasional thank you for the fare displayed on the meter and the sometime addition of a pre-calculated tip—worked out from countless identical trips—would be wishful thinking during downtown afternoons. There is a nonverbal contract made between passenger and driver to acknowledge that these transactions are basic and unremarkable, unworthy of excess comment or thought.

With the approach of twilight, tentative signals indicate that work mode is being shed and the thirst for social contact can be detected. Between calls and texts, the passenger might ask about how the day's going, usually without expectation or need of any substantive response. Like exercise done at the gyms so many of them attend, this verbal stretch is meaningless except to keep limber in preparation for the heavier lifting that may lie ahead.

In early evening, couples wait at the curb, peering furtively at every passing taxi, sometimes raising their hands after the car has gone by, prompting slammed brakes from more aggressive or desperate drivers. A man wears his button-down untucked over nice jeans, his getup completed more often than not with flip-flops; his date is dressed to the nines from the 'do to the makeup to the little black dress to the heels that make her teeter long before her first cocktail. They'll exchange pleasantries in gratitude for the lift. He'll talk to the driver to show her he's got that common touch; she'll talk to the driver if she's bored with her guy or nervous. Once in a great while, there will be a conversation that reflects their good spirits, one that will serve to start off their date in a benevolent spirit toward all and sundry.

Packs of men pile in through the night. They'll start with: Boss, Chief, Buddy, Dude, Man, Bro, Hey, and when they think they're being funny, Sir. They've had a few or more by now, so they break the ice instinctively and without prompting. They'll ask how things have been, as if with a long-lost friend, and will even feign interest at the answer. They'll ask where the ladies are, then go back to recapping the "talent" encountered up to that moment. There's the possibility of inclusion in their club should I want in. A story or two about "those crazy bitches" could well qualify me for lifetime membership.

As taverns empty, the greeting runs the gamut from drunken mirth to stone silence. Tipsy chicks continue flirting in the cab as if still sipping appletinis. They laugh too loudly, say too much, and create more intimacy than there should be with a complete stranger. Some recount their evening if there's no one to dial up at this late hour, needing a confidant to vent to. They'll ask for advice or empathy with no regard for their listener's qualifications or character. Their need to ease their burden trumps the caution they might've displayed before the sun set. Last are the ones who were over-served and know it; with luck their address can be extracted without too much hassle, and they can be left to drift off into that end-of-the-night-ride-home fugue state. Upon arrival, the lights have to be raised and the drowsing reveler must be addressed in a loud voice: "HEY, BUDDY, PAL, CHIEF, TIME TO WAKE UP, YOU'RE HOME. TIME TO SAY GOOD NIGHT."

CAB LIFE

There are things that happen regularly to a cabdriver—the daily headaches at the garage; the tedious annual steps to renew a license; the constant run-ins with the same characters (whether fellow drivers or street people).

The forgettable details that add up to much of the time spent on this job.

At the Garage

This is the guy who owns the place. He thinks you're scum, and whatever you want, the answer's the same—"Fuck you."

If the cab breaks down, it's probably your fault, and no, you don't deserve any compensation for the time you lost. To save money, he imports retired cabs from New York and puts them on the street in Chicago. The fact that they break down every other week doesn't faze him in the least; in fact, it gives him an opportunity to scream at his mechanics or random other underlings to find out how they've wronged him. This is the quintessential angry little man; a miniature volcano ready to erupt at the slightest provocation. If you should happen to talk back, he'll accuse you of anger management issues and threaten to revoke your leasing privileges. Best to steer clear of him if you plan to stick around.

These are the people who relieve you of your money. They run the gamut from slow and stupid to unhinged and spiteful to friendly and efficient. It's a crap shoot—depending on whose line you get in, it can be a trying forty minutes or a breezy ten. Some will greet you politely, get through the lightening of your wallet, thank you, and send you on your way. Some will pick fights with drivers over unsigned credit card slips or other minor infractions; the screaming back and forth will make the rest in the queue more and more agitated until they start joining in. Others will yell for all to shut up, that the bickering is just holding the rest of us up. There'll be calm for a bit until a cashier starts moving too slow, a driver forgets to bring all required IDs to the window, or one doesn't like the look on the other's face; then the cacophony erupts once more.

All the cashiers snap to attention, however, when the angry little man walks in. They cower in his presence, and that gets them moving double-quick. When he's out of sight and earshot, they go back to their previous pace—be that frenetic or glacial.

Some of the drivers hang around the garage like house cats. I see the same ones puttering around, playing listless games of pool, or just pacing back and forth. They're not the ones waiting for their cab to get fixed or the ones hoping a cab becomes available; they park instead of driving and prefer the fumes from the body shop to those of the moving vehicles on the streets. How they make their living is a mystery.

A recurring drama plays out...