Donald Trump Stories From My Cab

No, I’ve never had Donald Trump in my cab.  Now that would be an interesting story, of course, because it would be firsthand data for me, secondhand data for you, as opposed to information received via the media.  However, since the primaries began in February of this extraordinary election year in the U.S., I have had several passengers in my taxi who told me Donald Trump stories of their own.  And that does count for something.  It’s source information, unedited.

Here they are, in chronological order, without embellishment:

1. March 8 -- an older gentleman, in his seventies I would say, got in the cab in Midtown and we drove up to his Park Avenue address at 81st Street.  ("Park Avenue address" is code, btw, for "old money, very wealthy").  He was on his cell phone for most of the ride, but when he'd ended his call I asked for his opinion about the upcoming election.  Without needing any prompting, he told me he'd once had some kind of business deal in progress with Trump (no specifics were given).  He said he'd never met him in person but had spoken with him on the phone.  He said he should change the name of his book from The Art Of The Deal to The Art Of Changing The Deal At The Last Minute.  

The implication here, as I understood it, was that Trump was unscrupulous, not good to his word, sneaky, and that the deal, whatever it was, did not go forward. 

As he left the cab his parting words, referring to Trump, were, "He's a bad man."

2. May 3 -- I had a middle-aged woman en route to the News Corp. Building on 47th and 6th, where Fox News is located.  She told me that her husband works as an "ad director" there, meaning he arranges which commercials will be shown in which time slots.  She said that recently her husband and a colleague were waiting for an elevator to arrive in the building and when the door opened there stood Donald Trump with a couple of security guards beside him. As her husband and his colleague moved forward to join them in the elevator, they were stopped by the security guards.  But Trump intervened, allowing them to come in with them.  As they rode together in the elevator, however, there was no conversation with Trump because her husband, she said, was "in shock".

3. July 10 -- a middle-aged man in my cab told me he is a construction contractor in Florida.  He said that a friend of his had once been in charge of a Trump construction project there and at one point during the operation he pulled all his workers off the job and refused to allow them to continue working until he was paid the money that was owed to him for work already done up to that point.  Apparently Trump had a reputation for not paying his contractors and his friend was wise to this.  The ploy, my passenger said, was successful.  Trump paid him what he was owed and the construction continued.

4. August 7 -- a 30-something woman going from 30 Rock (Rockefeller Center in Midtown) to the Upper West Side.  After chatting with her for a few minutes she told me she is a makeup artist at NBC and used to work on the show "The Apprentice".  Realizing I had a rare opportunity here, I began quizzing her about what it was like to actually do Donald Trump's makeup and, of course, what about his hair?  Here's what I learned (and this is breaking news)... 

a) His hair is real.  At least, it's not a piece.  She couldn't say whether or not he has plugs because she didn't work on his hair and couldn't get in there, but it's definitely not a toupee.  

b) Regarding the orange face: Trump has a skin condition known as rosacea (the enlargement of facial blood vessels, giving his cheeks and nose a flushed appearance).  She said that when she worked for him she used makeup that gave his face the appearance of a natural skin tone.  Now, however, he does his makeup himself and is using a yellow substance which, when applied over the redness of his face, creates an orange tint (yellow + red = orange).

According to my passenger he won't listen to advice that he should change to another cream or ointment.

c) What it was like to be an employee of Donald Trump: she enjoyed working for him, was treated respectfully, and was well paid.  She said if she worked only half a day she would still be given a full day's wages.

d) Trump's children: she liked them, too.  The only thing she found objectionable about any of them was that Donald Junior is a hunter.  Other than that she thought they were fine people.

e) Would she vote for him?  No.

For me, stories number 1 and 3 add credence to reports we’ve been hearing for months that Trump has a long history as an unscrupulous businessman, a shark swimming in the shark-infested waters of real estate development, that you cannot believe what he says, and that he is not to be trusted.  Stories 2 and 4 lead me to believe that on a personal level he can be a nice guy.  Story 4b suggests that reports are true that it is difficult or even impossible for him to accept advice from people who are experts in a field and that he trusts his own instincts above all else. 

Ah, the things you can learn driving a taxicab in New York City!  Should I come upon further stories from a firsthand or even a secondhand source, I will pass them on.

For more of my thoughts about this election please click here for the post, "What The Man From The Atomic Energy Commission Told Me".  

Halloween, 2007

Halloween was on a Wednesday this year so that meant there were two Halloweens in New York. One on the Saturday night before Halloween (Oct. 27th), the party night, and one on Halloween itself (Oct. 31st), the trick-or-treat and Halloween Parade night. There is no better vantage point to see all of this than to be a taxi driver.

You drive around the city and as the night goes on more and more people appear on the sidewalks dressed as clowns, witches, cowboys, pimps, driver's licenses, nuns, boxers, cartoon characters, ketchup and mustard bottles, and cops. And more witches. Some of them get into your cab - my favorite this year was a young lady who was being "Miss Scarlet" from the game Clue. (She did it in the billiard room with the rope.)

But one of the hazards of these nights - it seems to happen every year and this year was no exception - is that I may find that I'm not sure if my passenger is wearing a costume or not! After all, this is New York City.

It becomes one of those awkward social situations. I want to comment on the costume, assuming it is a costume - but I don't want to offend the passenger in case it's not.

"What are you? A pimp?"

"I beg your fucking pardon, asshole, this is how I look. You got a problem with that?"

"Oh... sorry!"

Now that would make for an uncomfortable ride. On the other hand, if it's one of these borderline costume situations and you get it right, well, maybe you have made the passenger's night. A few years ago a young man got in my cab wearing a bright white suit, a white vest, and a black shirt opened three buttonholes down to reveal a gold chain. We exchanged some chit-chat en route to his Tribeca destination. I really wasn't sure if this was a Halloween costume or not. Finally, I took a stab at it.

"Tony Manero?"

His face lit up in a huge grin. "You got it!"

This year's version took place on Saturday night at 2:15 am. I was cruising down 5th Avenue and a teen aged kid stepped out from the curb to hail me. I saw from a distance that he was wearing what, for lack of a better term, I will call an "inner city" outfit - on over sized baseball cap, with the bill of the cap off to the side, and a sleeveless t-shirt. Now if you're a taxi driver, this is not what you want to see hailing you. "Inner city", "teenager", and "taxicab" are not a good mix. If ever there was a candidate to beat you for a fare, it is this. So I was actually thinking of passing this kid by, but then I realized that he was standing alone on the corner of 87th Street, right in the heart of American Aristocracy territory, where no inner city kid would ever be standing alone in a million years.

I realized this was rich kid wearing what for him was a Halloween costume. I stopped and he got in. His destination was 76th and 5th, a mere 11 blocks away.

"Going to a party?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Who are you supposed to be?"

"Someone from Long Island."

I discreetly refrained from informing him that I myself had been born and raised on Long Island and continued the ride. At 76th Street he handed me a twenty dollar bill for a $3.80 fare and said, "Keep the change, this will be the best tip you'll get all night!"

Now this was truly remarkable for a few different reasons. First, kids are never good tippers. Second, members of the American Artistocracy are never good tippers. And third, it wasn't my best tip of the night!

Earlier in the evening, at 9:20, a beautiful and intriguing Englishwoman named Ann got in for a ride from Times Square to the Gansevoort Hotel in the Meat Packing District. She was quite interested in all aspects of taxi driving, especially celebrity stories. I wound up telling her my Leonardo di Caprio story which ends with Leo asking me who my best celebrity tipper had been. I told him it had been John McEnroe, who had given me double the meter. Leo then said, "Well, I'm going to give you triple the meter!" And he did.

Ann informed me that although she was not a celebrity she was going to outdo Leonardo di Caprio and give me four times the meter and proceeded to pay $40 for an $8.60 fare. (Which is actually five times the meter and secures Ann a plaque in the Best Tippers Hall of Fame.)

I've got to start telling that Leonardo di Caprio story more often.

Now as great and fun a night Saturday was, it was outdone by Halloween II on Wednesday. Not because I made more money, which I didn't, but because of the Halloween Parade. This is the night when Greenwich Village, which is crazy on a normal night, really goes wild. This thing gets bigger, more surreal, more Dali-esque every year. Here are some shots...

What's that? You say you want even more pictures from NYC? Well, then, just click here for Pictures From A Taxi.

Riding With The American Aristocracy

The "American Aristocracy". Now there's an oxymoron for you. We're not supposed to have an aristocracy here in the USA. We kicked out the British and all their kings, queens, and privileged nobility two hundred and thirty-one years ago. Instead of all that, we established a society of a level playing field based not on birth, but on ability. One man, one vote. A representative government. Equal justice for all. Surely there could be no aristocracy in America.

But there is.

And I'll tell you something you learn from driving a cab in New York. You learn where they live. They live on Park and 5th Avenues between 60th Street and 96th Street. If that's where you live, good news, you are a member of the American upper class. And you're not just "well off". You are stinking rich. And most likely your parents and grandparents were, as well.

I actually look at the American Aristocracy as a kind of ethnic group that is similar to other such groups in the city. There are sections of New York that are primarily identified by the places their residents originally came from or by the languages they speak: Spanish Harlem, Chinatown, Astoria with its Greeks, Flushing with its Koreans, and so on. And there are other sections of town that have become gathering places for people with similar interests or lifestyles: disaffected, artistic twenty-somethings in the East Village, gays in Chelsea, aspiring actors in overpriced, four-story walk-ups in Hell's Kitchen.

Park Aveune and 5th Avenue are the places to be for people with the common denominators of having been born to or married into significant wealth and significant power. In this group we have people who never had to get a job just to pay their living expenses and people who sit on the boards of major institutions. We find things like trust funds, prep schools, debutante balls, charity events, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

As a taxi driver you have this fascinating vantage point from which to observe the characteristics of people from all these groups. I hate to generalize, but as experience grows and one observes similar traits from people in these various groups, a certain amount of generalization becomes inevitable. And here's what I have come to expect from the American Aristocracy:

a) polite children.

b) rowdy teenagers when in a group and not accompanied by an adult.

c) 10 - 15 % tips. Never excessive.

d) businesslike attitudes.

e) never drunk or loud.

f) non-conversational.

Now none of these are too bad and it's nothing I can't live with. But there is this one other characteristic that I must say really gets under my skin. It's an attitude I often pick up on that I am considered to be a servant, a lesser-than, a non-person. It's not done blatantly, it's a nuance thing. But when I do pick up on it and then consider that it's coming from someone who has never had to worry about how to pay his rent, it stirs up a deep resentment.

Having said all this, I want to tell you about a fare I had last Saturday around 6:30 pm. I was hailed at 83rd Street and Madison Avenue by a waiter. He came up to the side of my cab and asked me to make a left on 83rd and pull up in front of his restaurant, Giovanni's, a little hole in the wall Italian joint I'd never noticed before. A regular customer would be coming out - one who will tip me well, he assured me - and would I mind waiting a minute or two? Please?

Well, sure, I said, no problem, and then as he went back into the restaurant I started to contemplate how many times someone has told me how well I was going to be tipped before a ride began only to find later that I was given at best an average gratuity. God, it happens all the time but, really, who cares? A good tip vs. a lousy tip is only a matter of a small amount of money anyway, so why should the waiter think this would be an inducement to me? Whatever...

It took a minute or so for the waiter to re-appear and then I understood a little better why there was some anxiety in his manner. There was not one passenger, there were three - a seventy-ish man, an elderly woman who was in a wheelchair, and a young, black woman who was the nurse to that woman. Some taxi drivers are cruelly unwilling to put up with the hassle of getting a wheelchair-bound passenger into the cab and have been known to drive off. I suspected that this may have happened to this waiter in the past. But he needn't have been worried. I would never do that.

I was ready to assist the crippled woman into the back seat and put the wheelchair into the trunk, but it turned out this was the job of the nurse. So all I had to do was watch the proceedings and say a few words to my passengers to make them feel at ease. I asked the elderly lady if she had enjoyed her meal and she stared through me blankly. And then, judging by her lack of reaction to anything that was going on around her, I realized she was in a demented state. Or perhaps "senile" or "Alzheimer's" would be better descriptions. In any case, this was a sad story that I was witnessing.

We were finally all in the cab, with the gentleman sitting up front with me, and I was told their destination was 75th Street and 5th Avenue. A very short ride to a prime American Aristocracy location. As we made the left from 83rd onto 5th it occurred to me that I have had far more elderly, wheelchair-bound passengers in my cab from Park or 5th Avenue buildings than I have had from other parts of the city. And I realized the reason for this was that wealthy people can afford to pay for their care in their own homes. Other people are placed in nursing homes or die at a younger age because they can't afford the best medical treatment. It seemed to me to be yet another example of the privilege of the wealthy.

We drove quickly down 5th Avenue to 75th Street and in the minute or so that it took to get there the man sitting to my right said not a word to me. After I stopped the cab in front of their building a doorman came running out to open the door and the procedure of extricating the elderly lady from the cab went into motion with the nurse and the doorman doing the honors. The fare was $4.90. As the gentleman reached into his pocket to find his money, I braced myself for the 10 % tip.

But I was wrong. He gave me a ten and told me to keep the change - double the meter. The waiter had not lied.

And then he did something that was much more significant to me than a good tip. As we watched the elderly woman being wheeled into the building he looked at me with an expression on his face that conveyed the burden that I suspected he'd been carrying for many years. And he spoke these words:

"Don't get old," he said.

It said something to me that I already knew but needed to be reminded of again. That if you've got enough food to eat and a roof over your head, you're basically in the same neighborhood as the guy on 5th Avenue.

The human condition does not have a street address.

(But Pictures From A Taxi does. Just click here.)