Sports

by Dan Jenkins

Death and Taxis

The question of which sport is the most dangerous has been argued for years. You hear votes for skiing, mountain climbing, powerboating, car racing, boxing, eating fried food, smoking. The answer comes easily for me. The most dangerous sport in the world is riding in a New York City taxi.

Nowadays, six blocks through Manhattan with Mhambed or Cadeeb at the wheel is guaranteed to make you squeal like a wounded animal and curl up in a knot. You’re thankful just to get out of the cab safely; never mind the wrong address. Never mind that you’re going to shit water for the next 24 hours.

It happened overnight. Nine out of every ten New York City cabdrivers are suddenly maniac terrorists of no ascertainable nationality. And no one can explain how this has occurred. Not Mayor Koch. Not Governor Cuomo. Nobody.

All I know is, I got into this cab one day, and before I could tell the driver my destination, we were going 80 miles an hour up Third Avenue, swerving to scare pedestrians.

When I said something to the driver, his reply was, "Carrock ahmgamma posta meglock!"

"Stop here!" I yelled.

He ignored me.

"Now!" I cried.

"You speak?"

"Yes!"

"What you want, maybe?"

"I want out!"

"Where?"

"Here!"

He slammed on the brakes.

"Yebbish onga gish rackem!" he snarled at a city bus.

I handed him a wad of bills and leaped to safety.

That was four years ago. Now they’ve added refinements. They have no smoking signs all over the car and they play loud, horrifying, tuneless music at full treble.

The other day, I got into Mhambed’s cab and tried to shout out the address over the music.

"Seventy-fifth and Third!" I bellowed.

He hadn’t waited to hear it. We were going 60 down Park Avenue, barging through red lights.

"Sheekonga dababa rackemba dar!" was what I think he said, which I took to mean that he didn’t care if he lived or died.

"Sir?" I said. "Excuse me!"

We were racing toward the most dangerous intersection in Manhattan, 86th and Park, a four-way jungle at which every Mhambed in town flirts with death.

"Kadash po-yamman deck!" howled Mhambed, as the intersection went by in a blur.

I think I heard a crash behind us, above the screeching of the music; but I didn’t glance back, because I was trying to light a cigarette while sliding back and forth across the seat.

Before I knew it, we were dashing through the 60’s.

"Too far!" I yelled.

"No!" the driver said.

"No?"

"You say Fifty-seven!"

He sped past a limo. "Slobba din spicelam!" he sputtered out the window at the limo driver.

"Let me out!" I called. "Stop, damn it!"

"No!"

He didn’t stop until 57th, like he said.

"Get out," he sneered. "You crazy man."

I gave him a ten.

"No change."

"Keep it, " I said, adoring the pavement under my feet. "Buy a grenade."

It doesn’t seem all that long ago that New York cabdrivers were as much fun as they were safe.

They were all named Mike or Gus, and they understood something. No matter how fast or slowly you drove, everybody wound up on 59th Street at the same time. And they were entertaining, because they spoke, by and large, English.

You got into one of these cabs and the driver crept away at a sane speed. Presently, he would say, "Jesus, that Carter." And you had a political discussion if you felt like it.

Or he would say, "Jesus, the Yankees, my toilet looks better." And you could talk sports if you felt like it.

But you didn’t have to say anything. You could just smoke and listen to Mike or Gus.

Recently, I thought I had a guy like that. A throwback to the good old days—Nick or Tony. I felt good about getting into his cab. I thanked him for stopping for me and gave him the address.

"Just fucking great," he said—and floored it.

We went 80 for two blocks and got caught by a light and some other cars. He glanced over at the cab next to us.

"Fuck you, asshole!" he shouted at the other driver.

"Go fuck yourself," came the reply.

"I’m sayin’ fuck you!"

"Listen," I said, interrupting. "Do you mind if . . . ?"

But we sped away, side by side with the other cab.

And then we both skidded to a stop at another light.

"Fuckin’ asshole!" my driver called out. I looked at the passenger in the other cab. Somebody’s grandmother.

The other driver yelled, "You know who you’re fuckin’ with here? You’re fuckin’ with me, you fuckhead. You want to fuck with me? Come on! Fuck with me!"

My driver said to him, "Hay look at me! I’m tryin’ to make a fuckin’ livin’ here, you fuckin’ asshole!"

"So make your fuckin’ livin’; I don’t give a fuck."

"Aw, fuck you."

"Fuck you."

"Go fuck yourself."

"In your ass."

"My dick!"

"Fuckin’ cocksucker. Fuck off!"

"Yeah, well, fuck this!"

That’s pretty much the way I left it. In Manhattan, I can only take so much intellectual conversation in one day. Somehow, I missed Mhambed.