A Corporal’s Taxi Ride

Dear Diary:

In the 38 years that I spent working in Midtown, I had my share of cab rides that were less than commendable. On those occasions, I just closed my eyes and reconnected with the memory of a cab ride taken years before.

Early in June 1951, my flight landed at La Guardia Airport near midnight, bringing me home on furlough. Having to take a taxi into the city was a grim prospect on a corporal’s pay. When I climbed into a waiting cab, I responded to the driver’s “Where to?” by boldly insisting, “Drop me off at the nearest subway station on Queens Boulevard.”

I totally caught him off guard and pressed my advantage. “Look I live in the city and need to save some money for my leave.”

The driver growled, slammed the flag down on the meter and drove off, briskly passing every subway entry he encountered. Dumbstruck, I sat and anxiously watched the meter tick-tick-tick my meager cash stash away.

Nosing the cab into Manhattan, the driver grinned and said: “Scared you, didn’t I? My son, Bernie Jr., is in the service, too. So, if you’re worried about the fare, I got one word for you, kiddo … fuggedaboutit.”

Not a chance, Bernie. Not a chance.

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