Confessions of a New York City Taxi Driver
It’s almost 4:30 am. The city that never sleeps, does in fact sleep, but not for all of us here. My day, or how I begin my work, starts with a strong cup of coffee from the bodega on 8th. That’s where I am writing this from. Streets are quieter, no horns, no chaos, just the hum of the engine and occasional drunk person stumbling home.
I’ve been driving a yellow cab in this city for 12 years. I’ve seen it all: Wall Street sharks who talk mergers in the back seat, tourists craning their necks for a glimpse of the Empire State Building, dancers from Queens heading home at dawn, and more heartbreaks, hookups, and arguments than I can count.
Every ride is a story. Some funny. Some sad. Some, just plain weird. One night, a guy from Brooklyn paid me $200 to circle Times Square five times so he could propose to his girlfriend in the back seat. Another time, a woman burst into tears because her boyfriend texted her mid-ride to say it was over. I handed her a tissue and just kept driving. What else can you do?
The job’s changed a lot. Uber. Lyft. Apps. Algorithms. There was a time when hailing a yellow cab was part of the NYC experience. Now, we fight for fares. The medallion that once cost more than a house is worth a fraction of that. Some drivers left. I stayed. This city gets under your skin.
I like the rhythm of the streets. Midtown at lunch hour. The chaos of after-theatre crowds. The dead calm of 3 am. The way the city breathes. It’s not glamorous. Some days it barely pays the bills. But it’s real.
People often ask: “Aren’t you tired of the traffic?” Truth? Sometimes. But I’ve learned to flow with it. There’s an art to navigating these streets, reading the lights, sensing the pulse of the city.
At the end of a shift, when I hand in my keys and step into the cool morning air, I remind myself: This is New York. No two days or nights are ever the same. And tomorrow, another hundred stories will climb into my back seat.