I usually don't look at who's driving when I get in the cab. I sit down, and mutter 'I'm going to Penn Station' or 'Penn Station, please'. Then, I look for my wallet in my Longchamps bag and take out seven dollars.
"It's a flat rate to Penn Station, six dollars. Ok?"
The wool, light pink coat, looked like it hadn't been cleaned since last winter. Can you imagine a faded- looking light pink coat? Maybe the fabric just looked worn, but why wear a pretty coat like that in a filthy cab. Answer 1: It's not new. Answer 2: she doesn't care. The coat, not her face, was in my direct line of sight. I looked up from my purse and saw her start the engine. We didn't make eye contact. Not even in the rear view mirror, so I was stuck with my second first impression of her. Her hair. It could have been styled, it was combed, but frazzled, like she'd just scratched the back of her scalp and didn't care to finesse it back into place.
There were no colored tree fresheners in the cabin, just the smell with out them - a neutral... funk. A defense mechanism for riders who have the potential to make her job unsafe. If she was at all 'dolled up' or wore perfume to pick up random riders, the tack-less bottom feeders of the world may take it as come-on. "Yeah, you can take me to Chateau de Super 8'; how much will that cost?"
She laughed, "Really?" and said it wasn't dangerous after I told her she was the first woman cabbie I rode with.
An expensive, and the most efficient ride so far. No pun intended (for those bottom-feeders going there...). Just grateful for a cabbie who's no nonsense.
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