Tag Archives: taxi confessions

A Cog in the Wheel of Corruption

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This week’s column for the S.F. Examiner seemed to draw the ire of many cab drivers who think I’m revealing “trade secrets” by discussing our role in, and how we sometimes benefit from, illicit activities in the city, from paying bribes to hotel doormen for airport rides, taking kickbacks from strip clubs and massage parlors, transporting hookers, directing passengers to their desired transgressions and the complicity of the police and, most likely city hall, in it all. There’s also a Tony Soprano for good measure. What these critics miss is that corruption takes many forms, including tipping, which is a form of bribery. Tell a server you’re not going to tip at the beginning of a meal and see how great your service is. That we are cogs in this wheel of corruption is part of what makes the job of a cab driver interesting. Well, I think so anyway. See for yourself, if you haven’t already read the column and made up your mind…

As ambassadors of The City, cab drivers are both purveyors of myth and concierges of vice. From the tourist attractions to the ripped backsides, we navigate the orthodox and the underbelly to take you where you want to go.

Or at least point you toward the right transgression.

Naturally, most services come with the expectation of a gratuity. And once cash starts exchanging hands, everyone wants a piece of the action …

Read the rest here.

The Story of Magnificent Meg and the Taxi Dispatcher

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The dispatch office at National/Veterans Cab Co.

From this week’s I Drive S.F. column in the S.F. Examiner:

“You’re with National,” she states the obvious, slurring her words. “I used to call you guys all the time to order a cab, and the dispatcher always said, ‘Hey, Magnificent Meg! Where you going tonight?’ You guys made me feel so special. And always made sure I got a cab. Sometimes it would take a while, when it was busy, but you’d call me back and let me know when the driver was going to show up.”

“Why’d you stop calling?” I inquire, anticipating the answer.

“Well … I started using Uber … Just at first, you know, to check it out. Then, later, it was easier to use the app than make a call. And it’s cheaper. But I hate Uber now. The drivers don’t know where they’re going and they’re creepy. It’s just, like, a habit.”

She pauses for a few seconds.

“Still, I miss the old days when I’d call National and I was ‘Magnificent Meg,’” she said. “That’s why, when I saw you parked there, I wanted to tell you how much it meant to me.”

Read the rest here.

Photo via

The Taxi You Yield to May Be Your Own

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On the streets of San Francisco, there are three types of drivers: yahoos, slow pokes and cabbies.

After hours and hours and days and days behind the wheel, National 182 is basically an extension of my body. I’m always in complete control of my vehicle, just as I am always in control of my arms and legs.

This week’s column in the S.F. Examiner

Photo by Juneaux