TROLLEY TROLLOP: TAXICAB CONFESSIONS

Dear all the taxi drivers,

Why? I mean … just … WHY?

Every single time I crawl into one of your cabs, no matter where I am, it’s the same damn thing.

“Where to?”

“Home. [Exact address] in Somerville.”

“Where again?”

“[Exact address] in Somerville. In the Ten Hills area.”

“Ten Hills? I do not know this place.”

“Yeah. Um…somewhat close to Winter Hill.”

“Ah. Yes. Winter Hill. OK.”

“No. Not in Winter Hill. It’s by Winter Hill.”

“Oh. How do I get there?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. Sorry. I never drive in Boston. Hence, the … uh … need for a taxi.”

“Well, then, I guess I’ll just blindly drive around and run the meter up and hope we accidentally run into your street before the meter surpasses the meager amount of money in your wallet even though I clearly have a GPS device that I’m not turning on because I’m a total dickhead and then I will occasionally yell at you ‘hey, does any of this look familiar?’ until you become so frustrated that you look up directions on YOUR phone’s GPS and shove it in my face.”*

*Note: That may not be an ENTIRELY accurate representation of what the drivers usually say but it is 100 percent correct regarding the spirit of the transaction.

Now, I know it can’t be easy being a cabbie. Spending all day not only dealing with the hell that is Boston traffic, but also dealing with that traffic while carting around drunk tourists; drunk, horny couples; drunk foreigners with limited English skills; drunk students with limited English skills; drunk, douche-baggy businessmen who still wear Bluetooths; and all the other assorted unwashed masses.

I also know it can’t be easy dealing with a passenger who has absolutely no idea where her house is because she’s a super-mega-ultra wussy who is too scared to navigate and learn the roads of the city.

But Greater Boston, geographically speaking, isn’t really all that big. So I refuse to believe that not a single cabbie in this city knows where the hell my neighborhood is.

Which is why I have come to two conclusions: There is either a massive conspiracy afoot where all cabbies are trying to bilk more money out of me by claiming ignorance because they can smell my mid-western naivety a mile away or my neighborhood is the Bermuda Triangle of ‘hoods, where everyone’s kind of heard of it but no one is really sure how to get there, especially since it’s always apparently covered in a creepy, supernatural fog.

And yes, I realize I could easily remedy this situation by simply learning where the hell my house is in relation to the rest of the city. I mean, I have now officially lived here for a year and a half.

But you know what? It’s not my job to know where shit is. That is what I’m paying you taxi drivers for. To know where my shit is.

So step it up, fellas (and the one lone female cab driver I’ve heard myths about). Because in the end, even if I did learn my way home, I’d still probably be too drunk to tell you.