Confessions of a Cleveland Cabby – Part One

Not for the Squeamish

Back in the ‘70s Cleveland’s taxicab monopoly graded drivers on fare revenue per mile. That was to discourage drivers — who worked on 42 percent commission — from hanging out at the airport all day. The tip money there was better and it was less dangerous than providing cab service to poor people in the city, people who relied on us to get them to work and doctor appointments.

Most fares from the airport were going downtown or to the eastern suburbs, which meant a lot of deadhead miles for drivers back to the airport. And less RPM, revenue per mile. But, so what? It meant hefty tips and less chance of getting robbed. Or worse.

No knock on the folks in the city who desperately needed cab service. Probably the most dangerous encounter I ever had in Cleveland was with a drunken suburbanite who clobbered me in the head with a whiskey bottle. I stopped the cab in the middle of the intersection of Memphis Avenue and Bellaire Road, dragged him out of the back seat, slammed him to the pavement then drove off.

I opted to serve the people in the city. Partly out of a sense of altruism, partly for the adventure.

There was plenty of the latter. Including a few touching moments — literally and figuratively.

I’ll share some of those stories down the line — as they come to me.

Here’s one to tide you over.

I was under the weather one spring day, feeling sick to my stomach. Yet I had to go to work. To make even a meager living driving for Yellow or Zone Cab (same owner), you had to drive 60 hours a week.

I picked up an old black gentleman at the Greyhound Station — headed to East Cleveland. He told me he was in town to visit his grandchildren and asked if I minded if he smoked.

I said no.

He lit up a big ol’ cigar, which didn’t bother me.

My stomach ailment did and manifested itself in projectile vomiting out the cab window.

“Oh my God, it’s not my cigar, is it?” the old man asked, in a very concerned tone.

I did my best to assure him that it wasn’t, but I don’t think he believed me.

I always felt guilty about that.