The Different Types Of Cab Drivers There Are

The Cab Driver Who Wants to Chat. You always get into this guy’s cab when you’re on the verge of tears, or homicidal, or just plain tired. He peers back at you in his rearview mirror and decides that, while there’s an 80% chance that you want to go to sleep and never wake up again, he’d like to know what you’ve been up to these past 20+ years. “So, where are you from? What’d you do tonight? Well that sounds like fun! What do you do for a living? How do you like it?” And you think to yourself, “Am I on a date with this cab driver right now? Is this a date?” You feel bad; if you were drunk, you’d be all about this innocent line of questioning, but you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself to indulge the bored, sweet cab driver.

The Cab Driver Who Doesn’t Want to Chat. I mean he does want to chat, just not with you. You get in and he asks with urgency, “Where are you going?” And you almost forget, you’re so intimidated. He’s demanding this information from you, it’s like being confronted by your parents after you got caught breaking your curfew, and you’re like, “Uhh… Union and Metropolitan?” The driver speeds away and begins shouting into a Bluetooth, and you meekly say, “Sir, uh… did you hear me?” And he ignores you, his preference clearly lies with his native tongue, and when he pauses to listen to the person on the other line you clear your throat and say, “Um… did you just ask me something?” His eyes narrow in the rearview mirror and he’s like “No!” pointing to his ear as if to say, “Duh bitch, I’m on the phone, shut up back there,” so you slink back into the leather seat and think, “Oh.”

The Cab Driver Who Doesn’t Know Where the Hell He’s Going. Before getting into this cab, you always ask the driver, “Do you know how to get to ____________?” and the driver assures you that he knows exactly where that is, he goes there all the time. You feel a momentary sense of relief; you’re unfamiliar with the neighborhood you’re heading to and you have no clue how to navigate it. Forty-five minutes later, you’re circling Bed-Stuy for the tenth time, wishing you were wearing a belt that you could remove and strangle him with. “I thought you said you knew where you were going?!” And the driver will pretend he doesn’t understand you, he’ll just mutter fragments of your destination, and you’re like, “YEAH, EXACTLY. DO YOU SEE THAT ANYWHERE? I DON’T. WTF.” Finally, you pass a subway station and think, “If I’m getting lost, it’ll be at my own discretion.” Yell, “Hey! Let me out, and I’m not paying for your loop-de-loops, either. You heard me.”

The Lady Cab Driver. The lady cab driver is so rare that, no matter what kind of mood you’re in, you must converse with her. She usually has a distinct voice and has lived in Queens for ~30 years. The lady cab driver always knows where she’s going. You giggle under your breath every time she curses, which is every thirty seconds or so.

The Fun Cab Driver. The fun cab driver picks you up when you and your friends are drunk. He greets you like your dad used to do when he’d pick you up from the mall, all merry and, “Hey guys! Where are you going tonight?!” And you’re all, “jgfneoijgoi where are we going. Brooklyn. The bar. Hey, HEY! Can we smoke a cigarette in here?” And he’s like, “Of course! But only if I can have one, too,” and you all say in unison, “You’re fucking cool, man.” Everyone rolls their respective windows down and you can barely hear it, but Africa by Toto has just come on the radio, so you say, “HEY! Can you PLEEEEASSSSSE turn this up?” and the driver says, “Sure thing! This is a nice song,” and you all sing along as you fly over the city, over the bridge, over the river.

The Hot Cab Driver. The hot cab driver is way too young and hot to be driving cabs, so even if he’s total white bread status, he’s kind of exotic. You make empty conversation with him as you imagine how many offers of sex he’s received simply for being hot in an unexpected context.

The Livery Cab Driver. The livery cab driver is the worst. They see you standing in the bike lane trying to wave down a yellow cab, so they slow down in front of you and say, “Cab?” and you’re like, “No, get away from here you cash-only piece of shit. I want a real taxi. Shoo, you’re scaring them away.” When you do take one, they charge you an unwarranted arm and leg. They give you the total and you’re like “What? Did this cab ride come with a foot massage and tickets to the theater?” And they look at you as though you’ve never taken a cab before and say, “No, that’s what it costs…?” So you get indignant, you say, “Call the base then. CALL. THE. BASE. Call the base and put them on speakerphone and I’d like to hear someone tell me that it costs $15 to ride ten blocks. Go ahead, I dare you.” So he smirks and says, “Okay, seven dollars.”