They come in all shapes and sizes - mostly revamped Lincoln Town Cars and Mercury Marquis; outfitted in a muted rainbow of nondescript colors with mis-matched quarter panels and suspensions in need of repair. Their style is agressive; marked by bodacious K-Turns with no regard for oncoming traffic, and a predatory air as they squeeze through narrow spaces not designed for their accommodation, damn near jumping the curbs as the drivers lean heavily on their horns - ominous and threatening in their solicitation.
Once. Such is the sum total of my Dolla' Cab patronage, and I can tell you that it cost me much more than a few dollars. "Naa sufficient fare dat", my driver countered when I made the initial inquiry. "Only likkle route pon di street round here fa two dolla", he explained. As one who always carries a loaded Metrocard, I was unschooled in the ways of the Dolla' Cab fare structure, previously not having had the occasion to avail myself of their services - except this one time, when there was a disruption on the Q Line and I needed to get at least as far as Flatbush and Atlantic, where the LIRR would take me quickly out to JFK. There was a snow storm and I was running late, weighted down with a stuffed-to-capacity roller bag and far too many items in my Swiss Army backpack. Forced to wade through slush and dirty puddles of melting ice before I could reach the beat up car, it didn't even register until several blocks later that the driver had popped the latch on the trunk. I was just anxious to secure the ride and get us headed downtown, eager to escape the wet and the stinging cold. The smell of patchouli and day-old McDonald's French Fries hit me when I opened the door; that, and the sound of Gloria Gaynor asserting forcefully that on that day, she would indeed survive. Of course the driver had to stop and re-secure the flapping trunk, and by then we were stuck in the middle of Church Avenue, a Heating Oil refueling truck threatening to shear the skin off the Dolla Cab's passenger side, and a B35 Local bearing down on us from the opposite direction. The Dred at the wheel executed a wicked maneuver that caused us to lurch across Church onto East 16th Street, and in a matter of seconds, managed to incur a variety of blatant traffic violations. Ms.Gaynor's pronouncements began to wind down, at which point I picked up where she left off - praying that I too would survive.
Clearance between parked vehicles on the narrow, icy streets was tight, and we very nearly clipped a few mirrors as the driver sped further East, turning at Flatbush and then again onto Empire Boulevard along the southern flank of the Botanic Gardens. Traffic was backed up everywhere, and the cab's radio ambiance was further punctuated by a stream of intermittent shouts and blaring horns that leaked in from the outside. While I watched him like a hawk, my driver made several twisting, turning diversions that eventually pushed us North onto Washington Avenue. The tight crush of buildings gradually fell away, relenting to a more panoramic vista that brought the wide expanse of Eastern Parkway into view and after that, it wasn't long before the car rocketed across several lanes and swung sharply towards Grand Army Plaza as if suddenly released from the gravitational pull of stop and go traffic that had constrained us during the initial part of the trip.
Traffic north of Grand Army was relatively light, and before long I found myself rolling into Atlantic Terminal with plenty of time to spare. Only then, did I know for certain that I'd make my flight. The smelly, banged up Dolla' Cab had done its job!
