Taxi Vignettes

The Big Box Story:

Back in the late 80's, when I had neither a pager or a phone with me, my taxi dispatcher told me to go to the airport, and then give him a call. I drove straight to the red phone booth on Airport Blvd. I called Gordon, the dispatcher, and he gave me the number to call. He said that it was a special request from a government agency, and not to screw it up.

I called the number, and a man answered. I told him that I was a taxi driver and that I had been asked to call him. The man asked me my full name and then he wanted to know a few other things. First he asked about my nationality. The man wanted to know if I was an American citizen, and had my grandparents migrated here from another country. I told him that yes I was an American, and that my ancestors originated from Holland and Germany. I came from a long line of *Mennonites if that helped. He also wanted to know if I could lift 99-pounds, and could I get a box that heavy into my cab without help. After I must have answered all of his questions correctly, he ordered me to swear that I was a loyal American. I was beginning to wonder if I was on Candid Camera Phone Booth-Radio or something.

The man on the phone had given me a freight tracking number with instructions to go not to baggage claim, but to the ticket counter at American Airlines. Once I had secured the package I was to take it to an address, and then to only give it to a specific person.

I gave the woman at the American counter the number, but she was hesitant to give me the box. I asked if I had given her the correct number, and she nodded a suspicious little yes. I could tell that I would have to take control, and look like I meant business. I think I told her something about being asked to rush the delivery. I most likely added that the taxi meter was running. I like to say that whenever thing are moving too slowly.
I think she finally understood that I was not going away, and released the box.

I now had the box, but it was not that easy to deal with. It was a long rectangular shape, with nothing to grab on to. It sure seemed heavier than the quoted 99-pounds. I just bent down and started pushing it across the floor. Making a very loud scrapping noise, I managed the thing out to the cab.

I had to give the door a good shove to make it close, but somehow there it was in the backseat of the taxi. I got in and sat behind the wheel, trying to catch my breath, when the dispatcher started calling my number. "Number 18!, number 18!" (I was #18 back then.) He needed my status. What I wanted to tell him was that my status was mad and exhausted, but I said that I was just about to take off from the port. He emphasized that "people" were getting anxious. Well, La de da. blah de da, I was doing the best that I could.

The destination for this precious delivery was not even ten miles from the airport. Even adding on the waiting time at the American ticket counter, and the time it took to push it across the lobby and across the street to the taxi, I was not going to make any money on this sorry job. "Number 18!?" -- "Yes, this is 18?" -- "They want to know how you are doing, what is your E.T.A.?" Good grief, I was on the street. Me, "I'm here."

I was in an industrial area with those long strips of connected buildings. The kind where you would find an auto repair shop next to a home window glass shop. I located the building number that I needed, knocked and went in.

Inside the door was an empty room, but I could see that it opened into another room where three men in white dress shirts, solid ties and black slacks stood staring at me. The most outstanding thing about their attire was their very shinny black shoes.
They looked uncomfortable as though I had accidentally stumbled in on a secret.

One man asked if they could help me. I let them know that I was a cab driver and I had their box. They stopped staring at me and looked blankly at each other. I was thinking that something wasn't adding up. Someone, somewhere was in a panic to get the box, but the guys at this end were perplexed. I gave them the name of the man that was to receive the box, and that seemed to do the trick. Now they were smiling like little boys coming down the stairs on Christmas morning expecting that Red Ryder BB rifle. One guy asked, "Where is it?"

Remembering that I was only to give the box to a certain person, a person not there, I said that I wasn't too sure about leaving it with them. Silence, and more silence until one of the men flashed me a disarming smile. He came close and told me it would be alright because he was authorized to sign for it. Alright already, but I told him that I would need to see some identification. He handed me his card. It was the, insert any foul word here, **IRS--Criminal Investigation Division.

The guy again, "Where is it?" I told them that the box was out locked up in the taxi, and that it was heavy. One moment they were in the room, and out by the cab in a flash the next. The box was brought in and put in on the desk, looked at it, and then ripped open like wolves over a kill.

I stood there, holding the paperwork waiting for the signature, when contents of the box were exposed. A warning message, from the eyes of a cabbie, do not ever cross the Criminal Investigation Division of the IRS, they have some awesome machine guns.

*Mennonite a faith movement that began in Europe in the 16th Century

** The IRS is the US government agency responsible for tax collection and tax law enforcement.