The cab. The taxi-cab. Our yellow friend in times of need.
Taxis are (relatively) standard, whether you’re in New York City or South Bend, Indiana. A cab is a cab is a cab. All you need is an agile arm to hail or finger to call one, plus some money (they prefer cash). And voila! You’re there. You can pretty much count on a directionally adept driver to get you from Point A to Point B. Right?
Wrong, apparently.
There I am, trying to get to the Husky tailgate by way of a quick stop at a friend’s apartment in Eastlake. I hop in a cab, mention the South end of Eastlake, and expect to be whisked away. Not. So. Much. He asks me how to get there, which I do often appreciate, because I may know a shortcut he/she does not. I mention shooting down Dexter to Mercer and along the south end of the lake.
Blank stare.
“Dexter Avenue? You know, the major North to South arterial that runs along the east side of Queen Anne?” I almost add, “Nearly every 20s something individual lives along or near Dexter during their time in Seattle, I’m sure you’ve driven loads of their drunk asses home at 2am.”
Nothing. Maybe he is new.
“Okay, well just start driving. I’ll point.”
How about I just drive? Chinese fire drill at the stop sign?
We manage to limp down Dexter, all the while I’m learning that Mr. Frontseat has a lead foot, but not on the good pedal.
I say, “Take a left up here on Mercer.”
Frontseat interprets that as “take a left immediately” and turns the wrong way onto a one-way street.
FML. I’m never getting there. Shotgun a beer for me.
About a year later, we make it on to Mercer and proceed up to Eastlake.
I thank him for the ride and pay, laughing to myself at the absurdity of the trip.
Dear readers, a word to the wise: The next time a cabby stares blankly at you after you mention a veritable interstate of a street, run for your life. Or rather, just run to Point B. It’s faster.
