Beware: Those Family Taxis Maybe Time Machines!
I was alone (with two stranger-anxiety ridden cats for company) at my friend Liza's house in a town quaintly titled "Village at Nagog Woods" in the OUTskirts ("out" intentionally capitalized) of Boston wondering how to get a taxi for my 12pm lunch meeting for a retail client. Google maps kindly informed me that if I take the highway option its 35 minutes, so I decided to go to local.yahoo.com and check out my luck with neighborhood taxis hoping that a hunter-gatherer-cabbie from the woods (lonely, dark and deep as Frost wrote, Zip code: 01718) would be faster than a faraway slick city-taxi crook. Yahoo local promptly gave me ten or so options and I commenced the calling process.
The first one returned a dead signal. The second one kept ringing (No voicemail? In a country where EVERYONE communicates through voice mail???). The third one rang a few times and hit a voicemail, though I had no intention of conveying my secret desires into a voicemail recorder. The 4th one had a voicemail which said the number has changed and I need to call a number elsewhere (would he be a city-slicker? I decided not to call). The 5th one called "Boxborough Taxi" was answered by a lady who sounded as if she was up all night screaming at a rock concert. In a hoarse drawl, she asked, "Baaxbrow take-see" and I told her about my plans to go to Framingham. "Well, that's kinda far, how do you go there?" With all the confidence and wisdom emanating from googlemaps, I gave some random directions which seemed to convince Ms.Hoarsey who responded with, "I'll be right there." "Huh?, Are you somewhere nearby?". "Just gimme a few minutes and I'll swing by".
The clock slowly ticked by. I tried calling her at 10.35 and received no response. At 10.40, she called me asking for directions again telling me to walk down the road to some intersection. Minus a local cellphone, this was out of question. She called again after 5 minutes and said that she's somewhere close by (realization dawning that she's NOT a call center person, but everything rolled into one, I decided to pick-up Liza's cordless phone, lock up the house and wander outside, imagining Liza's face when the kids come back from school and gleefully report the doings of her friend who ran away with, of all things, a cordless phone.
An ancient car, which looked as if it predated the withdrawal of American troops from Vietnam slowed down. As the beige colored car, approximately 27 feet long (not considering the bumpers, which looked like salvaged missiles from the same war), slowed down, I thought the lady inside was trying to get directions. Just as I was about to say that I am even more clueless than she possibly would be, she remarked joyfully "oh, you called for a ride". A little too taken aback since the cabs I've seen in the US so far had sported a signboard on top and their names proudly on the sides, I checked "Boxborough?" "Yeah, that's me, come on in".
Fighting aside my reluctance, I tried to get into the back, the standard norm for taxis worldwide. "No, no, come over here". The interiors at the front seat (or whatever was left of them) had violent tears on leather making me wonder about what all insect families I may possibly be upsetting. Sitting down I realized that Ms. Hoarsey who had a sunny weatherbeaten old face with wild frizzy blond hair was wearing the shortest denim shorts ever made by mankind, exposing 99.7% of her legs which may have been pretty some two decades before. As I was pondering about women in their 40s who live in denial of their youthful charms gone by, I was taken aback by what distinctly sounded like a yelp from the back.
Being a vet's son, I am quite fond of dogs, though one doesn't count on them yelping behind you in taxis driven by hoarse voiced blond old women wearing short-shorts. Turning back I saw a dog peering at me sleepily from inside a tiny cage. My disdain of un-dog like dogs being pretty strong (I would happily support any movements to tranquilize all Chihuahuas in the world and banish them to Mexican jungles or wherever they first appeared from), I decided to leave that dog alone. But Ms. Hoarsey was not be suppressed. She launched into a full length blast on the dog which is only 10 months which she bought for her daughter Amy, who's 19 and is a hair dresser and is attending an advanced course, which would give her better pay or job at a better salon in a place they pay more tips closer to downtown that could hopefully pay for a car so that Ms.Hoarsey can do away with her driver duties and then focus on her garden which needs some pruning... People like Greg, Mark, Fred and Tom came and went as part of the cast of characters with no explanation on who's an uncle and who could be Amy's boyfriend.
While this refreshing monologue was going on, I asked her the most obvious questions – "Have you been to Framingham? Do you need help with the directions?". "Oh no, no, I am not going to Framingham, I am just here to take you to my dad". "Why your dad?" "No,honey, I'd have taken you myself but I lost a good 25 minutes hunting for your place and now Amy needs the car and Mark would need to take her to meet Fred who plans to skin Tom alive for the barbecue party hosted by Peter so that they can do a cannibal dance before the police arrives…" As the blabberthon continued, I yanked her back to reality and asked, "Your dad is going to drive me to Framingham?". "That's right, I guess Greg will also be with him".
While Greg coming with me was least of my worries, it was already 11.10 and we were driving further into wooded wilderness when she suddenly stopped the car near a deserted underpass and pulled over to a dirt-clearing on the side. The war veteran car thudded to a halt, the dog yelped once more (upon which its owner patted the cage affectionately), rubbish at the back moved from one side and piled up at the other and the dog's cage was covered with a bunch of old towels. Ms.Hoarsey quickly swept them away as the dog sat down and closed its tired eyes. I followed suit and closed mine too for a moment.
A couple of calls later, I was offloaded from one ancient car to another which I was positive had seen the likes of Kennedy administration. "So, I need to go to THAT car over there?". "Right, my dad will take you wherever you want to go". I didn't like the sound of this open invitation, but banking on my philosophy of "go with the flow", I tentatively went to the other car. "He needs to go somewhere in Framingham and I need to give the car for Mark and Amy to go buy the hoola-hoop so that they can whack Peter with it when he starts digging over the Martha's graveyard and then prepare for Amy's homework that needs to be given before Todd comes in at 7pm to get…."
Inside dad's car, I realized two things within a couple of minutes. Dad was, for all practical purposes, deaf (now I knew why Greg wanted to join the joyride) and looked like a child of World War I vintage. Second, Dad's car smelled of years (and generations) of dried pee. After shouting without success to Dad about my destination, I decided to try my luck on Greg who casually remarked "Ooh, that's far, never been to those parts of the state", significantly improving my assurance levels.
As the Kennedy-era contraption started accelerating on the highway, I desperately wanted to cling onto something so that if we explode into thousands of pieces as part of the car's final death dance, I get to grab the biggest shard as a life jacket. But that stench, giving me vague memories of some distant, forgotten past where I had to travel in an unreserved compartment of Indian Railways which ended up with me sitting close to the only functioning loo, ensured that I don't hold onto anything and spoil the expensive suit that Anitha had gifted me on an earlier birthday.
As we finally found our exit, my battery started displaying its death warnings and Greg generally asked to no one in particular "what do we do now?". Trying to take control, I passed my laptop to him and told him to trust googlemap instructions. After 5 minutes, with my battery running low, he passed a pen & paper and suggested I write down what googlemaps said. The pen was wobbly (another war veteran?) and the paper was smudged with some reddish brown smear, which to my now splendidly biased mind could've been blood, ketchup, strawberry jam or all of the above fossilized over decades.
The laptop went into hibernation mode and I hadn't finished note taking, so between where I had reached in my notes and 500, Staples Drive, Framingham there seemed to be a gaping abyss. Thankfully, Dad (grandpa?) with all the wisdom of WW1, WW2, Korean War, Vietnam War, Gulf War etc, made it to the office after a few false turns here and there. He then gave me a receipt (which said "Maynard Corcorde Taxis") and charged me $45, which sounded far too low for the amount of traveling we seem to have done. As a final irony, my blackberry fell onto the floor of the car as I was getting out. A near death experience via asphyxiation occurred as I my face came close to the unsavory underbelly of his front passenger seat. The time was 11.50.
Postscript: After the meeting, I called a lot more professional looking (and amusingly named) "Tommy Taxi" whose Egyptian lottery visa recipient driver charged me a princely $101 for the same distance. May be I should've asked Dad to wait for me there. Then again, maybe not. As a brown-skinned guy in an exploding car, I may have been all over global news channels with headlines like "Terror Trail: Fringe Osama outfit murders two innocent Bostonians", Ms. Hoarsey would've surely loved the TV microphones and Amy would've become a national icon for saving Greg who broke his leg when went to fix the roof for Tom so that the rains don't fall on the head of his poodle which was stolen by Mark….
The first one returned a dead signal. The second one kept ringing (No voicemail? In a country where EVERYONE communicates through voice mail???). The third one rang a few times and hit a voicemail, though I had no intention of conveying my secret desires into a voicemail recorder. The 4th one had a voicemail which said the number has changed and I need to call a number elsewhere (would he be a city-slicker? I decided not to call). The 5th one called "Boxborough Taxi" was answered by a lady who sounded as if she was up all night screaming at a rock concert. In a hoarse drawl, she asked, "Baaxbrow take-see" and I told her about my plans to go to Framingham. "Well, that's kinda far, how do you go there?" With all the confidence and wisdom emanating from googlemaps, I gave some random directions which seemed to convince Ms.Hoarsey who responded with, "I'll be right there." "Huh?, Are you somewhere nearby?". "Just gimme a few minutes and I'll swing by".
The clock slowly ticked by. I tried calling her at 10.35 and received no response. At 10.40, she called me asking for directions again telling me to walk down the road to some intersection. Minus a local cellphone, this was out of question. She called again after 5 minutes and said that she's somewhere close by (realization dawning that she's NOT a call center person, but everything rolled into one, I decided to pick-up Liza's cordless phone, lock up the house and wander outside, imagining Liza's face when the kids come back from school and gleefully report the doings of her friend who ran away with, of all things, a cordless phone.
An ancient car, which looked as if it predated the withdrawal of American troops from Vietnam slowed down. As the beige colored car, approximately 27 feet long (not considering the bumpers, which looked like salvaged missiles from the same war), slowed down, I thought the lady inside was trying to get directions. Just as I was about to say that I am even more clueless than she possibly would be, she remarked joyfully "oh, you called for a ride". A little too taken aback since the cabs I've seen in the US so far had sported a signboard on top and their names proudly on the sides, I checked "Boxborough?" "Yeah, that's me, come on in".
Fighting aside my reluctance, I tried to get into the back, the standard norm for taxis worldwide. "No, no, come over here". The interiors at the front seat (or whatever was left of them) had violent tears on leather making me wonder about what all insect families I may possibly be upsetting. Sitting down I realized that Ms. Hoarsey who had a sunny weatherbeaten old face with wild frizzy blond hair was wearing the shortest denim shorts ever made by mankind, exposing 99.7% of her legs which may have been pretty some two decades before. As I was pondering about women in their 40s who live in denial of their youthful charms gone by, I was taken aback by what distinctly sounded like a yelp from the back.
Being a vet's son, I am quite fond of dogs, though one doesn't count on them yelping behind you in taxis driven by hoarse voiced blond old women wearing short-shorts. Turning back I saw a dog peering at me sleepily from inside a tiny cage. My disdain of un-dog like dogs being pretty strong (I would happily support any movements to tranquilize all Chihuahuas in the world and banish them to Mexican jungles or wherever they first appeared from), I decided to leave that dog alone. But Ms. Hoarsey was not be suppressed. She launched into a full length blast on the dog which is only 10 months which she bought for her daughter Amy, who's 19 and is a hair dresser and is attending an advanced course, which would give her better pay or job at a better salon in a place they pay more tips closer to downtown that could hopefully pay for a car so that Ms.Hoarsey can do away with her driver duties and then focus on her garden which needs some pruning... People like Greg, Mark, Fred and Tom came and went as part of the cast of characters with no explanation on who's an uncle and who could be Amy's boyfriend.
While this refreshing monologue was going on, I asked her the most obvious questions – "Have you been to Framingham? Do you need help with the directions?". "Oh no, no, I am not going to Framingham, I am just here to take you to my dad". "Why your dad?" "No,honey, I'd have taken you myself but I lost a good 25 minutes hunting for your place and now Amy needs the car and Mark would need to take her to meet Fred who plans to skin Tom alive for the barbecue party hosted by Peter so that they can do a cannibal dance before the police arrives…" As the blabberthon continued, I yanked her back to reality and asked, "Your dad is going to drive me to Framingham?". "That's right, I guess Greg will also be with him".
While Greg coming with me was least of my worries, it was already 11.10 and we were driving further into wooded wilderness when she suddenly stopped the car near a deserted underpass and pulled over to a dirt-clearing on the side. The war veteran car thudded to a halt, the dog yelped once more (upon which its owner patted the cage affectionately), rubbish at the back moved from one side and piled up at the other and the dog's cage was covered with a bunch of old towels. Ms.Hoarsey quickly swept them away as the dog sat down and closed its tired eyes. I followed suit and closed mine too for a moment.
A couple of calls later, I was offloaded from one ancient car to another which I was positive had seen the likes of Kennedy administration. "So, I need to go to THAT car over there?". "Right, my dad will take you wherever you want to go". I didn't like the sound of this open invitation, but banking on my philosophy of "go with the flow", I tentatively went to the other car. "He needs to go somewhere in Framingham and I need to give the car for Mark and Amy to go buy the hoola-hoop so that they can whack Peter with it when he starts digging over the Martha's graveyard and then prepare for Amy's homework that needs to be given before Todd comes in at 7pm to get…."
Inside dad's car, I realized two things within a couple of minutes. Dad was, for all practical purposes, deaf (now I knew why Greg wanted to join the joyride) and looked like a child of World War I vintage. Second, Dad's car smelled of years (and generations) of dried pee. After shouting without success to Dad about my destination, I decided to try my luck on Greg who casually remarked "Ooh, that's far, never been to those parts of the state", significantly improving my assurance levels.
As the Kennedy-era contraption started accelerating on the highway, I desperately wanted to cling onto something so that if we explode into thousands of pieces as part of the car's final death dance, I get to grab the biggest shard as a life jacket. But that stench, giving me vague memories of some distant, forgotten past where I had to travel in an unreserved compartment of Indian Railways which ended up with me sitting close to the only functioning loo, ensured that I don't hold onto anything and spoil the expensive suit that Anitha had gifted me on an earlier birthday.
As we finally found our exit, my battery started displaying its death warnings and Greg generally asked to no one in particular "what do we do now?". Trying to take control, I passed my laptop to him and told him to trust googlemap instructions. After 5 minutes, with my battery running low, he passed a pen & paper and suggested I write down what googlemaps said. The pen was wobbly (another war veteran?) and the paper was smudged with some reddish brown smear, which to my now splendidly biased mind could've been blood, ketchup, strawberry jam or all of the above fossilized over decades.
The laptop went into hibernation mode and I hadn't finished note taking, so between where I had reached in my notes and 500, Staples Drive, Framingham there seemed to be a gaping abyss. Thankfully, Dad (grandpa?) with all the wisdom of WW1, WW2, Korean War, Vietnam War, Gulf War etc, made it to the office after a few false turns here and there. He then gave me a receipt (which said "Maynard Corcorde Taxis") and charged me $45, which sounded far too low for the amount of traveling we seem to have done. As a final irony, my blackberry fell onto the floor of the car as I was getting out. A near death experience via asphyxiation occurred as I my face came close to the unsavory underbelly of his front passenger seat. The time was 11.50.
Postscript: After the meeting, I called a lot more professional looking (and amusingly named) "Tommy Taxi" whose Egyptian lottery visa recipient driver charged me a princely $101 for the same distance. May be I should've asked Dad to wait for me there. Then again, maybe not. As a brown-skinned guy in an exploding car, I may have been all over global news channels with headlines like "Terror Trail: Fringe Osama outfit murders two innocent Bostonians", Ms. Hoarsey would've surely loved the TV microphones and Amy would've become a national icon for saving Greg who broke his leg when went to fix the roof for Tom so that the rains don't fall on the head of his poodle which was stolen by Mark….
1 comment:
Hi Gopi
Just read through couple of your posts. They are wonderful. I especially liked the one on Japanese "bicycle thieves". Looking forward to your further posts.
Sajan
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