In Alabama, we leave a lot of stuff in our cars: hats, cheeseburgers, small children, books, movies, cameras, purses, and even the car keys. And that’s just in the front seat. The car is simply a miniature version of our house, we spend lots of time in it, we clean it, we pamper it, we are judged and judge others by it.
New Yorkers don’t leave anything in their car and if they do, they put a sign in the curb-side window that reads “NOTHING OF VALUE IN CAR.” This assumes that criminals 1. can read; and 2. believe what rich automobile owners put in the car windows.
I don’t dare own a car in Manhattan. New Yorkers have to pay outrageous taxes on their cars, not to mention tags, emission control stickers, tolls, and titles that cost thousands. And parking! The cheapest parking I’ve seen in my neighborhood is $350 a month. But the worst part of owning a car in Manhattan is having to drive it.
So I take taxicabs. Those big, yellow bullets that careen about this tiny island piloted by madmen who speak no English and are determined to reduce the population, one fare at a time. But that’s an Alabama mindset, you see. Even though I’ve been here two years, I still think like an Alabamian.
Which can be bad. For example, I still think that the car is mine, and that if I leave something in it, I’ll see that something again. I’ve lost gloves, umbrellas, briefcases, $10 bills, shoes, a small case of bourbon, and a couple of dates to the backs of taxis. There’s nothing quite like that feeling when you realize you’ve left your third pair of gloves in the back of the cab that just dropped you off and you have to yell “AHHRGHH! Come back here you #%*@ cab!” and chase Mr. Taxi for a few blocks. You never catch Mr. Taxi, mind you. Mr. Taxi is only going slow enough to make you THINK you can catch him. When you are nearly close enough to make out his medallion number, VROOM!, Mr. Taxi zooms away, leaving you ten blocks from where you were dropped off in the first place.
I have in fact, lost the equivalent of the entire gross national product of Argentina to the backseats of cabs. You thought your sofa was good at eating the remote control? The backseat of a Crown Victoria could swallow an entire television, barcalounger, and VCR and still have room for the stereo.
And the taxi drivers? These underpaid, downtrodden souls literally rip the backseats out of their cabs every night looking for lost booty.
So it came as a surprise to everyone in Manhattan this week when a cabby named Kobina Wood found Placido Domingo’s opera music in the back of his cab and returned it to the singer. Every paper in town interviewed the cabby. Placido gave him tickets to the opera. The cabby was on TV. The cabby was on the radio. The cabby was greeted by Mayor Giuliani who said, “The whole episode tells me that there are an overwhelming number of very good people who make New York City very proud.”
Of course, if returning bags was an everyday thing here in this city of 13 million, it’s doubtful ole Kobina would have gotten so much attention, but then that’s an Alabama mentality, isn’t it, Andalusia?
—Morgan Murphy