3/2/95
Deep
in the Heart of Taxis
Yes,
there really is such a thing in this country as a human-relations
course for taxi drivers.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. My name is Tzippi. Welcome
to --"
"It would be most kind if you would refrain. As I was
saying, this is the first session --"
"I have to smoke. You got a light?"
Tzippi smiled politely. "I am truly sorry, but regulations
forbid smoking during this -- please, sir, I must ask you to put
that out! I would appreciate -- please, stop this, all of you, will
everybody kindly --"
"Hey, Tzippi, ya got a boyfriend? Is he jealous? You
like me?"
Tzippi lost it. "Shaddap, you retarded morons, and welcome
to the Transport Ministry's human-relations course for Israeli taxi
drivers!"
"Allo! Anybody got change for a 50?"
Tzippi took a deep breath, relaxed a bit, and managed a weak
smile. She looked around the room, at the 27 men she had four hours
to civilize. Well, 29 men, if you include the two playing backgammon
in the bathroom.
"-- by warning you that the next person to interrupt
will lose his license for a week. Anybody?" Total silence.
"Good." She launched into her curriculum. "Why are
we here? You may be shocked to learn that there have been complaints
about our esteemed taxi drivers. Just the odd few hundred-thousand
unfortunate misunderstandings. Please don't be too upset. Anyway,
you know how it is with those tourists. They come here, have a wonderful
time, go back and all they can talk about is that a 10-minute taxi
ride cost them more than a weekend at the King David. That is why
you must use your meter."
"But that's against regulations!"
"Ptui on regulations. I'm a cabbie, not a rabbi."
Tzippi sighed. "Alright, let's continue. Imagine you're
driving along late one night, it's raining, a shaky old lady with
luggage waves frantically. You stop. You want to make a good impression
right off the bat. You pull up at her feet, jump out of the car
into the rain and say, 'good evening, gveret.' Then you open
the passenger door, debonnairely grasp her elbow and ease her onto
the seat. you carefully load her luggage into the trunk. You say,
'where to?' Then you voluntarily put on the meter. When you arrive
you say, 'seven shekels, please,' collect the fare, thank her sincerely,
get out of the car, help her out, carry her bags to the door, doff
your cap and she presses a 30-agora tip in your hand. That's how
your transport minister would like it to be. Think you can do it?"
The 27 men recoiled in disgust. One of them put up his hand.
Tzippi's hopes soared. "Excuse me," he said. "Maybe
you could change 'shaky old lady' to 'sexy blonde teenage backpacker
in a tight sweater.'"
"Sexy teenagers don't tip," Tzippi pointed out.
She didn't think they were progressing very well. "Alright,
let's try something else. Let's say one day you're at the airport
and Prince Charles gets into your car. He asks how much to Hadera.
Who can tell me the correct way to respond?"
Several men raised their hand.
Gutman from Beersheba said: "Waddaya wanna go there
for?"
Nehmad from Bnei Brak said: "Ya got dollarim?"
Haboob from Jaljuliya said: "What do you care how much?
You're rich."
Na'im from Beit Shean said: "I'll tell you when we get
there."
Tzippi from the ministry said: "Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Be gallant. Genteel. I'll show you: Gutman, step up here."
"Say after me: 'The fare to there, chaver, is fair,
I swear.'"
Gutman spat out a few sunflower seeds. He stiffened his upper
lip and pursed the lower, looked snooty and said: "De fer-r-r
to der-r-r, chav---"
"No, Gutman, you're rolling your R's. Try again."
"The fare to there, chaver, is fair, I swear."
The others chorused: "I swear! I swear!"
Tzippi was elated. "I think you've got it!"
"King George, I think I've got it!"
"Haviv, what if a pregnant lady has to go to the hospital?"
"Drive fast before she gives birth all over the upholstery!"
"Good! Shem-Tov, what if you're too late?"
"Stop a cop and let him mess with it!"
"Excellent! What if the food critic from The New York
Times gets in your car?"
"Take him to my cousin's felafel stand!"
"Correct! Navon: Rothschild flags you down."
"Yes! Well, I must say, the minister will be proud of
you."
"Is it just the taxi drivers? I mean, does anybody else
have to take this stupid human relations course?"
A murmur rumbled through the classroom. Tzippi noted a definite
lack of gruntlement in the gentlemen.
"And the cops? They're such mavins on human relations?"
"Yeah, what about the cops?"
"You know what a cop is? I'll tell you: a cop is someone
not smart enough to be a cabbie."
"And the bus drivers? Clerks? Bank managers? The prime
minister? El Al flight attendants? Waiters? This country's proud
of them?"
"Everyone's picking on us!"
"I say we go on strike! Stick it to the nation,
till they learn to love us!"
As one, the men chanted: "Strike! Strike!" It was
getting ugly.
"ALLO!" It was Tzippi. She hammered a fist on her
desk. No one noticed. She raked her fingernails across the blackboard.
Everyone noticed. "You are not permitted to organize a strike
during class. Ministry regulations. Now, let's get on with it. Our
next subject is 'Rules of the Road.'"
"You come to a red light. What do you do?"
Goodman put up his hand. "I know! I know! You stop."
"-- Unless there's somebody across the street waving
at you."
This was news to Goodman. He was indignant. "Look, lady,
you have your rules, we have ours. When I get home after 12 hours
on the road, the last thing my wife wants to hear is: 'I made 13
shekels today but I drove very carefully.'"
His colleagues jeered in support of him. "Damn right,"
Naim said. "If I want to drive carefully I'll drive a wheelchair."
Tzippi smirked. "And if you don't drive carefully, you
will."
"Bah! You know who has accidents? People who don't watch
out where we're going, that's who. If you want safer streets, all
you have to do is give every taxi a siren and a flashing red light,
like an ambulance. Give us the right of way, make everyone pull
over. That would be a good rule!"
Tzippi restored decorum by clawing the blackboard again.
"You need sirens? You drive like you already have sirens. From
the moment you get in your cab, you've got your fist on your horn.
The minister would like you to know that is against the law."
"So sue me," said Shem-Tov.
Tzippi soldiered on. "And furthermore: you're not allowed
to stop in a way that obstructs traffic. You're not allowed to make
a U-turn between intersections. You're not allowed to speed, curse,
smoke, throw garbage from your windows, beat up a passenger if he
wants to pay with 10-agora coins, beat up a passenger if he wants
to pay with a 50 note, pick up a fare if you already have one, whistle
at women, turn without signaling, tailgate, overtake on the right,
push in line, reverse into a main street, yammer on about your opinions,
dump your passenger where it's convenient for you rather than for
them, ignore your passenger because you're talking to your girlfriend
in the front seat, yell at a woman to hurry up when she's struggling
to lift a suitcase into your trunk because you can't be bothered
to help, accuse the Left of destroying the country, blame the government
for everything, blame Maccabi Haifa for everything, blame the transport
minister for anything. Are there any questions, no, good. That concludes
this course. I hope you've learned a lot. Yalla." And with
that she closed her file and put on her sweater.
The men got up from their seats.
Tzippi stopped suddenly. "One moment, please,"
she said. "There is one more thing."
Some of the men noticed she was blushing.
"I have to, uh, get downtown. Can anybody --"
Haboob grinned. "Sure, Motek," he said. "With
or without the meter?"
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