Pink taxis with female drivers that serve only women customers are catching on in cities from Moscow to Dubai.
Associated Press
I was sitting in the pink taxi line at Logan Airport, hopin’ for one decent fare before the end of my shift. All I’d had all night so far was two nuns–how come they always travel in pairs?–and a professor of women’s studies who tipped me a used copy of The Second Sex by Simone de Boovoir, which I needed like a fish needs a bicycle, to quote an old feminist gag.
I took a puff on my Lady Cubana cigar and looked down the line. I was third, and for fares there was an old lady with a knitting bag, a woman in Birkenstock sandals eating sunflower seeds from a paper bag she’d brought on the flight, and–bingo!–a professional woman in an Ann Taylor suit–accessorized with a little string of pearls–a laptop case and a four-wheeled suitcase. I’d say an MBA on a business trip–paydirt!
I jumped out of the cab when my turn came and helped her with her suitcase.
“Where to?” I asked.
“I’m staying at The Taj,” she said in a frosty tone. You couldn’ta melted butter in her mouth, I thought to myself. Maybe Promise Ultra Fat Free Margarine, but that’s about it.
We settled in for the drive, and I started in with my patter. If you want to get a good tip, you got to connect with your passenger, you know?
“You watchin’ them WNBA finals there?” I asked, looking at her in my rear-view.
“I’m afraid not,” she said. She was tapping away at her iPhone whatever.
“I really thought Indiana had a chance there, you know?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question–she didn’t have to answer. It was just a conversation starter. “I thought they was goin’ all the way with that Caitlin Clark there.”
“I don’t follow basketball,” she said, and not too graciously I might add. I decided to mess with her a bit.
“They say that the Tulsa Shock is named after Toxic Shock Syndrome. You believe that?”
She finally looked up at me. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” she said.
“That’s a joke, lady.”
“I see,” she said. Maybe her cat just died, who knows.
She looked out the window. I thought I saw a smirk on her face, as if she was thinkin’, she made it on her own, every other woman ought to, too. Cheese Louise–I used two homonyms in one thought there. Must be the fish I been eatin’.
“Didja hear women’s soccer is comin’ back to Boston in 2026?”
“No I did not.”
“We ain’t had no women’s pro soccer here since the Boston Breakers folded in 2018,” I said, trying to yank her out of her self-absorbed reverie. Let me tell you, you get a gal who’s lost in a self-absorbed reverie, first thing she don’t think about is your tip.
“Who are the Boston Breakers?” she asked.
“They were the women’s professional soccer team of Boston!” I said, showing a little civic pride. I demonstrated my chant, which I used to trot out at all home games: “Break-ers, Break-ers, Break-ers!”
“Fascinating,” she said, but I could tell she wasn’t–fascinated. She started rifling through some papers in her briefcase. You can’t win with some of these dames.
I was just about at the end of my rope, when an inspiration occurred to me. “You watch Grey’s Anatomy?” I asked, and I watched the mirror for her reaction.
She looked up, and I knew I had her.
“I missed last week’s episode–what happened?” she asked breathlessly, or as breathless as you can get and still talk.
“Well, Ellen Pompeo is back for one thing.”
“No way!”
“Way. She’ll be in at least seven episodes–with the potential for more.”
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Deadline.com,” I said, allowing myself a moment of smug self-satisfaction. You come to Boston, you’re gonna getta knowledgeable cabbie, y’know?
We pulled up in front of The Taj. It’s a hotel as big as the Ritz, as F. Scott Fitzgerald might say. ’Cause that’s what it used to be–The Ritz.
“Well here we are,” I said. I popped the trunk, hopped out, and handed off her bag to the doorman.
“Thanks for the information,” she said, finally cracking a smile. “How much do I owe you?”
“Let’s see. The fare’s $19.75,” I began.
“All right,” she said, and started to fish some bills out of her wallet.
“Hold on–there’s a $2.25 airport charge, and the toll for the tunnel is $5.25, so that comes to–let’s see–$27.25.”
She looked down into her wallet again. “I’m sorry,” she said, “all I have is a twenty and a ten.”
A lousy $2.25 tip. I felt like flippin’ it right back at her–but I can’t afford to.
“Why you chintzy, cheap yuppie bi . . .”
“Wait,” she said as she dug down into the little pocket coin pouch on the outside of her purse. “Here–I found another quarter!” she said as she turned and headed into the hotel. “Buh-bye!”
I was ready to explode, and I did. “Yeah, that’s right–save your money, so next time you can afford a frost job dat don’t make you look like a skank waitress in a biker bar!”