We
exited wearily into the arrivals terminal at JFK and walked that weird
gauntlet of disregard, the rows of other peoples’ families and limo
drivers holding up names in magic marker. Almost as soon as we entered
the main space, gypsy cabbies descended upon us: Need a taxi? Where you need to go? Taxi? Taxi? Where you go? I had anticipated this little ritual and had fantasized about telling them Fuck off. But I didn’t. This is what they do. Let a man make a dishonest living, after all.
Outside,
we got in the long line for Yellow Cabs. On the other side of the
railing the non-licensed guys ranged up and down the median, trying to
rope in their marks. We watched with some amusement as a young Asian
woman talked one down from sixty-five bucks to thirty for a ride to
Nassau County, only to leave him twisting in the wind.
Suddenly one man’s voice cut through the rest.
“Yo
Pedro’s back!” he bellowed. “Pedro’s back motherfuckers! Y’all can go
home now,” he told his rivals. “Pedro’s back from jail!”