I watch the cab driver ahead of me in line at the taxi stand as he furtively crams this guy’s bicycle and some other grimy items including a rusty toolbox, a backpack and a three-foot length of 4-inch PVC pipe, containing fishing poles and reels. It amazes me that he can fit it all in his taxi trunk. Thankfully, the bike is collapsible. The trunk is closed and in they go into the cab. It seems like they’re ready to go, but out pops the cabbie. He looks disconcerted and lights up a cigarette. The shit box he calls a taxi isn’t starting. He ponders the situation. Now he’s going down the line asking me and others behind me for cables and a jump. The taxi line can be a competitive, unsympathetic place. He’s getting no help from us so he’s on the phone with his dispatcher calling for assistance. After 5 minutes another of the company’s cabs arrives and all that crap gets moved and crammed into it’s trunk and off they go. Yet another company cab arrives to pick up the driver, leaving the cabbie’s derelict vehicle forward of the line having been pushed there. I roll up my window, turn up NPR, take a sip my Earl Gray tea and break open the New York Times. I’m not having his day.