One major problem occurs when we are too busy. Fares bunch up, especially in particular zones, and there they sit, dying upon the taxi vine. It happens repeatedly minus resolution. There could be ways of addressing the "river of fares" rushing toward the taxi sea but at this moment and juncture nothing is being done, at least as far as I know. Folks like Ms. Fry sit, and continue to sit and wait for the taxi that will never arrive, perhaps like a bad child waiting for Santa. His magical reindeer are parked, their engines idling. She and so many others are completely naive, thinking that calling and requesting a taxi means one actually might arrive. This unfortunate situation is shared by all of the major associations, meaning the problem isn't confined solely to one company. That it continues to this day, meaning my nearly twenty-five year marriage to the industry, says everything one would want about taxi. Imagine if a restaurant filled every available table only to randomly avoid serving their hungry diners. Why certainly there would be a nightly riot, tearing the joint apart. Ms. Fry chased me down the street, such was her desperation for a taxi, any taxi!
Her ordeal began at 10:00 PM at the Bluwater Grill, Leshi, down on the west shoreline of Lake Washington. She had called a total of four times, not understanding why her taxi would not arrive. Luckily for her I had gotten a fare from the Sorrento Hotel down to the obscure street of South Fullerton, a winding byway of about three blocks length. Fullerton ends at Lake Washington Boulevard, which put me about five blocks from a tiny business cluster on Lakeside South. Knowing the situation I headed that way, thinking I might encounter a stranded passenger or two. Suddenly the before mentioned Ms. Fry came a running. Wearing only a light dress, her internal temperature matched the lapping freshwater tide.. Eight minutes later I had her up to her First Hill destination, her ordeal over, at least this particular edition. It was now just about midnight, her wait being of a two hour more or less duration. She was pleasant which I felt was a small miracle.
Every weekend I meet people like Fry, stranded upon the avenues. There numbers are numerous, adding up to the unmentionable each and every Saturday night. Some are so angry they wish to kill me though I council them not to eradicate the messenger. I might be a paragraph but I am not the one composing and editing this particular volume of very real non-fiction. You won't find my image on the cover. As I tell them, I am not the publisher. Understandably, many believe otherwise, desiring to write me out of this particular storyline, not interested in neither rhyme or reason. All they want is a ride from point A to B. They don't want any excuses. All they want is a ride. And though I am just one individual I do what I can. Maybe I am my own justification. Which of course is another definition of the too average taxi driver flying down your local road!