away.
When we exited the Santa Monica Freeway at La Cienega, we were ahead of schedule, but Fabrizio wanted insurance. He flew past a guy on the right, and used a turn lane to get the jump on the cars at the next signal. When the light changed to green, he stomped on the gas pedal, and veered left around a parked car in order to cut off the other motorists that had the right of way. “Yes!”
We lost a little time at the next two lights when they were off synchronized, but Fab didn’t look concerned. He knew the route well enough to anticipate the delays and take them in his stride.
Since this was a good run, my brother’s conviction was building. We were significantly ahead of his other faster times. With each vanishing block, he was more eager and confident, and so preoccupied that he forgot about the smell coming from the rear of his station wagon.
Our major challenge came at Beverly Boulevard and La Cienega. For some reason, there were seven or eight cars backed up in our left turn lane, controlled by a signal arrow. This made Fabrizio nervous.
When our lane finally did get its green arrow to go, only one vehicle made it through before the arrow turned yellow, then red almost immediately. The light was way off sync and out of whack. We were now buried at the end of the line.
What made it worse was that we were in a six-way intersection. Fab became very antsy, looking at his “G-Shock” watch over and over, seeing his best run tick away down the shitter.He started pounding the wheel with his palms. He snarled out loud that the ninety-second light sequence would change at least six more times before we’d be able to make a left. There were now only two minutes left, and a block and a half still to go to beat his record.
Fab’s lips formed the numbers of a countdown. Eighty-eight, eighty-seven, eighty-six. In front of us was a Jaguar convertible and behind us a yellow minivan. Then, unable to stop himself, he began blowing his horn, wildly motioning to the lady behind us driving the minivan, to back up.
It took her a few seconds to understand and reverse her vehicle a few feet. Fab slammed our wagon into “R” and skidded back, making solid contact with her bumper. Then, using the opening, he banged the station wagon’s tranny into “D” again and made a wild right turn across all lanes of traffic to the far right turn lane where there were no cars stopped. I knew what was coming. It was a favorite maneuver of New York cabbies. They do it all the time. When our light turned green, he edged his way forward into the middle of the intersection and waited for all the cars headed in our direction to go on through the intersection. Then, when the signal had changed to yellow and there was no more traffic coming, Fabrizio swung his illegal left from the far right traffic lane…“Yes!” he yelled, and punched the accelerator.
I heard Rocco groan as the force of the turn slid him and his gopher across the rear cargo area and bounced him off a wheel well.
We screeched west on Beverly Boulevard with forty-five seconds to go, while Fab continued to mouth his count down. My kid brother was still confident of a record run.
With thirty seconds left, we wheeled into the automatic ticket-dispensing lane at Cedars’ parking lot entrance. As it turned out, however, we were fucked. In front of us was a twenty-year-old mint condition Caddy driven by an elderly, fat man who had not pulled close enough to the ticket-giver machine to grab his stub.
I could see Fab’s jaw muscles tighten in rage as the short-armed, old guy struggled, without success, through his open window to reach the machine. Finally, carefully, the old poop had to open his door and stretch to grab at the pink cardboard ticket.
Seven. Six. Five. Fabrizio slammed both hands on his horn and held it down. The noise of the horn was magnified by the low ceiling of the building.
Once, in St. Adrian’s bar in New York City for the bribe of free drinks, a
When we exited the Santa Monica Freeway at La Cienega, we were ahead of schedule, but Fabrizio wanted insurance. He flew past a guy on the right, and used a turn lane to get the jump on the cars at the next signal. When the light changed to green, he stomped on the gas pedal, and veered left around a parked car in order to cut off the other motorists that had the right of way. “Yes!”
We lost a little time at the next two lights when they were off synchronized, but Fab didn’t look concerned. He knew the route well enough to anticipate the delays and take them in his stride.
Since this was a good run, my brother’s conviction was building. We were significantly ahead of his other faster times. With each vanishing block, he was more eager and confident, and so preoccupied that he forgot about the smell coming from the rear of his station wagon.
Our major challenge came at Beverly Boulevard and La Cienega. For some reason, there were seven or eight cars backed up in our left turn lane, controlled by a signal arrow. This made Fabrizio nervous.
When our lane finally did get its green arrow to go, only one vehicle made it through before the arrow turned yellow, then red almost immediately. The light was way off sync and out of whack. We were now buried at the end of the line.
What made it worse was that we were in a six-way intersection. Fab became very antsy, looking at his “G-Shock” watch over and over, seeing his best run tick away down the shitter.He started pounding the wheel with his palms. He snarled out loud that the ninety-second light sequence would change at least six more times before we’d be able to make a left. There were now only two minutes left, and a block and a half still to go to beat his record.
Fab’s lips formed the numbers of a countdown. Eighty-eight, eighty-seven, eighty-six. In front of us was a Jaguar convertible and behind us a yellow minivan. Then, unable to stop himself, he began blowing his horn, wildly motioning to the lady behind us driving the minivan, to back up.
It took her a few seconds to understand and reverse her vehicle a few feet. Fab slammed our wagon into “R” and skidded back, making solid contact with her bumper. Then, using the opening, he banged the station wagon’s tranny into “D” again and made a wild right turn across all lanes of traffic to the far right turn lane where there were no cars stopped. I knew what was coming. It was a favorite maneuver of New York cabbies. They do it all the time. When our light turned green, he edged his way forward into the middle of the intersection and waited for all the cars headed in our direction to go on through the intersection. Then, when the signal had changed to yellow and there was no more traffic coming, Fabrizio swung his illegal left from the far right traffic lane…“Yes!” he yelled, and punched the accelerator.
I heard Rocco groan as the force of the turn slid him and his gopher across the rear cargo area and bounced him off a wheel well.
We screeched west on Beverly Boulevard with forty-five seconds to go, while Fab continued to mouth his count down. My kid brother was still confident of a record run.
With thirty seconds left, we wheeled into the automatic ticket-dispensing lane at Cedars’ parking lot entrance. As it turned out, however, we were fucked. In front of us was a twenty-year-old mint condition Caddy driven by an elderly, fat man who had not pulled close enough to the ticket-giver machine to grab his stub.
I could see Fab’s jaw muscles tighten in rage as the short-armed, old guy struggled, without success, through his open window to reach the machine. Finally, carefully, the old poop had to open his door and stretch to grab at the pink cardboard ticket.
Seven. Six. Five. Fabrizio slammed both hands on his horn and held it down. The noise of the horn was magnified by the low ceiling of the building.
Once, in St. Adrian’s bar in New York City for the bribe of free drinks, a
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