As the influx of young people to Manhattan has clearly diluted the population of people who understand how New York works, perhaps it’s time for some basic service journalism for our newest neighbors. (Or a terrorist incident. The Transom is happy to help but O.b. Laden could certainly do more.)
All up and down the East Village stretch of First Avenue this Friday morning of Memorial Day Weekend, bitches are frantically hailing cabs, their multiple tote bags swinging like gloppy fat tentacles. There is an observable tendency among this younger set to plonk their petulant feet down about eight feet downstream from someone who actually lives here who already has an arm or a leg extended to feed from the thin thin cab population.
Back in the day, this would have resulted in a funsy screaming match. But the new folk are so soft, all it takes is a gentle “Excuse me….” from the person behind, and off they scamper. So The Transom supposes its real tip is this: if you jump into a line at the coffee shop or in front of a fellow cab-desirer on a corner, don’t back down, youngster. Consider profanity, and the cabs will be yours.
Also? When just those little numbers on top of the cab are lit up? That means it’s actually for hire. Don’t you pay attention to details while you consume your nightly educational Dick Wolf shows in your crappy Murray Hill sheetrocked shoeboxes?