White Collar Cabbie
Art: Bryan Haynes
The story is legend in Park City taxi circles. A driver pulls up late at night to Harry O’s. A sultry blonde in an ankle length fur coat hails him for a ride, and as she steps in, the front of the coat parts, revealing everything. Except for her coat, the woman is stark naked on a winter night.
That’s not why I became a cabbie last winter, but the fact that by day three I had a naked lady in the back seat did indicate things might be interesting. The idea of driving a cab came to me as a lark. After working for 35 years at a serious, buttoned-down kind of job for Fortune 500 media companies, I wanted something completely different.
In the late ’60s I’d aspired to be a ski bum, but back then, everybody wanted to hang out in ski towns, doing blue collar work by night and skiing all day. I never could find that perfect ski bum job. But now in between more serious jobs, I finally had time to ski, and some time left over for that ski bum gig — just for fun (and to keep the bar stocked).
“You’ll have money coming out of your pockets,” the taxi recruiter said over the phone. Soon I was off to the DMV to get my “Z” endorsement. This required a written test, with difficult questions like, “What do you do when you see a red octagonal sign with the word “Stop” on it?”
With my Z in hand, it was off to the actual job interview, which consisted of about one key question: “Can you start tonight?” Next came training. I hopped in with a veteran driver, eager to learn the insider tricks. We picked up a guy at a condo and drove him to a spa for a massage, making small talk along the way. “Well, that’s about it,” my trainer said and turned the keys over to me. My new career was underway.
I started driving a cab just as the Sundance Film Festival was beginning. Talk about baptism by fire. The streets were full of high maintenance film types perpetually late for screenings, dinners and terribly important meetings. The list of taxi rules I got on day one was out the window by day two. The naked lady arrived on day three. She and her girlfriends were gushing about bumping into Colin Farrell and Mary-Kate Olsen on Main Street, but now she was hot, not from seeing Colin, but from wearing long underwear. In the back seat, she started undressing, peeling off the long johns just as I pulled up to the Eccles Center with a thousand people streaming by.
The flow of characters continued. “Catwoman” might have been an interesting fare if I’d ever gotten her to talk. She and her boyfriend hopped in. I greeted her, and her response was “meow” to every question I asked. At the ride’s end, she exited the cab, walked straight into a snow bank and passed out. “Good luck,” I said to the boyfriend as I helped him drag her through their condo door.
The winter was a blur of people, from Catwoman and Naked Lady to the clueless guy phoning his buddy from the back seat, saying “Dude — you didn’t tell me Sundance was in a ski town — I didn’t bring a coat!”
Pretty much everybody who cycled through my taxi was friendly and happy. They were on ski vacations in the best ski town on the planet. Will I be driving them around again this winter? I don’t know yet, but the ski bum itch just might come back.
Regular contributor Larry Warren is more commonly known around Park City as a TV news reporter. He’s also an author, documentary filmmaker — and now, an occasional taxi driver.
Your comments may be edited for brevity and foul language.