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muckefuckWhen I disembarked from the train at Naperville, there was a single cab waiting in the parking lot. I counted myself lucky and jogged over to it. The driver was older and soft-spoken. I asked him, "How much to Bolingbrook?" and he asked me, "What's the address?" It produced no glimmer of recognition. JP had given me the crossstreets of the nearest major intersection over the phone, so as I climbed in I gave those to him. When he didn't say anything to that, I prompted him, "About $30, right?" and got a tepid response which could be construed as agreement.
The car was more spacious than a city cab and there was no barrier, but the seatbelt was broken so I had to shift over to the driver's side. As the cabbie prepared to turn onto a major road, I asked him, "Aren't you going to turn the metre on?" He did and, as we came up to speed, I was struck by the fact that he was doing the speed limit. My eye on the clock and the metre the whole time, fighting off the worry you always have in a town you don't know that you're going to end up someplace miles away from your destination.
Eventually the road became Weber, which I recognised as one of the names JP had given me, and I was able to relax a bit. We had just come over a wooded rise and I regretted once more not being able to take in the scene in the daylight. Then the driver asked me, "Do you know how to get to this place?" "No; that's why I hired a cab," I replied frostily. All my fears seemed confirmed, when he pulled out a metro area atlas as we slid into the left-turn lane before a stoplight.
Tenser than ever, I watched him flip endless to a dog-eared page, study it vaguely, and then turn to the street index in the back. I was about to suggest he pull over to do that when he made that choice himself on the other side of the intersection. "Must be a new street," he mumbled, and got out to retrieve a street map from his trunk. Disgusted, I called up JP again and told him we'd reached the intersection. "Are you going east or west?" "I've got no idea," I told him, "I've never been here before and I can't see the moon." He dictated a series of turns and I relayed them to the driver, who turned the cab around in the parking lot of mall and sent us off in the opposite direction.
During all of this, he'd left the metre running. As we passed through the intersection again, I informed him firmly but civilly that I wasn't going to pay the $3 racked up because he didn't know where he was going; I had to repeat myself several times before I felt like this had sunk in. By this time, several more minutes had passed and still no sign of the first turn we were supposed to make. He began to slow down at the entrance to a subdivision. "This is Danube," I said, "we're looking for Orchard." "Maybe we passed it already?" he suggested feebly.
I'd had enough. Furiously dialing my host yet again, I told him to forget it and let me out. "I can walk back to the intersection if that will make things easier," I volunteered, but JP told me to sit tight, they'd find me. Before I got out of the car I asked for the driver's company, name, and ID number so I could lodge a formal complaint. He complied, protesting, "This is a Naperville cab, not a Bolingbrook cab." "Then you shouldn't have taken the fare!" I snapped. I handed over $20--the amount on the metre as we passed through the intersection--and wrangled my bag out to the curb.
Ten minutes or so passed before JP called again asking which side of the intersection I was on. I reminded him politely that there's was no way to tell on a night that was dark and cloudy. Before we finished the call, however, he pulled up in a pickup truck driven by a kindly Nashville transplant. Those moments standing in the cool air had helped; I was impressed by my calmness as I gave my companions the play-by-play.
"All the cabs in Nashville have GPS," said our driver. "In Chicago, people break into cars just to steal the GPS," I replied. "I think the cabbies might be afraid to have 'em." What they do have, however, are dispatchers; I've had drivers before who called up to talk them through the route step by step. I fully expected the same from my hapless Naperville cabbie, which is why I hadn't been put off by his initial cluelessness. Are things just different out in the burbs or did I have particularly bad luck? Frankly I hope never to find out.
The car was more spacious than a city cab and there was no barrier, but the seatbelt was broken so I had to shift over to the driver's side. As the cabbie prepared to turn onto a major road, I asked him, "Aren't you going to turn the metre on?" He did and, as we came up to speed, I was struck by the fact that he was doing the speed limit. My eye on the clock and the metre the whole time, fighting off the worry you always have in a town you don't know that you're going to end up someplace miles away from your destination.
Eventually the road became Weber, which I recognised as one of the names JP had given me, and I was able to relax a bit. We had just come over a wooded rise and I regretted once more not being able to take in the scene in the daylight. Then the driver asked me, "Do you know how to get to this place?" "No; that's why I hired a cab," I replied frostily. All my fears seemed confirmed, when he pulled out a metro area atlas as we slid into the left-turn lane before a stoplight.
Tenser than ever, I watched him flip endless to a dog-eared page, study it vaguely, and then turn to the street index in the back. I was about to suggest he pull over to do that when he made that choice himself on the other side of the intersection. "Must be a new street," he mumbled, and got out to retrieve a street map from his trunk. Disgusted, I called up JP again and told him we'd reached the intersection. "Are you going east or west?" "I've got no idea," I told him, "I've never been here before and I can't see the moon." He dictated a series of turns and I relayed them to the driver, who turned the cab around in the parking lot of mall and sent us off in the opposite direction.
During all of this, he'd left the metre running. As we passed through the intersection again, I informed him firmly but civilly that I wasn't going to pay the $3 racked up because he didn't know where he was going; I had to repeat myself several times before I felt like this had sunk in. By this time, several more minutes had passed and still no sign of the first turn we were supposed to make. He began to slow down at the entrance to a subdivision. "This is Danube," I said, "we're looking for Orchard." "Maybe we passed it already?" he suggested feebly.
I'd had enough. Furiously dialing my host yet again, I told him to forget it and let me out. "I can walk back to the intersection if that will make things easier," I volunteered, but JP told me to sit tight, they'd find me. Before I got out of the car I asked for the driver's company, name, and ID number so I could lodge a formal complaint. He complied, protesting, "This is a Naperville cab, not a Bolingbrook cab." "Then you shouldn't have taken the fare!" I snapped. I handed over $20--the amount on the metre as we passed through the intersection--and wrangled my bag out to the curb.
Ten minutes or so passed before JP called again asking which side of the intersection I was on. I reminded him politely that there's was no way to tell on a night that was dark and cloudy. Before we finished the call, however, he pulled up in a pickup truck driven by a kindly Nashville transplant. Those moments standing in the cool air had helped; I was impressed by my calmness as I gave my companions the play-by-play.
"All the cabs in Nashville have GPS," said our driver. "In Chicago, people break into cars just to steal the GPS," I replied. "I think the cabbies might be afraid to have 'em." What they do have, however, are dispatchers; I've had drivers before who called up to talk them through the route step by step. I fully expected the same from my hapless Naperville cabbie, which is why I hadn't been put off by his initial cluelessness. Are things just different out in the burbs or did I have particularly bad luck? Frankly I hope never to find out.
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Given that they fit in a pocket, it seems like the obvious option would be to take them out when the cab's not in use. At their current size and price, there's no real excuse for someone whose professional obligation is to be able to get people to where they're going not to have one. Barring a shift to the level of training required by London black cabs, nobody can know every street, even in Chicago where the street grid doesn't change that much, and in the suburbs there's active development going on.
Of course, that risks the opposite problem, of a cabbie who's paralyzed when the address he's going to isn't on the year-old map in his GPS, or when he's not getting a signal for some reason. Or the occasional disastrous insistence of a driver to follow the GPS despite it not agreeing with the terrain (there are periodic stories of people following bad GPS directions into bodies of water and such). But still, a paid driver not having GPS in 2009 is nuts.
It's not just the suburbs, though-- I had to talk a cab driver in from Midway to
Thank goodness you had a cell phone, though. The same scenario a decade or more ago would have been much worse.
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(Though I do have my eye on the Verizon Droid when it comes out...)
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Though I would have told him to take 53 down to Boughton and make a right. then a left on Orchard. But easy for me to say since I know the area well and I've been to JP's several times before.
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