This story appeared in the online market, Page & Spine on April 30th 2021, and is about a legendary rock-n-roller that also enjoys a side job hobby. Enjoy!
By Jon Moray
I was in New York City in the early Spring, visiting old friends and staying at a Midtown Manhattan hotel that was nestled snuggly between two curtain-walled skyscrapers. I made plans that evening to meet my childhood buddies at an Italian restaurant on the Upper West Side. I checked the subway route and I would’ve had to take two trains to get to the eatery, so I decided to hail a cab instead.
A light drizzle, under the periwinkle dusk sky, showered my un-sheltered head as several yellow cabs either raced by or stopped for more impatient taxi hailers. It had been a long time since I lived in the city and I remembered you had to be agressive to get by in this town. I took action on my recollection and risked two steps out onto the street, while flailing like an inflatable tube man outside a store grand opening.
My persistence immediately paid off as an older model, yellow checkered cab, with round quad headlights, slowed to a stop beside me. The taxi had a shine to it that glistened under the glow of the illuminated gooseneck streetlights. I jumped in and got comfortable in the limo sized back seat.
“Where to, Pal?” came a voice from the driver, that seemed to desperately mask a British accent with a thick, rehearsed, New York one.
“Bella Luna, Columbus Avenue, between 88th and 89th.”
“Ah, yes. An excellent restaurant. Great food and ambiance,” the driver said, as more of the British accent seeped through. I looked in the rear view mirror to spy the driver’s features. The man had long wavy dark hair, covered by a tweed newsboy cap, large, round, rose colored glasses and a mustache that looked oddly disproportionate to his face, tickling his upper lip. His eyes were naturally squinted, as if he was subjected to forever stare at the sun. He caught me peering at him, as he pulled out into East 49th Street traffic with a serenade of several honks of his horn.
A funny feeling hit me with the near impossibility that the man driving this vintage, purring cab was a legendary rock star. My heart raced with wonder of why one of the most famous performers in the world would be driving around this crazy city for compensation. It couldn’t be, but as I sure as I am alive, and as much as I am a fan, I was eighty percent sure he was that musically creative genius. I stole glimpses of him while he hummed an unrecognizable tune. The name on the laminated identification placard near the dashboard read, ‘J. Jack F.’
Thoughts of unveiling his identity bounced in my head like a confused tumbleweed. If curiosity killed the cat, then I must be part tabby on death row.
“Meeting a young lady at the restaurant?” the incognito rocker, at least in my mind, asked with genuine interest.
A sudden plan hit me, and his query provided the opportunity to set that plan into motion. “Yes, meeting my girlfriend. Her name is Angie,” I sang, with a lying tongue, while blatantly trying to read his reaction. A slight smile split his lips, but his eyes remained focused on the road.
“She is not from here. She’s from Tennessee, like all the honky tonk women that live in those parts.” No reaction, as he hung a right onto Park Avenue and cruised by many luxurious apartment buildings that flanked the street.
I broke the silence with a thought provoking question. “Why do you drive a cab, Jack?”
He exhaled audibly, paused a moment, while his eyes searched the reflective aura of red lights in the windshield. “I dig the contrast of conversations with people of all walks of life. I like driving. I love this city and I enjoy watching the sea of humanity shuffling to and from their destinations. I wish I had more time to do this,” He smiled, and nodded convincingly, at least to him.
His summation brought a grin from me as I dug deeper. “You can’t always get what you want,” I twanged off key, shameless, and amused.
The blank stare through the silhouettes of people crossing in front of us, told me that perhaps he wasn’t the celebrity I thought he was. The light turned green and he drove with purpose, weaving around buses, other cabs, and bike messengers as if it were the last lap of the Daytona 500. He took a left onto 89th Street and sped on, as safety became paramount, and curiosity took a time-out. I quickly got back on task and continued my attempt to blow his cover. “No need to rush. Time is on my side.” Still, nothing from the cabbie whose contribution to music merited knighthood by royalty.
“I saw you in ‘82 at Madison Square Garden.” His eyes shifted back and forth, synced with the intermittent wipers as if he were watching a ping-pong match, while silence overshadowed the vehicle. I continued stealing glances at his features, now 99.9 percent sure he was the superstar lead singer of the band I grew up rocking out to on 8-track, cassette and vinyl.
“I know, I know, I get that a lot,” he offered, as he snickered at all of the song references, shook his head and bellowed a chuckle. The subtle innuendos continued the rest of the ride. The rock-n-roll icon’s wrinkled exterior remained impenetrable, like an iron curtain. If he was the real thing, he wasn’t going to give me the satisfaction of knowing it.
He turned onto Columbus Avenue, whistling, while lightly tapping on the patented leather covered steering wheel. He came to a stop in front of the restaurant and announced, “That’ll be fourteen seventy-six.”
I handed him a twenty as he reached back without looking and grabbed it out of my hand. “Keep the change and have a nice night, uh, Jack.”
He turned back at me, lowered his glasses, smiled, revealing off-white teeth and said, “It was ‘81. We played the Garden in ‘81 as part of our American tour. I always loved the acoustics at the Garden.” His face gleamed as he explained a good friend that owns a cab company lets him fulfill his fantasy of driving a taxi whenever he is in town. “The name is false, but the hack license is true. Don‘t tell anyone.”
“This cab driving gig is a gas, isn‘t it?”
“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” he sang, smooth, as if he had snatched the vocals right from its original recording a long time ago.
I nodded, shook his hand, and thanked him for all the band’s music that provided a bluesy-rock soundtrack to many vivid memories. I got out and waved. As he drove away, he tooted a melody of “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” from his custom, musically modified horn. 8 \lsdlocked0 G
Moray Writes 