Counting Cabs
I spent most of last night ensconced at the Brooklyn Public House which is, depending on who you talk to, either the best or worst new edition to my home turf of Fort Greene/Clinton Hill in Brooklyn. That it is a sign of the times for the neighborhood, no one questions. What it means, on the other hand, is up for debate, fierce debate. This is the chief problem with divination, ever since the first disheveled Homeric sage squinted his eyes into a muddle of thrown bones or a strange bird formation: one man’s vision of a divine face is another man’s vision of a lumpy Abe Vigoda. What the devil does it all mean? Everybody sees something different. This only is beyond a doubt: the neighborhood, it is a’ changing. You don’t have to venture inside the latest gastropub to see it, it’s there in the street. Just look at the cabs.
It was just before midnight when our group of four spilled out of the pub onto the street. Final cigarettes were had as we slowly adjourned the evening. As I watched, more than half-a-dozen yellow cabs in various states of vacancy swam down DeKalb like great whites cruising offshore of a seal colony. I think I counted eight just in the few moments I was paying attention. Two of our four found cabs home within two minutes of perching themselves on the avenue. I saw another four to six as I walked home. This is not midtown Manhattan. Either I witnessed a major paranormal event (not unlike the symmetrical book stacking of the Philadelphia mass turbulence of 1947) or there has been a swift and vigorous change to the migratory habits of the New York City taxicab. My love of the paranormal (and Ghostbusters) notwithstanding, I favor the latter theory.
The taxi is a simple animal. Like the shark, it’s DNA has been perfectly impregnated with the tools to survive for countless millennia: all the cab does is pick up a fare, drive it where it wants to go, and drop it off for cash. That’s it, that’s all they do. The logic behind this behavior pattern is simple, primitive, and brutally sound: only go places you can be reasonably assured of getting a fare back from- fiscal survival in its purest, most primal form.
To see such a school of cabs in these Brooklyn waters was, therefore, a profound proof of change in the neighborhood climate: where once roamed only the black, sloped shapes of the car service town-cars now the yellow cab feared not to tread. Yet the timing feels off. The recession hit, pockets emptied, but the cabs are here now where they weren’t when times were better. What did they discover now that they didn’t know before?
The nature of the neighborhood has not substantially changed since I moved in. Things came, things went, but on the balance, it’s the same as it was. What’s changed is the perception of the place. The eyes of the outside world are upon us, embodied by the rheumy, blood-shot eyes of the venerable gray lady, the New York Times, in its new “local” blog prototype. We are certainly being watched by powers beyond our demesne’s borders. And the great Eye is ever watchful.
If we were, formerly, in the shadow of Williamsburg, DUMBO, Park Slope, and other well-known Brooklyn grounds, the shroud might be lifting a bit, letting in some slight, wan light, and giving courage to those creatures of commerce unused to the shade. Who’s to say for sure? All I know is the cabs are here. The cabs are here in force. For the moment, that’s all I can say with certainty. To know more, I must go to the park and consult the patterns of squirrels.