#20 Ski Boots Trump Taxi

In the early 70’s I commuted daily between Manhattan and New Jersey: Hackensack to be exact.

I had splurged on a new pair of ski boots. Not just any boots, they were filled with foam for a custom fit. All boots caused agony since skiing as a child. Every time I’d get down to the bottom of the slope I’d unbuckle to relieve the pain and re-buckle at the top again. I still do and have frostbite.

On the same evening I picked up the new boots, friends from work wanted to go out to drink. These were the days when I was still cultivating a capacity for alcohol. But that evening stands our since we didn’t have anything to eat but peanuts at the bar. And, I was lugging the heavy box of boots.

Forget walking to Port Authority, I got a cab with only a few scotches and peanuts on my stomach. It wasn’t until the cab began speeding up and screeching to a halt at lights that I realized the world was spinning, or I was. I held on hoping I could make it into the bus station. The hope was pointless. Just feet from my destination, the contents of my stomach had to leave my body and there was no stopping it. I could not get the window down in time. The prized box of ski boots was spared, but the cab interior was not.

I already had cash out for the driver and handed it forward, left the cab and closed the door saying nothing. All I could think of was getting into the building.

For the next month every morning when I exited the Port Authority building, wearing dark glasses, I looked for that cab driver lurking, certain he would track me down for revenge.

3 Comments on “#20 Ski Boots Trump Taxi”

  1. Rhonda says:

    You crack me up! I love reading your stories!!

  2. Clarence says:

    One is not enough. Two is too many. Three is not enough. You would’ve been a good foil for Dorothy Parker at the Algonquin.

  3. Sylvia says:

    Now THAT is funny!

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