Tasteful Nudes: ...and Other Misguided Attempts at Personal Growth and Validation (19 page)

Terry told me all about what it’s like to be a pedicab driver: the ins and outs, the highs and lows, the thrill of victory (i.e., successfully picking up a customer), and the agony of defeat (i.e., failing to pick up a customer). The more he talked, the more I had to fight the urge to just take to the streets in a pedicab right then and there.

“So you want the job?” he finally asked.

“Do I ‘want the job’?” I thought. “I
am
the fucking job!”

My training would begin the following morning. I couldn’t wait to see the look on Terry’s face when he realized what a natural I was. It would be like in all those movies where the last guy anybody in school expects to be good at football ends up being so good that everyone else on the team feels like quitting altogether. Also, a lot of otherwise unattainable girls want to have intercourse with him, which is awesome.

“You’re good, kid,” I imagined Terry reluctantly admitting once he saw me pedaling away. “Real good.”

I also imagined rolling back to Terry’s “office” at the end of each shift with piles of money spilling out of the back of my pedicab like I was a goddamn pirate.

“Before long, that son of a bitch will probably be working for me,” I thought.

I showed up at the garage the next morning sober and alert, my mind a sponge and my body a weapon. I assumed I’d hit the streets right away, but instead I just pedaled around the garage as Terry showed me the ropes.

“You have to remain aware of the cart at all times,” Terry kept telling me as I attempted to pedal in a circle, figure eight, or whatever other shape Terry seemed to think I better know how to pedal in if I ever expected to make anything of myself.

As I sat on top of the bike taking orders, I felt like Elizabeth Taylor riding that horse in
National Velvet
—perhaps in a bit over my head but ultimately determined to win. Even so, despite Terry’s warnings, I ended up banging into so many cars, cement columns, parking attendants, and other stuff in the garage you would have thought it was in the job description.

“Let the pedicab do the work for you,” Terry kept telling me in between bouts of groaning and shielding his eyes.

Even now I’m not sure what he meant by that. Maybe it was some Zen Buddhist thing since he seemed kind of deep. Terry also kept telling me how I didn’t “look confident on the bike,” as if he were some sort of wild animal capable of smelling fear. The more he said it, though, the more I became convinced what he really meant was I “look like a moron on the bike.” Terry also seemed like a real jerk sometimes.

My lesson lasted about an hour. And, despite my cavalier attitude toward not crashing into things, Terry agreed to let me take my first shift the following afternoon. Even so, there were plenty more rules he wanted me to follow.

“Do not, under any circumstances, ride into oncoming traffic,” he kept saying.

Apparently, this is a bad idea for several reasons. If you ask me, though, the more Terry mentioned it, the more he just sounded uptight.

As I rolled my pedicab out of the garage the next day, a profound feeling of freedom washed over me. Not only was the pedicab mine to pedal anywhere I wanted, but Terry had no idea where I lived. The fact that I could probably just keep on pedaling until I reached home, never to be seen again, had me vibrating with excitement. As if that weren’t enough, the weather was crisp yet pleasant, perfect pedicab weather, it seemed.

“I’ll probably have to beat people off with a stick,” I thought.

As I began pedaling up 6th Avenue, the first thing I realized is that Manhattan is far from the flat landscape I’d always perceived it to be. As it turns out, it’s more like a urine-and-exhaust-scented version of the Himalayas, full of impossibly steep inclines and dips in the road so severe you feel like you could fly over the handlebars at any moment. Add to that the fact it seems as if most cabs would actually be delighted to hit you, and suddenly you’ve got quite a ride on your hands.

“Holy shit!” I screamed half a dozen times before considering the fact that this sort of behavior might be bad for business.

Once I managed to chill out a bit, I decided to head for Times Square, a place I’d had little use for since they cleaned it up, but I figured I’d find the greatest density of people hell-bent on jumping in the back of my pedicab. Along the way, I spotted a handful of other pedicab drivers. Assuming we were brethren, I tried to give them a knowing look, the kind that said “Hey, pal, just another day in the life of an awesome pedicab driver—am I right or am I right?” But none of them seemed too interested in sharing a moment of solidarity with me. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe us pedicab drivers weren’t brothers at all. Maybe we were outlaws, each looking out for number one. Once that idea settled in, I decided I wanted each and every one of them dead. Ditto for the hot dog vendors, fake Rolex salesmen, street musicians, and anyone else vying for the cold hard cash of unsuspecting pedestrians. It’s funny how quickly the streets can change you.

As I continued my journey, I tried to shift my focus away from murder and toward getting people in the back of my pedicab, that place where they would suddenly owe me money. Terry gave me all sorts of tips on how to make that happen.

“Try to look like you’re having a really good time,” Terry suggested.

That was easy because I
was
having a really good time, maybe a little too good a time. In fact, I was giggling like a mental patient. If anything, I probably needed to tone it down.

Terry also suggested I try raising my eyebrows, gesturing toward my pedicab’s spacious and comfortable backseat, and repeatedly asking people if they wanted to ride in my pedicab while somehow giving the impression that I was the type of guy who could pedal super fast. Eventually, the power of suggestion would hopefully win over, they’d climb in the back, and I’d start rolling into traffic before they had a chance to change their mind.

“Want to ride in my pedicab?” I’d ask anyone willing to make eye contact. “It’s fun and efficient. And I can pedal faster than a goddamn cheetah!”

No matter how excited I am, I struggle to be very assertive without the assistance of alcohol, so I could only get myself to offer someone a ride a couple of times before I found myself sheepishly pedaling away. Still, like prostitution, drugs, or Girl Scout cookies, the pedicab business is a numbers game. If you want to succeed, you’ve got to hit up as many people as possible.
2

Even so, it only took a handful of rejections before I started to get lost in the metaphysical realities of driving a pedicab. I wondered where all the people who might actually want to ride in my pedicab might be hanging out; I wondered if a cab would actually stop if it hit me; and I wondered how I was doing compared to all those other pedicab drivers out there.

I snapped out of it, however, when I heard a voice coming from behind me. “Take us to 53rd and Madison,” it said.

I turned around to discover a couple in their forties already sitting in the back of my pedicab. Apparently they had jumped in during my mental business meeting.

“You got it!” I beamed.

Game on!

I began pedaling like the wind while weaving in and out of traffic just like one of those cabs that seemed to want me dead. My every move became fueled by the look of exhilaration I presumed to be on my passengers’ faces as they held on for dear life.

“So, what part of the city do you kids live in?” I yelled over my shoulder.

I knew they were tourists by their matching Times Square sweatshirts, “I Love New York” fanny packs, and foam Statue of Liberty crowns. But I also knew that tourists love it when you mistake them for locals.

“This will be reflected in the tip,” I thought.

After a few blocks into charioting my first official passengers, the physical challenges of the game began to further reveal themselves. With two fully grown humans in the back, that cart felt like I was dragging a dead rhinoceros behind me.

“Terry wasn’t lying,” I thought. “This really is a tough job.”

I suddenly understood why those wusses he mentioned at our first meeting quit after just two shifts. I was still confident I wasn’t one of them, yet there was no denying that my legs felt like they might snap like popsicle sticks any second. And my lungs felt like they were about to pop like airbags in a head-on collision. Before long, I even felt a dampness I recognized as sweat on my neck. Still, I had a job to do—pedal those last two blocks to 53rd and Madison, a familiar intersection that suddenly sounded a world away—so I powered through like the pedicab king I’d set out to be.

The couple tipped me generously for my hard work, giving me three dollars on top of the ten they owed—a 30 percent tip to you and me. Between that and the wave of endorphins I felt from pedaling two average-size adults almost six blocks, I began to experience something I quickly came to think of as “pedicab driver’s high.” It’s similar to runner’s high, only you mostly feel like you’re dying. But you just made over ten bucks so it’s not so bad really.

As I took it all in, I thought about just basking in the glory of a job well done for the remaining seven and a half hours of my shift But like a killer shark having tasted blood for the very first time, I found myself wanting more just as soon as I caught my breath, so I resumed the hunt.

“Come to papa,” I thought, merging with traffic once more. “Daddy’s hungry.”

Unfortunately, the pedicab driver’s appetite isn’t always quickly satisfied and—for all the reasons mentioned previously—I spent the next forty-five minutes pedaling around slowly, getting lost in thought while occasionally trying and failing to convince someone hailing a cab that getting into the back of my pedicab was a much better idea.

“One of us gives off almost no deadly carbon monoxide,” I’d brag. “Guess which one!”

As I continued down Broadway, enraging cab drivers every inch of the way, I heard a familiar voice call out to me.

“What the fuck are you doing?” it said.

I looked over my shoulder to find my friend Matt, whom I had worked with as a writer on a failed television show a few months earlier, chuckling incredulously in my direction.

“Living the dream, my friend,” I yelled back. “Living the motherfucking dream.”

“Seriously, what are you doing?” he persisted.

“I’m honestly not sure anymore,” I said, caving. “Want a ride?”

Matt had originally planned to walk into the subway station he’d been standing next to, but—friend that he is—he agreed to let me take him free of charge to the next stop instead, so I might feel the exhilaration of having someone ride in the back of my pedicab again and he might better understand what it’s like to have a friend on the edge.

“You learn a lot about people on one of these things,” I told Matt as I took him in the direction of 42nd Street. “And a lot about yourself.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he laughed.

I dropped Matt off a couple of minutes and a few close calls later. My plan was to get back out there and chase after my fortune some more right after that, but as nice as it was giving a friend a glimpse into my new life, seeing Matt also reminded me of the life I used to have, the one that didn’t involve telling people I could pedal faster than a cheetah or exerting myself almost to the point of having an aneurysm. Exhausted, I decided to bring my pedicab back to the garage for the night. Fortunately, Terry wasn’t there to see me roll into the garage in defeat. But he did call me the next morning to see how my maiden voyage had gone.

“So, how was your first day on the bike?” he asked.

“Awesome,” I lied. “Really, really awesome.”

“How much money did you make?”

“About a hundred and fifty bucks, give or take,” I lied again.

“Not too bad,” he mused.

I doubt he actually bought my $137 exaggeration, but I was grateful he went along with it.

I showed up for my second shift the next afternoon, sore yet determined to reach new heights, which—given my earnings from the day before—seemed kind of doable. The night before, as I tried to recuperate, I’d done some Internet research and learned that pedicab drivers can earn as much as $40,000 a year. The discovery made me hopeful, but I was also starting to doubt whether I had the physical, mental, or emotional goods to pull in even a fraction of that amount.

As I hit the streets on my pedicab once more, that feeling of freedom I had felt the day before was still there, but it was coupled with the feeling that maybe I was starting to lose my mind as my friend Matt seemed to suggest with a mere raise of his eyebrows. On the one hand, I really wanted this whole pedicab thing to work out. Maybe I really could make $40,000 on this bike and, who knows, maybe I’d even grow some dreadlocks and start getting into jam bands, too. You know, really get into the whole lifestyle. But on the other hand, I was starting to panic. I had been back in New York just a few months and in that time managed to go from being a decently paid television writer to a guy trying to pedal a bike with a big cart attached to it through rush hour traffic.

True to the pedicab game, however, I was only able to freak out for a few minutes before another fare hopped into the back of my pedicab without warning. This time it was a plus-size businessman, rushing to a late afternoon appointment across town.

“It’s impossible to catch a cab this time of day,” the guy said, wiping his forehead with his tie.

“You know what’s not impossible to catch this time of day?” I wanted to ask. “The ride of a fucking lifetime!”

I felt on top of the world again as I rose from my seat in an effort to send my pedicab’s wheels spinning faster than they’d ever had before. The plus-size businessman wanted to go from 46th Street and 7th Avenue to Columbus Circle and I intended to blow his mind with just how quickly that shit was about to happen.

“Hold on tight, my friend,” I said over my shoulder to him with a wink and a nod.

I don’t know if it was the afternoon heat or residual exhaustion from the day before, but I got about a half a block before I felt that familiar strain again. Determined, I pedaled on. But by the time I got to 57th Street, exhaustion had turned to genuine concern as I could feel my every resource rapidly depleting. Fifty-seventh Street suddenly felt like Mount Everest. And it was hard to tell if the bright light blinding me from the west was the sun or something much more profound. Had I been lying in a hospital emergency room, this would have been the moment when the machines started beeping like crazy and all the doctors and nurses started flying around the room in a controlled panic.