COLUMN: On the raod again

From Tom Nessinger's "Inseparable My Nose and Thumb," Fall '96 From Tom Nessinger's "Inseparable My Nose and Thumb," Fall '96Whether traveling by van,From Tom Nessinger's "Inseparable My Nose and Thumb," Fall '96Whether traveling by van,plane or cab, getting there isFrom Tom Nessinger's "Inseparable My Nose and Thumb," Fall '96Whether traveling by van,plane or cab, getting there isnone of the fun these days. From Tom Nessinger's "Inseparable My Nose and Thumb," Fall '96Whether traveling by van,plane or cab, getting there isnone of the fun these days. Air travel has become such a staple of stand-up comedy repertoire that it's reached the status of cliche. Airline jokes get old. Sure, airlines have their problems, but the real hassle in air travel is getting to and from the airport, as I learned to my sorrow this past Christmas break. My adventures serve as yet another example of why, in our so-called "service economy," the word "service" is used in the same sense that that term is employed in animal husbandry. This gave me enough time to call the Super Shuttle dispatcher to explain, quite reasonably I thought, that when one is in the business of actually picking people up at their homes, one should try to send a driver who can conceivably locate his own posterior without the assistance of both hands, the hands of his entire family and every flashlight ever sold in North America. This led the dispatcher to tell me his troubles: "These drivers aren't trained, I can't drive for them, I can only tell them the directions?" and on and on until I finally reminded Louie DePalma that, in fact, since it was his company that had left me in the lurch, perhaps he could voice his complaints in the general direction of SOMEBODY WHO ACTUALLY GAVE A 24-KARAT GOLD-PLATED RAT'S HINDQUARTERS! But this inconvenience, infuriating as it was, was as nothing compared to what awaited me on my return. I came back to Philadelphia the Friday before classes began; my flight was on time; a light snow was just tapering off as I arrived at the cab stand; the roads were tricky but by no means impassable. I dutifully tried to board the cab to which I was directed, but hit a snag when my driver (who was neither a native of Philadelphia nor of this hemisphere) professed ignorance as to the exact location of Upper Darby. (What is it with the drivers in this town? It's Delaware County, fercryinoutloud, not the Lost Continent of Atlantis.) The cab-stand supervisor, trying to keep things moving, established -- by way of elaborate pantomimes, flash cards and pidgin English -- that my prospective chauffeur could find his way to the 69th Street SEPTA Terminal, and that I could navigate from there. You'd think I would have had the sense God gave a box turtle and called it off right there, but transcontinental flights do strange things to your judgment. The whole time we were on the road, I heard nothing from this driver but how bad the roads were, how rotten the weather was, how treacherous the driving was and how 'bout those Kurds? As for me, I was part psychoanalyst and part driving instructor, coaching my man through such driving intricacies as "pumping the brakes" -- this as we slalomed our way up the Spruce Street off-ramp. Now, ordinarily I'm averse to paying for the privilege of teaching someone how to drive, but since I'd just come back from Arizona with a tan and had no desire to impose unsightly stitches on my nicely-browned epidermis, I swallowed my indignation as I coaxed and cajoled my driver du jour through West Philadelphia, all the while trying to remember the exact wording of the Perfect Act of Contrition. My driver's nerve finally gave out about three blocks from my apartment. He simply refused to go further. "This is ice!" he argued, stomping or, rather, squishing his foot down into what we in the Earth's temperate zones call slush. "I cannot drive in this!" From the reaction, you'd think I had just told him, "Okay, you be Thelma, I'll be Louise, there's the North Rim: floor it!" Appeals to logic and meteorology, pleas, threats of serial murder -- nothing could dissuade him from his conviction that I was somehow being selfish in expecting to be delivered to my door, which was (after all) why I had taken a cab and not, say, the R5. So, after parting as something less than friends, I trudged through the snow in my sneakers, dragging my four bags, stopping only to watch as other, non-professional drivers managed to negotiate the street which my soon-to-be-fined-and-suspended cabbie would not attempt. Now maybe it's just me, but I figure that if your job consists of picking someone up here and delivering them there, and if you're actually on the meter, you ought to spend a little more time perfecting the craft of point-to- point transport and a little less time bitching about how tough your damn job is. But that's me; I'm one of those choosy consumers. Lest you think I have a vendetta against the entire taxi-driving profession, let me add that the cabbie who drove me to the airport after Super Shuttle punted displayed an admirable disregard for the traffic laws on my behalf. (C'mon, how many pedestrians are up at 5 a.m., really?) I tipped the cabbie well for his efforts, too. But it seems like his ilk are too seldom seen in this day and age, or at least in this town. Next time, as they used to say, take the train. All the way from Phoenix, if you have to.