Ethel Merman Meets John Coltrane

Venturing through the sinew and shadow of Manhattan's entrails.

Musical Background - There’s No Business Like Show Business: Sonny Rollins

After my first year at NYU Film School, I took on the role of a taxi driver in New York City, a job I maintained intermittently over the following ten years. Steering through the energetic streets of New York from the driver's seat of a taxi was far from a leisurely experience. It demanded unwavering perseverance and resilience.

Taxi drivers heavily relied on gratuities to supplement their earnings. I soon discerned a pattern: affluent passengers, often from the Upper East Side or businessmen with Park Avenue destinations, were typically frugal with their tips. In contrast, those from more modest backgrounds heading to less opulent areas, were consistently generous.

Of course, there were also the well-known figures who opted for taxis over limousines. Some were amiable, while others exuded an unmistakable air of superiority. I recall one renowned TV film critic, quite prominent in New York back then, who took a brief ride amounting to just $0.95. Handing over a single dollar, he magnanimously told me to "keep the change."

Joe Namath was a notable figure in New York at the time, celebrated for his Super Bowl achievements and as the proprietor of the popular Bachelors Three bar on Lexington Avenue.  In my taxi he was cordial, We engaged in a short yet meaningful chat. Upon reaching his destination, he generously paid double the fare and wished me well. It was a testament to the fact that fame doesn't necessarily alter one's character.

Early one morning, in the wee small hours, a hotel doorman put Ethel Merman in my taxi. Ms. Merman was a legendary actress and vocalist, celebrated for her unique voice and prominent roles in Broadway musicals. She was also notorious for her brash demeanor and for telling vulgar stories at public parties. During this specific taxi journey, she was noticeably intoxicated. I always had my boombox in the cab and enjoyed listening to Jazz even with passengers on board, hoping some of them would hear something new and interesting they might like. Since she wasn’t traveling a great distance and she was drunk, I decided to share a snippet of John Coltrane’s “Ascension,” one of his more exploratory recordings and see what would happen. The avant garde classic featured intense, free-form improvisation from a cast of eleven.

When she entered the taxi, she quickly drifted off into a dreamland where the soundtrack must have been the Great American Songbook. However, as soon as Trane and his crew began their performance, she woke up like an atomic bomb imploded. "Why are you playing this?" she screamed. "This isn't music; it’s infants wailing.” I turned the volume down slightly, to which she remarked, "It feels like background music for a film set in a mental institution.  Who would even think of recording something like this? Why are you making me listen to this?”

As we arrived at her destination, she looked deeply into my eyes and screamed, “You're not a taxi driver, you’re a goddamn sadist.” Interestingly, at the end of this brief encounter, she even tipped me. Talk about drama.

One Monday evening, I was driving up Sixth Avenue, in search of my next passenger. It was after eleven and the streets were unusually quiet. Ahead, I noticed two women carrying multiple bags, flagging down my cab as I approached. Once they settled in and mentioned their destination, Washington Heights, a sizable fare, I took a brief look. Their outfits were quite provocative, with their affordable blonde wigs a common choice among some black women of a certain profession, back in the day.

I had nothing against sex workers but they seemed very uptight and an air of unease filled the cab. I had my share of rides where I'd pick up on negative energy and just hurried to finish the journey. The strong scent of cheap perfume permeated my vehicle; I was eager for the trip to end. No matter how bad the vibe, I had to endure it, otherwise, no money.

After the drive uptown on the West Side Highway, upon arrival they hastily exited the taxi, leaving behind one bag that seemed to contain a shoebox. One of the women hurried into the building, while the other assured me she'd return with the fare momentarily and left the shoebox as collateral.  “You wouldn’t steal my shoes, would you?”  Seconds after she disappeared into the building, a gut feeling made me check the shoebox – it was empty. I had been duped out of a significant fare.

Frustration welled up, I got out of the taxi, slammed the door, and began venting loudly, drawing the attention of nearby residents.  I saw lights in apartments going on, suddenly.  Windows were raised and heads were popping out to see what was going on.  Someone shouted out, they live in apartment 5G. I also spotted a police car nearby so I hurried over, but the officers seemed wary, likely interpreting my frantic state as erratic behavior. At first, they wouldn’t even roll down their windows to listen to me. Reluctantly, accompanied me back to the building but made no promises about the outcome of this adventure.

As we approached the apartment building, we were met by a man in a polo shirt and loafers, holding a clipboard. He was the head of the building association and happy to help us because these women, he revealed, had a history of evading taxi fares. He let us into the building and the men in blue made a half-hearted attempt to knock on their apartment door, to no avail. While they were hesitant to take any aggressive action, my patience had run thin. “We can’t break down the door,” one said.  “You can’t, but I can,” and I began pounding on the door with my entire body. After the third slam, the door opened, just a crack, revealing a hand extending the owed fare, even with an added tip. A voice from behind the door claimed they had always intended to pay. With the situation resolved, the policemen shook their heads, and I got back in my cab in search of my next ride.

During New York's scorching summers, driving a cab was a challenge, particularly in the late 60s when most taxis lacked air conditioning. One humid evening, I was navigating 42nd Street not far from Times Square, hoping to pick up post-theater passengers. The 42nd Street Playhouse, an old burlesque theater with stately Grecian columns, 

located near the Lincoln Tunnel entrance on Dyer Avenue, caught my eye. Unlike modern strip clubs, this venue, a relic of a long gone era, showcased genuine performances complete with music and elaborate costumes. That night's headline act, as advertised by a life-sized cardboard cutout, was Destiny – a curvaceous platinum blonde. Stopped at a traffic light, while I was momentarily distracted by the display, Destiny herself, draped in a full-length white fur coat, stepped out of the theater and into my cab.

She directed me to a location between 1st and 2nd Avenues on 49th Street. As I covertly observed her reflection in my rearview mirror, she exuded a sultry charisma reminiscent of a young Mae West. Breaking the silence, she purred, “you’re cute.”  Then she playfully inquired about my guess on her attire beneath the fur. Caught off guard but intrigued, I replied, "Show me." To my astonishment, she revealed herself to be completely naked beneath the coat.

Fireworks exploded in my head. My pants suddenly tightened, my heart raced, and my mind was awash with impure thoughts about her body and what I might do with it. She beat me to the punch.  “Why don’t you come upstairs and try out my new waterbed,” she suggested, The allure of a waterbed, especially during its novelty phase, was tempting.  The word was, sex on a waterbed was the experience of a lifetime.  For me, at age twenty, sex on a paper towel would have been a cosmic experience.

However, as we approached her residence, I spotted the only open parking space in front of her building, blocked by a fire hydrant. The choices weighed on me: continue my shift or risk a $150 ticket for a unique escapade. Opting for the latter, I soon found myself in her modest, steamy studio apartment. As she switched on the AC, I sensed an intense, bizarre aroma emanating her most private of parts.   Observing my reaction, she revealed that she had done “six shows with my snake today.”

A sudden glance out the window revealed a tow truck nearing my cab. Realizing the urgency, I bid her a hasty goodbye, managing to reach my taxi just in time to deter the tow.   Before I drove off, a glance upwards revealed Destiny, now in a nightgown, watching from her window.  She waved. I waved back, wondering what could have been.

And that was my rendezvous with Destiny.