I had just started my shift behind the wheel of a Yellow cab. It was just after seven in the evening as I rolled out of the gate at the cab company and headed for the White Castle restaurant just a few blocks away for a coffee.
I called in my location by radio and asked to “standby” but the dispatcher informed me, “You are going to be seven deep in the Parkway”. That meant there were already six other drivers like me who had just started their shifts and wanted nothing more than to get a cup of coffee before they started to work.
“OK, ma’am. I will be standing by at Churchill airport”. I was employing two tricks that I learned in my previous year of cab driving. First, I was standing by at the airport before I arrived there, and second, I was standing by at the Churchill Inn hotel at the airport which made me available for radio calls when in actuality, I was going to be sitting in the line at the airport. If I got a call while in line, I could abandon the line and take the radio call.
“Hold on, 576... see the guard at the civil aviation entrance,” instructed the dispatcher. I had never been around to the other side of the airport but I knew there was a small civil aviation airport next to Standiford Field, Louisville's international airport. The civil aviation section was used by small private planes. I had heard a lot of calls to pick up packages at this entrance but I had never been over there. It was common for large factories in Louisville to order critical parts and have them flown in and then rushed to the factory by taxi. “See the guard” was not anything I had heard before.
I approached the gate and the guard pointed out a beautiful private jet that was parked down to my left. I thought it was very odd to allow a taxi to drive onto the tarmac but I turned on my emergency flashers and proceeded slowly and carefully to the plane. I parked about fifty feet from the plane as the guard had instructed.
As I came to a stop, a man and a woman were exiting the plane and they walked over and got into the taxi. As it turned out, he was a leading Kentucky State Democratic Party donor and they had flown in from Lexington to attend a fundraiser at the convention center that evening, no more than a mile from the airport.
I dropped the couple off at the convention center and the man asked if I would come back and get them in a few hours. I agreed and they asked if they could leave their coats in the taxi. He handed me a bill and I handed him a card with my cab number and the taxi company’s phone number. As they walked into the building I looked down at the bill in my hand and noticed that it was a $100 dollar bill. I now had a problem.
This was 1978 and no local businesses would break such a large bill and the banks had all closed. I had an idea. I headed east towards my home in the Goldsmith Lane area of Louisville’s east end. Near my house was a pharmacy that was owned by a friend of the family and it was open until 9:00. I knew the pharmacist would break the bill for me even if he had to open his safe to do it.
Luckily he provided me with change and I took several more calls before the dispatcher told me that the party at the convention center would be ready to go in 15 minutes. I charged over on the Watterson Expressway to the convention center. A few minutes later my party appeared and I helped them into the cab.
We headed back to the civil aviation airport. As I brought the cab to a stop just inside the gate, I calculated the total fare to be eight dollars and I prepared to return $92 to my passenger.
The man and woman started to get out of the cab and the man called out to me asking if the $100 had covered it. “Yes, but …” I was starting to explain when the man interrupted and said, “Great, keep the change.” I was dumbfounded. The $92 tip was equal to my entire weekly take-home pay.
During the next two years driving a cab, I received many generous tips, especially during the Kentucky Derby, but I never had another $92 tip.
I called in my location by radio and asked to “standby” but the dispatcher informed me, “You are going to be seven deep in the Parkway”. That meant there were already six other drivers like me who had just started their shifts and wanted nothing more than to get a cup of coffee before they started to work.
“OK, ma’am. I will be standing by at Churchill airport”. I was employing two tricks that I learned in my previous year of cab driving. First, I was standing by at the airport before I arrived there, and second, I was standing by at the Churchill Inn hotel at the airport which made me available for radio calls when in actuality, I was going to be sitting in the line at the airport. If I got a call while in line, I could abandon the line and take the radio call.
“Hold on, 576... see the guard at the civil aviation entrance,” instructed the dispatcher. I had never been around to the other side of the airport but I knew there was a small civil aviation airport next to Standiford Field, Louisville's international airport. The civil aviation section was used by small private planes. I had heard a lot of calls to pick up packages at this entrance but I had never been over there. It was common for large factories in Louisville to order critical parts and have them flown in and then rushed to the factory by taxi. “See the guard” was not anything I had heard before.
I approached the gate and the guard pointed out a beautiful private jet that was parked down to my left. I thought it was very odd to allow a taxi to drive onto the tarmac but I turned on my emergency flashers and proceeded slowly and carefully to the plane. I parked about fifty feet from the plane as the guard had instructed.
As I came to a stop, a man and a woman were exiting the plane and they walked over and got into the taxi. As it turned out, he was a leading Kentucky State Democratic Party donor and they had flown in from Lexington to attend a fundraiser at the convention center that evening, no more than a mile from the airport.
I dropped the couple off at the convention center and the man asked if I would come back and get them in a few hours. I agreed and they asked if they could leave their coats in the taxi. He handed me a bill and I handed him a card with my cab number and the taxi company’s phone number. As they walked into the building I looked down at the bill in my hand and noticed that it was a $100 dollar bill. I now had a problem.
This was 1978 and no local businesses would break such a large bill and the banks had all closed. I had an idea. I headed east towards my home in the Goldsmith Lane area of Louisville’s east end. Near my house was a pharmacy that was owned by a friend of the family and it was open until 9:00. I knew the pharmacist would break the bill for me even if he had to open his safe to do it.
Luckily he provided me with change and I took several more calls before the dispatcher told me that the party at the convention center would be ready to go in 15 minutes. I charged over on the Watterson Expressway to the convention center. A few minutes later my party appeared and I helped them into the cab.
We headed back to the civil aviation airport. As I brought the cab to a stop just inside the gate, I calculated the total fare to be eight dollars and I prepared to return $92 to my passenger.
The man and woman started to get out of the cab and the man called out to me asking if the $100 had covered it. “Yes, but …” I was starting to explain when the man interrupted and said, “Great, keep the change.” I was dumbfounded. The $92 tip was equal to my entire weekly take-home pay.
During the next two years driving a cab, I received many generous tips, especially during the Kentucky Derby, but I never had another $92 tip.
