If you’re joining me for the first time, I would strongly advise scrolling down and reading the previous post (one, because then you’ll know why I’m talking about cab drivers, and two, because it has a bunch of f-bombs in it. Oh, yes it does.) For those of you who enjoyed the story of my son exploring some very grown up language for a few days after my hubby’s livid exchange with a cab driver, here is the part that I didn’t tell.
When I first got the idea to write about the f-bomb free-for-all, I first went to my husband to see if he would mind. This is the answer I got. “Sure. You can write about that. But then you should write about how I once punched that cab driver. I mean, to be fair, I probably have issues with cabbies, right?” I mentally cheered sat down to write.
Before I permanently f— up muddy up my husband’s good name, I should clarify a few things. First, he works in an industry where the language used is abysmal at best. Second, he was not used to driving in downtown rush hour traffic with our son in the truck with him. (Never mind me, anyone who’s shared a vehicle or late night cocktail with me knows my ears aren’t that tender!) And third, the cabbie he punched in this story was really, really looking for it. (My husband takes cabs often and usually talks about how helpful the drivers are.) As an added bonus, he thought I had already written about it and mentioned it to someone at work, who then looked at him like he was crazy. “It doesn’t say anything about a cab driver. You punched a cabbie?” He’s dug his own grave.
Years ago, we were visiting family and friends in another city. The phone rang in the middle of dinner at my parents’ house. My mother-in-law had been in a serious accident; she was unharmed, but very shaken. We left immediately to go meet her at the scene and wait for the police.
We met up with my mother-in-law, made sure she was okay and settled in to wait for the police. We were all upset. My mother-in-law was still shaken from the accident, and we had been worried that she’d been hurt and wasn’t telling us over the phone. We were still on edge when a cab driver drove toward us, and stopped his cab. He surveyed the scene for a minute, then started telling us to move her car (against police instructions I might add), that it was a danger where it was. In his mind we were being irresponsible. We assured him we were fine, police were on their way, and thanked him (probably a little curtly). He drove a small distance away, then pulled a U-turn to come back alongside us. Again, he kept insisting we move the car. This continued on and on. We told him again, look, keep driving, we’re fine, the car is fine as is. I remember telling him flat out “You aren’t involved here. Please leave.” A few more circles and U-turns, and he started getting louder. And swearing. Why? Who knows. My husband told him off a few more times, then finally walked over to the cab and told him to, well, you know (oh, just go read that other post, would you?) At this point of the storytelling anyone who knows my husband is already laughing because hubs was mad the first time the cab driver lipped him off. By this point the cabbie was lucky he still had legs.
I remember being worried that he was being so erratic, wondering why he kept harassing us. As it turns out, I was right to worry. He exchanged a collection of obscenities with my husband, then started yelling, waving his arms and started to get out of the cab. Hubby was incredulous and lost it. He yelled back at the cab driver, and enraged, grabbed the hat off the cab driver’s head, ripped it in two and tossed it on the road. Did I mention hubs has a Welsh temper? Oh, yes. We’ll revisit that in a later post, I’m sure.
Everything that happened next happened so quickly. The cab driver was furious, got out of the cab and came at hubs, arms already up as though to fight. Fight? We were parked on a quiet neighbourhood street with my mother-in-law watching. They’ve never met, hubs was perhaps 35 years old, the cabbie might have been 40. It was like that scene from Sex and the City where Sarah Jessica Parker’s character is yelling at her two would-be suitors “You’re MIDDLE-AGED!” as they roll around fighting in the mud. The cabbie took a swing at hubby. Hubs, in a moment of hilarious cartoon clarity, realized he was wearing a new watch. He started trying to take it off, while he held off the shorter cab driver. I remember yelling my husband’s name (because I’m such a pansy good cheerleader.) Hubby managed to get his watch off as the cabbie swung at him again. I’m in shock. POP! Just like that, hubby connected a punch. The cabbie stopped, and and in what has become a famous line in the story “did a little shimmy” before taking a step back.
Ridiculous. The cab driver got back into his car and hubby picked up the offending hat and threw it in the cab. He then took out his wallet, tossed the guy a twenty dollar bill and told him to buy himself a new hat. (This always cracked me up later on, and he could never explain why he did it.) We regrouped, and the cabbie sulked in his cab until the police arrived. I remember thinking, what the hell just happened?
All in all, a much more eventful night than we had planned. The cabbie threatened to press charges, but had a hard time explaining what on earth he was even doing at the scene or why he had stayed around and harassed us for so long. As the police officer said the next day when he called us, “Don’t you worry about it. Just get on with your lives.” And we did. You know, after we went and told everyone we knew about the hubby, the cabbie and the shimmy.*
*Amusingly, every guy we tell this story to, family or friends, has only one question. “Was it a good punch?” Boys. Sheesh.
