Class Conflict

By Raanan Geberer “Where too,” asked the heavy-set, plaid shirt-wearing, fifty-ish cab driver. “The Accord Conference Center,” we answered. Like many New Yorkers, we didn’t own a car. This time we decided to try to save some money by not renting a car. Instead, we took the bus up to New Paltz, then called a cab. “Yep,” the driver said, “two people came up here today.” As we turned onto a mountain road, I asked, politely as I could, “What other kind of work do you do?” I couldn’t imagine that there were full-time jobs for cab drivers in a town where everybody drove. “Driving my cab is it for me,” the guy said, laughing. “But is there enough business for a cab company here?” He pointed to a roadhouse coming up on the left side of the road. “You see that bar?” he asked. “Plenty of guys go there on Saturday night, get drunk, then call me or one of the other guys to drive them home. Then, the next morning, they get sober, they call us to drive them back there to get their cars. We make lots of money that way!” “Is that the only bar in town?” my wife asked. “The only one around here, that is,” he said, passing a fishing equipment and guns store. “And tonight, they’re gonna have a band, so it’s really gonna be busy!” I didn’t even have to ask—I knew it would be a country and western band. “By the way,” the guy asked, “do you mind if I smoke?” “That’s OK,” my wife answered. He guy lit a cigarette. “Yep, I’ve done everything—I didn’t have the education a lot of you city people have. I’ve worked construction, drove a school bus, been a salesman selling stuff from the trunk of my car, now a cab driver. So we’ll see how long that lasts. Yep, since I’ve been divorced I moved around all over the country. Find a few rooms above a store, buy a few sticks of used furniture and it’s home!” Trying to change the subject, I asked, “I heard about the stock-car races around here. Isn’t it true that the chief of police himself takes part in the race?” “Yeah, he races every year! He’s got a great car, too … Here we are! Let me help you get your bags out.” • * After three days, we headed back to the city. The same guy drove me back. In New Paltz, we got onto a shiny new Trailways bus. Little by little, I began hearing a conversation behind me. I turned around and sneaked a look. An extremely well-dressed older man and woman were talking. Both of them spoke in the precise, well-modulated tones of Ivy League graduates. “Yes,” the woman said, “this is an experiment that turned out well. It saves us some driving, for a change, and the bus is very pleasant and roomy.” Something about them interested me. They didn’t seem like typical bus riders. He continued to listen. “Where do you plan to go after we get off? I was thinking of a little place in the Village….” “I don’t like Greenwich Village. There’s a wonderful little place in the East 80s where we can go, it’s a marvelous French brasserie. Their Salade Nicoise is to die for!” “What about the food I’m carrying in this container?” “We can have it tomorrow.” “Such wonderful food I made. Beet-flavored pasta with goat cheese, fennel and peppercorns in truffle oil!” “So, Angela, I’m curious about your deal.” “It’s terrible that it fell through – a wonderful country house, a smaller house behind it and a large amount of land. And, you know, it was a million-dollar deal.” “You know,” the man said, “the thing to do is to buy some property, rent it out, then use the proceeds to buy more property. That’s what my son did in the south of Spain. He bought a condo, rented it out to tourists, then used the proceeds to buy another one. He owns five condos now.” “Is that your son who went to Princeton?” “No, that’s the other one. This is my son who went to Yale.” I contrasted their conversation with what I heard from the cab driver who drove me from the bus station to the conference center last week. Here was living proof that there were at least three Americas – the upper-crust world of this couple, our middle-class existence, and the world of marginal people like the cabbie. The only way he would ever meet these two is if he was working as a handyman in their house. I looked out the window and fell asleep. My wife jabbed me gently to wake me when we reached the Port Authority bus terminal. People were standing up, getting their bags. And then, through the din, I heard a loud shriek: “Oh, dear! I must have put the lid on too loose! This is a catastrophe!” And there, on the floor, were the remnants of some beet-flavored pasta with goat cheese, fennel and fresh herbs in truffle oil. Carefully stepping over it, we moved on.