On day 4 of the SEPTA strike, stranded NBC10.com news editor Teresa Masterson tries to hail a cab during rush hour - with surprising results.
It’s called capitalism, people!
I know this is an odd thing for a person who depends on a government-run public transportation system to be screaming on the streets of Philadelphia in the early hours of the morning, but allow me to explain.
Where are the cabs?!!
I usually walk for an hour and 20 minutes to the train station every day and do not take cabs, but this morning was different. I was late. Really late.
It dawned on me when I opened my eyes this morning to a well-lit room that it was, in fact, dawn. Oohh, nooo. Daylight savings time has the sun coming up at 6:28 a.m. these days, and I am beyond late.
I get out of the house in record time, but I am in a panic. The R6 runs only a few times a day. Even during the strike. If I miss the 8:27 a.m. train out of Suburban Station, the next train does not leave until 12:20 p.m.
So I put my trust in capitalism this morning.
Granted, it is no surprise that the only way to get a cab in South Philly is to call for one, but I figured if I made it to Market Street I would have my pick of orange, white and green vehicles to whisk me to Suburban Station.
I was wrong.
Market and Third: No cabs.
Market and Sixth: Three cabs passed me, all with passengers, at whom I enviously glared.
I was glancing at my watch and staring incredulously at the traffic, with not a cab in sight.
Where are you cabs? I am standing here with my arm out, begging for you to take advantage of my unfortunate situation and take part in our capitalist society.
But nobody heard my cry.
So why aren’t more cab companies taking advantage of this time when there is little public transportation to be had? Money could be made and people could be driven: a fair trade.
(Part of my question was answered when I later found out that Philadelphia is limited to 1,600 cab medallions, according to state law...So much for capitalism.)
So I did the only thing I could do. In the words of Forest Gump, "I...WAS...RUNNING!" I may have actually looked like Forest Gump, too.
I was running that crazy, hazardous, I'm-still-fooling-myself-that-there-may-be-a-cab-coming-behind-me-at-any-moment way.
Note to fellow commuters that wake up late and may find themselves in a similar "running-required" situation: Don't wear a cream, form-fitting turtleneck that morning. It will not longer be form fitting by the time you get to work, and it's not exactly the right shade if your hoping to hide the fact that you ran a marathon before 8:30 a.m.
Let's take a break right now and play a little game I like to call, "Find the Cab." If any of my photos are blurry, I apologize. But, I was running after all.
Slideshow: Find The Cab GameI made the train. I would like to say the reason I made the train had to do with my athleticism and former years of cross country running and track.
But alas, no. The conductor was checking the brakes on the R6. Again. Makes a girl with frozen sweat on her face feel all fuzzy and warm inside.
Note to all of my angry bike lovers: Yes, I do own a map, but thank you for the list of alternative roads to Bala Cynwyd; yes, I know that bikes aren’t among the number one killers of people; and no, I really don’t hate bikes.
