About a month ago, I flew from Las Vegas to TF Green Airport. After an unexpected delay in Las Vegas and a scheduled layover in Chicago, I did not land in Rhode Island until after 11 p.m.
I took my carry-on and swiftly made my way to the taxi line. I was fourth in line, which was pretty good positioning to get out and home at a decent hour. Unfortunately, there were no cabs waiting.
After several minutes, I called the cab company that had driven me to the airport earlier that week. When I told them about how many people were in line...many people lined up behind me...they stated that they would be sending some of their drivers. It was a Saturday night so it was fairly busy.
Slowly but surely, the taxis started to arrive. When I approached the front of the line, finally, a yellow cab pulled up to the curb, assisted me with my luggage, and proceeded to ask the people lined up behind me if they were going in the same direction. This process took way longer than I would've liked.
A couple from the complete other side of town got in the cab, apologized to me, and buckled their safety belts. The taxi driver notified us that he would be dropping the couple off first.
I immediately turned into a raging bitch.
Excuse me? This was my cab! It's freakin' late and I want to go home. The last thing I want to do right now is take a tour of the city (in which I reside) in the middle of the night, see the outline of Mary and Steve's new house, and listen to you try to calm me down, sir.
Also, I don't appreciate you trying to distract me by forcing small talk or by saying that it'll be worth my while, charging me just $10 for the tour. I should already be in bed! I hate you.
It wasn't poor Mary and Steve's fault. Hell, I don't even know if those are their actual names. Probably not.
That being said, I can't help but resent them for winning the taxi cab lottery.
And, you, sir, if I ever lay eyes on you again and actually recognize that it is you, you're in big trouble. Big. Huge.
