Cab Company Quotes

When I went to the Yellow Cab Company I passed the Cancer Building and I remembered that there were worse things than looking for a job you didn't want.

If you've ever rubbed shoulders with insanity, he is a sweaty, foul-breathed cab driver who locks the door and takes you wherever he wants. The more you squirm to get out, the happier he seems to get. Insanity loves- no, needs-company.

At last a cab driver who was helpful. An experience like this might put him in a good mood. Perhaps he should write a letter to the Yellow Cab Company. ‘Dear sir,’ murmured Patrick under his breath, ‘I wish to commend in the highest possible terms the initiative and courtesy of your splendid young driver, Jefferson E. Parker. After a fruitless and, to be perfectly frank, infuriating expedition to Alphabet City, this knight errant, this, if I may put it thus, Jefferson Nightingale, rescued me from a very tiresome predicament, and took me to score in the South Bronx. If only more of your drivers displayed the same old-fashioned desire to serve. Yours, et cetera, Colonel Melrose.

As the cab headed down Massachusetts Avenue, she felt hot in her winter coat and like she couldn’t breathe, so she asked the driver if she could roll down the window. From the window, she could see the water tower of the New England Confectionery Company’s factory, which had recently been painted to resemble a roll of Necco wafers, those barely flavored, pastel-colored, vaguely religious-looking chalky disks. As they approached the factory, the air increasingly smelled of sugar, and the scent made Sadie nostalgic for a candy she had never even tasted.

My first impression of him was that he was free spirited, clever, funny. That proved to be completely inaccurate. We left the party together and walked around for hours, lied to each other about our happy lives, ate pizza at midnight, took the Staten Island Ferry back and forth and watched the sun rise. I gave him my phone number at the dorm. By the time he finally called me, two weeks later, I’d become obsessed with him. He kept me on a long, tight leash for months—expensive meals, the occasional opera or ballet. He took my virginity at a ski lodge in Vermont on Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t a pleasurable experience, but I trusted he knew more about sex than I did, so when he rolled off and said, “That was amazing,” I believed him. He was thirty-three, worked for Fuji Bank at the World Trade Center, wore tailored suits, sent cars to pick me up at my dorm, then the sorority house sophomore year, wined and dined me, and asked for head with no shame in the back of cabs he charged to the company account. I took this as proof of his masculine value. My “sisters” all agreed; he was “suave.” And I was impressed by how much he liked talking about his emotions, something I’d never seen a man do. “My mom’s a pothead now, and that’s why I have this deep sadness.” He took frequent trips to Tokyo for work and to San Francisco to visit his twin sister. I suspected she discouraged him from dating me.

Betsy didn’t want to be at the party any more than Cole did. She’d met the birthday girl in a spin class a couple of years earlier and had been declining her Evites ever since. In an effort to meet new people, however, this time Betsy replied “Yes.” She took a cab to the party, wondering why she was going at all. When Betsy met Cole there was a spark, but she was ambivalent. Cole was clearly smart and well educated, but he didn’t seem to be doing much about it. They had some nice dates, which seemed promising. Then, after sleeping over one night and watching Cole wake up at eleven a.m. and grab his skateboard, Betsy felt less bullish. She didn’t want to help another boyfriend grow up. What Betsy didn’t know was that, ever since he’d started spending time with her, Cole had regained some of his old drive. He saw the way she wanted to work on her sculptures even on the weekend, how she and her friends loved to get together to talk about their projects and their plans. As a result, Cole started to think more aspirationally. He eyed a posting for a good tech job at a high-profile start-up, but he felt his résumé was now too shabby to apply. As luck would have it—and it is often luck—Cole remembered that an old friend from high school, someone he bumped into about once every year or two, worked at the start-up. He got in touch, and this friend put in a good word to HR. After a handful of interviews with different people in the company, Cole was offered the position. The hiring manager told Cole he had been chosen for three reasons: His engineering degree suggested he knew how to work hard on technical projects, his personality seemed like a good fit for the team, and the twentysomething who vouched for him was well liked in the company. The rest, the manager said, Cole could learn on the job. This one break radically altered Cole’s career path. He learned software development at a dot-com on the leading edge. A few years later, he moved over and up as a director of development at another start-up because, by then, the identity capital he’d gained could speak for itself. Nearly ten years later, Cole and Betsy are married. She runs a gallery co-op. He’s a CIO. They have a happy life and gladly give much of the credit to Cole’s friend from high school and to the woman with the Evites.

By contrast, one company that clearly understands the stakes is Uber. In the last several years, few companies have captured the media’s attention like Uber. In my opinion, Uber has been successful because it’s perfectly nailed a Job to Be Done. Yes, Uber can often offer a nice car to take you from point A to point B, but that’s not where it’s built its competitive advantage. The experiences that come with hiring Uber to solve customers’ Jobs to Be Done are better than the existing alternatives. That’s the secret to its success. Everything about the experience of being a customer—including the emotional and social dimensions—has been thought through. Who wants to have to outmaneuver other poor schlubs on the same street corner who are trying to hail a cab? You don’t want to either pay for a car service to wait outside your meeting or be at its mercy when you’re finally ready to call it to come back and get you. With Uber, you simply push a few buttons on your mobile phone and you know that in three minutes or seven minutes a specific driver will arrive to pick you up. Now you can relax and just wait. You don’t have to worry if you have enough cash in your wallet or fear that if you swipe your credit card in that taxi machine, you’ll get a call from your bank wondering if you’ve recently made purchases in some state you’ve never even been to. Calling an Uber has even more potential to ease your anxieties about getting into a cab alone. With Uber there’s a record of your request, you know specifically who is picking you up, and you know from the driver’s ratings that he or she is reliable.

One week into my new Silicon Valley life, and the lesson was this: if you want to be a startup entrepreneur, get used to negotiating from positions of weakness. I’d soon have trickier situations to negotiate than convincing a cop to let me take a cab. And so will you if you play the startup game. The next morning, I wasn’t merely hungover, but was in fact still mildly drunk. The company all-hands meeting, wherein the entire company gathered to hear about new deals and employees, and generally to get pep-rallied by Murthy Nukala, the CEO, was scheduled for noon that day. I had to be there or risk having my coworkers file a missing persons report, as well as look like a pussy. My frazzled brain was slow to realize my car was still somewhere in San Mateo. One hundred and thirty dollars and too much sunlight later, I was standing beside my four-wheeled Bavarian steed at the scene of last night’s triumph over the rule of law, and fifteen minutes later I was an acceptable five minutes late for the all-hands. As I walked into the company-wide meeting, a murmur was heard from a corner of the assembled crowd, expressing either surprise or amusement at my being both alive and unincarcerated. The company rumor mill had been busy that morning. I probably looked as pickled and embalmed as I felt. Murthy launched into his weekly harangue. The wheels of capitalism ground ever on.

At the next street-lamp, she sees a woman with painted lips and smudged eyes waiting in a doorway. A hansom cab drives up, stops, and a man in a tail coat and a shining silk top-hat gets out. Even though the woman in the doorway wears a low-cut evening gown that might once have belonged to a lady of the gentleman’s social class, the black-clad watcher does not think the gentleman is here to go dancing. She sees the prostitute’s haggard eyes, haunted with fear no matter how much her red-smeared lips smile. One like her was recently found dead a few streets away, slit wide open. Averting her gaze, the searcher in black walks on. An unshaven man lounging against a wall winks at her. “Missus, what yer doing all alone? Don’t yer want some company?” If he were a gentleman, he would not have spoken to her without being introduced. Ignoring him, she hastens past. She must speak to no one. She does not belong here. The knowledge does not trouble her, for she has never belonged anywhere. And in a sense she has always been alone. But her heart is not without pain as she scans the shadows, for she has no home now, she is a stranger in the world’s

I made up my mind I was going to learn something about IBM computers. So I enrolled in an IBM school for retailers in Poughkeepsie, New York. One of the speakers was a guy from the National Mass Retailers’ Institute (NMRI), the discounters’ trade association, a guy named Abe Marks. ABE MARKS, HEAD OF HARTFIELD ZODY’S, AND FIRST PRESIDENT, NMRI: “I was sitting there at the conference reading the paper, and I had a feeling somebody was standing over me, so I look up and there’s this grayish gentleman standing there in a black suit carrying an attaché case. And I said to myself, ‘Who is this guy? He looks like an undertaker.’ “He asks me if I’m Abe Marks and I say, ‘Yes, I am.’ “ ‘Let me introduce myself, my name is Sam Walton,’ he says. ‘I’m only a little fellow from Bentonville, Arkansas, and I’m in the retail business.’ “I say, ‘You’ll have to pardon me, Sam, I thought I knew everybody and every company in the retail business, but I never heard of Sam Walton. What did you say the name of your company is again?’ “ ‘Wal-Mart Stores,’ he says. “So I say, ‘Well, welcome to the fraternity of discount merchants. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the conference and getting acquainted socially with everyone.’ “ ‘Well, to be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Marks, I didn’t come here to socialize, I came here to meet you. I know you’re a CPA and you’re able to keep confidences, and I really wanted your opinion on what I am doing now.’ So he opens up this attaché case, and, I swear, he had every article I had ever written and every speech I had ever given in there. I’m thinking, This is a very thorough man.’ Then he hands me an accountant’s working column sheet, showing all his operating categories all written out by hand. “Then he says: ‘Tell me what’s wrong. What am I doing wrong?’ “I look at these numbers—this was in 1966—and I don’t believe what I’m seeing. He’s got a handful of stores and he’s doing about $10 million a year with some incredible margin. An unbelievable performance! “So I look at it, and I say, ‘What are you doing wrong? Sam—if I may call you Sam—I’ll tell you what you are doing wrong.’ I handed back his papers and I closed his attaché case, and I said to him, ‘Being here is wrong, Sam. Don’t unpack your bags. Go down, catch a cab, go back to the airport and go back to where you came from and keep doing exactly what you are doing. There is nothing that can possibly improve what you are doing. You are a genius.’ That’s how I met Sam Walton.” Abe

Just buy me a popsicle,” I command him with a frown. “Oh!” he exclaims as he exits the car. I feel the vehicle shift with the loss of his weight. “That reminds me of a great porno. I’ll tell you about it once I get back!” “Get me a popsicle, too,” Liam says weakly. Once the door shuts, Liam turns in his seat to glance back at me. “I’m so sorry about this, Helen. I think he’s doing it on purpose.” “You should have warned me more,” I say with a fake grimace. Although I’ve been acting horrified, I actually find the whole situation quite hilarious—Dr. Owen Philips is somewhat adorable in a slightly pathetic way. I try very hard to keep myself from smiling at Liam to betray that I am enjoying the eccentric company. “I almost wish I’d spent thousands of dollars on a cab ride,” I tell him teasingly. “At least I wouldn’t be scarred for life.”  “He means well,” Liam assures me. “He’s a good doctor, and a great friend. He’s also really amazing to his girlfriend.” “Wow,” I say in surprise. “How does someone like that get a girlfriend? Is she human?” Liam chuckles. “Yes. Oddly enough. He treats her like a princess, but he still makes time to hang out with me.” “I can see that he cares about you,” I say gently. “It’s been a long time since I had a friend like that...” “Why?

For example, we can gauge the outside temperature combining the user’s current location with online weather information, and then use this data to offer phone numbers for nearby cab companies in addition to a walking route, assuming the user may not wish to walk to work in the rain.

All I want for my birthday is to get fucked unconscious with no strings attached.” Not a lie. “What a coincidence. I’ve got a big dick, a bar tab, and the local cab company’s number on speed dial.” The guy’s eyes bore into me from behind the dark lenses, and I have a momentary lapse in vaginal secretion control. Clean up on aisle twelve, stat!

The search for “better cab” was not limited to the United States. Cheng Wei, an engineer at the Chinese tech giant Alibaba, missed several flights in China because of his failure to get a taxi in time. Fed up, in 2012 he founded DiDi, which means “beep beep” in Chinese. Now called DiDi Chuxing after a merger, it has become the largest ride-hailing company in the world.

In these laissez-faire markets, investors were free to go wild. And wild they went. The hottest two emerging industries were cars and radio. Annual car sales had doubled from two years earlier, and there were now more than 15 million cars on the road. Manufacturers introduced faster, safer, and cheaper models every year, and the only asset people wanted more than cars were securities issued by car companies. Anyone who bought shares of General Motors or Fisher Body or Yellow Cab expected to double or triple their money after just a few years.

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He’d had a lot of people in his cab over the years and had become quite adept at spotting the “good souls” as he like to call them. With every good soul, it wasn’t necessarily about the way they looked, although their eyes were always bright, it was more to do with the way they made you feel. Comfortable, confident and genuinely happier for having been in their company. It wasn’t about conversation either; it was about connection which went beyond words. Good souls were not always seen to be good people, but whatever their beliefs, grievances or prejudice they would turn in a heartbeat for anyone in need and although they didn’t know it, they subconsciously projected it. At the very heart of every good soul, there was only love and decency, guiding principles that would see them safely back to shore in the rockiest of storms. There was no question in the driver’s mind that the fella in the back of his cab was one of life’s good souls and the world was a better place because he was in it.

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Shervin Pishevar’s other star investment, Uber, was embroiled in its own case about whether it was as humble and powerless as it claimed. A group of drivers had sued Uber, as well as its rival Lyft, in federal court, seeking to be treated as employees under California’s labor laws. Their case was weakened by the fact that they had signed agreements to be contractors not subject to those laws. They had accepted the terms and conditions that cast each driver as an entrepreneur—a free agent choosing her hours, needing none of the regulatory infrastructure that others depended on. They had bought into one of the reigning fantasies of MarketWorld: that people were their own miniature corporations. Then some of the drivers realized that in fact they were simply working people who wanted the same protections that so many others did from power, exploitation, and the vicissitudes of circumstance. Because the drivers had signed that agreement, they had blocked the easy path to being employees. But under the law, if they could prove that a company had pervasive, ongoing power over them as they did their work, they could still qualify as employees. To be a contractor is to give up certain protections and benefits in exchange for independence, and thus that independence must be genuine. The case inspired the judges in the two cases, Edward Chen and Vince Chhabria, to grapple thoughtfully with the question of where power lurks in a new networked age. It was no surprise that Uber and Lyft took the rebel position. Like Airbnb, Uber and Lyft claimed not to be powerful. Uber argued that it was just a technology firm facilitating links between passengers and drivers, not a car service. The drivers who had signed contracts were robust agents of their own destiny. Judge Chen derided this argument. “Uber is no more a ‘technology company,’ ” he wrote, “than Yellow Cab is a ‘technology company’ because it uses CB radios to dispatch taxi cabs, John Deere is a ‘technology company’ because it uses computers and robots to manufacture lawn mowers, or Domino Sugar is a ‘technology company’ because it uses modern irrigation techniques to grow its sugar cane.” Judge Chhabria similarly cited and tore down Lyft’s claim to be “an uninterested bystander of sorts, merely furnishing a platform that allows drivers and riders to connect.” He wrote: Lyft concerns itself with far more than simply connecting random users of its platform. It markets itself to customers as an on-demand ride service, and it actively seeks out those customers. It gives drivers detailed instructions about how to conduct themselves. Notably, Lyft’s own drivers’ guide and FAQs state that drivers are “driving for Lyft.” Therefore, the argument that Lyft is merely a platform, and that drivers perform no service for Lyft, is not a serious one.

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Not seeing that many visitors to the island, my cab driver Harry was only too happy to tell me the story of Napoleon on Saint Helena as he saw it. The way he told me the story I could have believed that it took place just days ago instead of over two hundred years prior. Napoleon had arrived on the island as a prisoner, on October 17, 1815 and lived there until his death resulting from stomach cancer on May 5, 1821. During this time he enjoyed the company of a young teenage girl named ,. Many years later, Napoleon III the nephew of Napoleon Bonaparte, rewarded Betsy with 500 hectares of land with vineyards in Algeria for the attention and comfort she provided his uncle.

Don’t want people around town thinking we’re just friends or we’re just fooling around. We’re gonna see where this goes.” “We’ve had one kind-of-date, Jess. And I wouldn’t call us friends.” “Because we’re not just friends.” “I’m not dating you. I don’t even like you. Find someone else to keep you company at the café.” “You like me. Can see it in your eyes when you look at me.” “Physically, yes. But personally, you’re a jackass.” He yanked the truck to the side of the road. “What are you--” I started but Jess reached across the cab, grabbed me at the back of the neck and slammed his mouth down on mine.