By SCOTT SAALMAN
Scaramouch
It was a cold, drizzly April night in NYC. Curbside pedicab operators in rain gear smiled warmly like politicians on Election Day as tourists (a.k.a. Hoosier rubes, a.k.a. Scott and Brynne Saalman) exited the Al Hirschfeld Theatre.
We had just watched Moulin Rouge! The Musical, one of those “jukebox” stage productions based on a motion picture. The amazing cast performed a plethora of modern-day pop songs. Unfortunately, many were released after 1989. I’m as unfamiliar with post-1990s pop music as I am with current celebrities on the cover of PEOPLE magazine. When did PEOPLE magazine become PEOPLE I DON’T KNOW magazine? The only “famous” faces I recognize in the media now are those on the cover of AARP The Magazine. This is a tough blue pill to swallow for someone like me from the 1970s-era Tiger Beat generation. (Just where did the Bay City Rollers roll off to, anyway?)
I pondered hailing a cab until recalling our terrifying Yellow Taxi trip from JFK airport to Midtown a few hours earlier. Taxi Driver seemed old enough to have been recruited from the stagecoach era. He needed dusty reins in his grip, not a steering wheel. Eye level with the dashboard, he kept a distrustful right eye on the taxi’s meter. He muttered, poked at buttons, then madly shook the meter, causing our cab to swerve from the middle lane into the right lane, back and forth several times. The cab decelerated to a near crawl, as if Taxi Driver was experiencing narcolepsy or heart failure. Angry horn honks served as a defibrillator, reviving him. My toes curled as we approached the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. “Should I offer to drive?” I asked Brynne. She looked as grim-faced as Princess Diana.
Outside the Hirschfeld, I was about to use the Uber app but stopped when Brynne exclaimed, “Look! Pedicabs!”
“Don’t make eye contact with the drivers,” I warned, but it was too late. Pedicab Guy put on the charm and somehow lured us curbside.
“It’s raining,” I feebly protested, but Pedicab Guy assured me a plastic rain cover attachment would keep us dry. It was not lost on me that no other departing showgoers opted for a post-musical pedicab experience. “Let’s Uber,” I said.
“It’s our first night in the city,” Brynne replied. I could tell that a nighttime pedicab ride in the core of the Big Apple appealed to her. She was caught between the moon and New York City. A past Midwest bumper sticker came to mind, “Happy Wife, Happy Life,” as it always did during taxing decision-making situations like this. Wisely, I nixed the Uber idea.
Happy Wife, Happy Life. Notice how nothing easily rhymes with husband? “Quicksand” is closest.
Pedicab Guy was the epitome of exuberance as he shared his yellow hatchback tricycle with us. Angry hip hop music blared from a bike speaker as he pedaled through Broadway puddles. He looked back, still smiling, seeing if we were smiling, as if that was his main job. In another country, he was likely a dentist. Unlike Taxi Driver, Pedicab Guy never needed his pulse checked to verify life.
Even in the rain, the Theatre District dazzled, but due to the carriage’s plastic rain cover, the neon lights of Broadway lacked luster, giving Times Square a foggy, filmy look. I worried I had developed cataracts. Pedicab Guy gladly removed the plastic. “(Theme From) New York, New York” played from his speaker. Brynne clapped while duetting with Old Blue Eyes: “These vagabond shoes / They are longing to stray / Right through the very heart of it / New York, New York.” Pedestrians smiled, pointed, and waved, as if recognizing us from the latest cover of PEOPLE I DON’T KNOW. “I want to wake up in a city / That never sleeps / And find I’m king of the hill / Top of the heap . . .” We waved to our fans. We were the toast of Manhattan.
Pedicab Guy liked the attention, too. In showoff mode, he summoned up his inner Evel Knievel and performed a couple of lumbering figure eights. Brynne squealed with delight. He paused to take our photo. (Editor’s note: Actually, Scott was the squealer.)
I warmed up to the pedicab experience. Choosing a human-powered mode of transportation appeased my environmentalist side; however, I did worry that I was condoning a human rights violation. Though I pitied poor Pedicab Guy for having to lug us around, I remained giddy about the potential cost savings from not using Uber. An average Uber trip was $50. I assumed a pedicab would be half that, with tip.
It took 16 minutes for our pedicab to reach our hotel.
“What do we owe you?”
“$144,” he answered, taking my credit card before I could pull it back.
I gasped. Brynne giggled. Nine dollars per minute is what I mentally calculated! Suddenly, I regretted those time-eating figure eights and our pause for photos. Stepping from the pedicab had me feeling like I had fallen off the proverbial turnip truck. We have those in Indiana.
“Flying to the hotel would’ve been cheaper,” I said.
Brynne remained unbothered. “It was a wonderful experience,” she said. She smiled that smile of hers. Her smile was what mattered most on that drippy, first Manhattan night. I tipped Pedicab Guy $20. We never saw him again, having likely retired to the Bahamas.
Contact: scottsaalman@gmail.com