he history of the term “Hack” came from New York. The New York colloquial terms “hack” (taxi or taxi driver), hack stand (taxi stand), and hack license (taxi license) are probably derived from hackney carriage. The carriage would have been any vehicle for hire, traditionally a four-wheeled covered coach pulled by a two-horse team.
I had a job driving for Neil’s taxi. I drove a Plymouth, an old worn-out police car the owner got from the auction. The dispatcher was a woman whose nickname was Birdie. The other dispatcher was Dennis. We had 5 drivers and we all worked different shifts. We were located in the old Gregorich gas station kitty corner from Ace Hardware. One of my coworkers was Vernon. He was a Vietnam vet who was pretty high-strung and sickly. Another cared more about how his hair looked and kept his car spotless. His wife was a flop who posed for a rotten magazine. They didn’t stay together very long. When dispatch would radio us for a run, we’d go pick up the person or persons and deliver.
All of our passengers always went through the dispatcher. We’d be dispatched to the address given. I’m guessing that 50% of the fares were from businesses. We’d collect the fare and off we’d go. Some of the customers argued about the fare. All I would do is tell them that I’m not leaving until they paid. The bar runs were the worst. I’d have to get out of the car and enter the establishment. I’d holler “taxi” and the drunk would stumble out. One time I went to a bar owner's place to get him. Upon entering, I saw that he was picking on an irate barmaid. I hollered taxi and he acknowledged me, so I went back to my cab. I waited and he wasn’t coming out. I went back again. I told him that if he was coming, to come right now. I left again. He came out all mad and grabbed the door handle and tried to open it aggressively. The door opened alright but when he tried to get in, the door bounced back and hit him in the rear. He got mad in his drunken stupor and slugged the door open again. He jumped inside and looking me in the face, he asked me if I wanted to fight. I said sure, right here and now. He told me to go around the corner so his bar patrons wouldn’t see him fighting me. I said no, you want to fight me let's do it right here. He agreed and opened the door and got out. He left the door open; I took off. I never gave the pampered baby a ride again. I call him this because he was raised by a wealthy father who gave him everything. All he had to do was dig in his big jar and take out the silver dollars his dad had given him. His nickname was Jay Bird.
One time I picked up a little boy. I had him sit in the front seat. While en route, I got a call from dispatch Dennis. He was all in a panic saying that Calvin Nuranen is here at the office and giving me threats. I buzzed over to get him and the little boy in the front seat was scared. He heard everything on my 2-way radio. We could hear Calvin in the background yelling. I reached between the front seats and pulled out an input shaft from a transmission. I looked at the little boy and told him not to worry, I’ll take care of him. He wasn’t convinced at all. When I got to the cab stand, out comes Calvin staggered to the cab. He opens the back door and gets in. I told him to pay me first and he proceeded to argue that he isn’t paying until he gets home. I told him sternly to either get out or pay. By this time the little passenger in the front seat was leaning forward on the dashboard with a concerned look on his face. This guy is really strong and not one to mess with, but I stood my ground. He paid me by throwing the money into the front seat. Off we went to his house less than a mile away.
Another time he hired me to bring him to Old Mill Hill in Houghton. When we got close, he wanted me to stop at the liquor store first. I did and then when he came back to the car, he told me to go to Old Mill Hill. I got close to where he was going but he wasn’t sure where the place was. We finally found it and entered a long dirt driveway. This brought us to a trailer house that was pretty run down. A big black dog was running after us. When we stopped, I asked for the fare, and he argued about it. When he asked how much, I told him $15. He opened the car door and whistled for the dog which came running over. He grabbed the dog by the neck and hoisted it into the car right on top of me. He got out of the car and took off. I didn’t get paid. The dog was a full-grown dog, the size of a German shepherd. I never gave him a ride again. He eventually got so bad that he went all out to survive by even coming drunk into Saint John’s church services to get a meal and beg for money. He eventually died in his little shack on Wasa Road.