Voleur is French for thief: Part II

I normally don't write about things from the past or that don't deal with our life in Paris and such, but this story is probably one of the weirdest nights ever in NY and shows how I'm well practiced in kicking away scary men with big high heels.

It was a cold February night in 2007 in the great city of New York. And ironically, this incident also has to do with a club - don't judge. I'd been out with two girlfriends. Let's call them Girl A and Girl B. Girl A is a very good friend of mine and was in my wedding. Girl B is a good family friend of Girl A. 

Girl A is one of those people that always knows people or just knows the right way to get into a club with a long line. And I am always the person in the back, poking my head out of the crowd thinking someone might just pull me to the front. Clearly that doesn't work. But this time we were lucky enough to get into the once cool (and in existence) club, Stereo, in Chelsea. 

It was a grand night full of dancing and a surprise guest appearance of Vanilla Ice who took it in his own hands to request "Ice Ice Baby" and sing it from the DJ booth. (Trust me, Stereo didn't hire him to actually be there... he was just there still singing his song from 15 years before...) It was pretty hilarious but the crowd loved it. We were so pumped from the fun we'd had at Stereo that we thought it would be a good idea to head down to Tenjune in the Meatpacking District to continue the night out. Why not go there? It only makes sense after X drinks in the freezing February cold... Sometimes I wonder if I ever actually made it through high-school with my intelligence. 

So we nabbed a taxi and were on our way downtown. About three blocks into the ride, Girl A announced that she wasn't feeling well. The X drinks were kicking-in but not in the good way. We halted the cab, paid and all got out - well more like all fell out of the cab...the bruises on my knees the next day were a nice reminder to our sidewalk tumbling. 

So, Plan B: Grab another taxi and head back to Girl A's apartment in Murray Hill. For some reason, I decided to jump into the front seat with Girl A and Girl B in the back. I never ride in the front seat. I hate the front seat. I always feel that I miss out on any good conversation if I'm in the front which is why I make Sir Lancelot sit in the front. Leaving from 28th & Broadway and heading to 31st & Lexington is not far and I knew Girl A could make it a few more blocks in another taxi. Or so I thought. 

Within a minute or two, Girl B quietly whispered to me, "Girl A just got sick back here. Oh no. Can you have him stop the cab"? I pleasantly ask the taxi driver to stop the car, "Our friend got sick. Can we stop and let her out? We'll pay you extra money for the cleaning. Please sir." 

Clearly I was not pleasant enough as the cab driver immediately started screaming, "Absolutely not. I will not let you out. Not at all. I'm driving you to a car wash in the Bronx!" 

The Bronx?!?! I'd never been to the Bronx and frankly had no desire to ever go to the Bronx. At this point, my pleasantness went from 100 to 0 and I was now breaking out my normal taxi-driver rage. 

"You have to let us out." And that's when I heard all four doors lock. The driver did so from the inside. Holy shit, I thought to myself, he's not kidding. He's really going to take us to the Bronx. I was now scared and screaming as the taxi driver was swearing at us and kept saying how he was not letting us out.

So I did what any other girl would do in this situation - or at least that's what I always tell myself...

I turned towards him, brought up my legs, adorned in three-inch yellow patent leather heels, and started kicking him, "Let us the f--- out of here right now. We are not going to the Bronx! Let us out of here now!" And these weren't little kicks, but repeated bicycle kicks to his head (he was wearing a hat of some sort, so he had protection). What else was I supposed to do? I didn't want us ending up in the Bronx post X drinks with a sick friend and some angry man. Please. 

He stopped the car, I opened the door yelling, "Come on Girl A, Girl B... let's get out of here now!" I rushed out of the cab, slammed the door behind me and watched the taxi speed away.... with Girl A and Girl B still in it! I stood there, in some horrendous 2007, Forever 21 outfit, my Steve Madden heels with only a dead cellphone and empty clutch to my name. I later realized my license and money fell out during my kicking episode. I could only think about how my friends were being taken to a car wash in the Bronx and I was stuck in the middle of Lexington Avenue with no way to help. 

I grabbed another cab and the driver thought I was crazy since I was only about two blocks from Girl A's apartment - he didn't even charge me after I burst into hysterical crying when I realized I'd lost my ID and money. After ten minutes of incessant crying that felt like hours, Girl A and Girl B showed up at the apartment unharmed. The best reunion ever. 

So yeah, there is no actual French thief here - just a taxi driver who almost stole me and my friends off to a car wash in the Bronx. But I did get practice with kicking scary, mean, harmful men - which clearly came in handy a few weeks ago. 

Here's the best part: when we woke up the next morning, still wearing our Forever 21 outfits with major 80's hair band hair, Girl A sees me in the living room and asks with a big smile on her face, "What are you doing here?!?" 

Oh the joys of my early twenties... 

Here's what happened a few weeks ago: 

Voleur is French for thief: Part I

Illustration credit: http://bit.ly/HLutty