By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
A few white-and-blue city cop cars prowl the edges of this field of metal buttercups, but the vehicle that stands out is a mauve-colored truck bearing campaign signs for Maurice Ferré, a Miami mayoral hopeful who agreed to mutual support with the drivers as they began to organize a few months ago. The truck is strategically positioned for TV behind a taxi carrying a cardboard coffin, hibiscus branches, and the epitaph "Dead Driver," which sums up the collective feeling of cabbies being bled dry by the bad economy and their own industry. The gang's all here -- guys from Yellow Cab, Super Yellow, Century, Central, USA Taxi, Coral, Checker Cab, and the rest. The drivers are a veritable United Nations of Cubans, Haitians, Jamaicans, Venezuelans, Nicaraguans, Pakistanis, Ethiopians, Russians, and Puerto Ricans.
They are here for a protest drive though the heart of downtown Miami, into Little Havana on Flagler Street, to 27th Avenue, then up through Allapattah, west to the airport, south on LeJeune Road to Flagler, and back in a loop. The protest is designed to focus public attention on their plight and to send a message to those they believe could do something about it. Just who that might be isn't quite clear.
The taxi industry in Miami-Dade is a shadowy affair -- somewhat like the restaurant industry, peopled by characters who range from colorful to shady. The players include a couple of thousand drivers, two dozen cab companies, county regulators, and the real powers: the owners of the coveted medallions, or licenses, that permit a cab to operate. The business is regulated in that the county licenses drivers and inspects cabs a few times a year. It's virtually unregulated in that the prices drivers pay for the right to operate vary widely from company to company, driver to driver, and week to week.
According to the cabbies, much of the transaction occurs under the table, with no written agreements and sometimes no receipts. One driver might pay $275 per week to lease a medallion, while another might cough up $350, $400, or more. Cabbies accept this arrangement because sometimes there's no choice if they want to drive; some have bad records and the company looks the other way in "reviewing" their status. Most of the drivers own their own cabs and pay for insurance, radio service, and the occasional kickback to hotel bellhops and restaurant maitre d's who send them customers. For the lucky few who've managed to get a medallion through the county's annual lottery, the price of independence ranges from $10,000 to $15,000. On the market the permits are fetching $85,000 to $90,000, out of reach for most. (There are 1906 medallions in Miami-Dade.)
A pudgy New Jersey Cuban we'll call "Macho" because he won't give his real name, leans against his car, arguing into a cell phone with the owner of Central Cab. "Why don't you put it out on the radio?" he complains. "Let the guys come out here." The conversation ends. He snaps off his phone, explaining, "I told this guy nobody's working today. There's no work. So why not let them come out here? But he says no, he can't do it." Macho is one of the fortunate few, a man who owns his own medallion, which he can drive on or sublease to others. He's here keeping an eye on the rally because he doesn't want what some of the other drivers say they want: to give every driver his own permit and unionize. "Casas," he calls out to an Ethiopian who shared a medallion with another man before selling it a few weeks ago for $86,000. "How much did we used to make when we sat out at 1800 and Collins? Three or four hundred a day sometimes!" Union rules could screw that up.
Macho goes to great lengths to squeeze as much profit as he can out of his small business. Opening up the rear door of his cab, he proudly displays a small television set in the arm rest between the two front seats. It's showing the film Sixteen Candles. But Macho has something better: DVD porn. "You get a [drunk] man who wants to go to a titty bar; put that on, he doesn't know where he is," he cackles. "You can drive him around all night!"
As Macho fears, the protest is a slogan-chanting, trumpet-blaring union rally. Service Employees International Union (SEIU) from New York has sent some guys down here to organize the fiercely independent Miami drivers, an exercise in cat herding if ever there was one. But since early summer the union reps have been slowly building a coalition, a task made much easier by this year's steadily tanking economy and accelerated by the tourist drop in the aftermath of September 11. The organizers have an office on Biscayne Boulevard and refer to themselves in the press as Local 74, though right now they are merely an association under the banner of the SEIU.