There are lots of reasons why driving a cab in San Francisco paid so well. First, the metered fare, is second only to Las Vegas in terms of price. Second is something called meter-and-a-half fares — the holy grail of cab driving. That’s where the law requires passengers to pay 150 percent of the metered fare for any ride over 15 miles beyond the city limits. It’s especially valuable in San Francisco, because only SF taxicabs are officially allowed to operate at the airport, which serves the entire region. “Flying in for a meeting in Cupertino? That’ll be $142.00 please!” “Just back from vacation and heading home to Santa Rosa? That’ll be $300.00 please, and don’t forget to tip your driver!” Towards the end of your shift, after you’ve covered all your expenses, meter-and-a-half fares could allow you to make over $100 per hour in profit. How many professional jobs pay like that?

But the single biggest reason the job paid so well was the undersupply of taxis allowed by the city. During my first few years of driving a cab in San Francisco, it was common for people to literally throw themselves in the path of my oncoming taxi, or to chase after me in a desperate attempt to get me to pick them up.

Even so, cab drivers (including myself) were adamant that fewer, not more, taxicabs were needed. We argued that during slow times there were so many taxis that it was impossible to earn a living, which was true. The city argued that during peak times there were so few taxis that it was impossible to get one, which was also true. So, the city did what cities often do; every few years, enough new taxis would be added to assuage the pissed-off populace, but not enough to cause an all-out revolt by pissed-off cab drivers. In that environment, cabbies were often able to cherry-pick their passengers, and everybody wanted my cell phone number.

Still, even with all that, I found myself wrestling with the fact that I was now a cab driver. When meeting someone new, I found myself evading the inevitable, “So, what do you do?” question. It just wasn’t the same as when I carried a business card with the words, “Vice President” embossed glossily on it, and I didn’t want to constantly enter into the debate on taxi availability that was guaranteed to follow.

So I got by by reassuring myself that there was nobility in all work. Trouble is, nobility flies out the window when you’re cleaning some stranger’s vomit out of your cab. There’s nothing noble about finding yourself chasing a runner (someone who bails without paying you) down the street, or cautiously talking a schizophrenic out of the backseat, or being spit on by an angry bicyclist, or finding that the hundred-dollar bill you just got paid with is counterfeit. Once, after spotting a man in the distance who I thought was trying to flag me down, I pulled up and saw that he was actually giving me the finger. I yelled out my open window, “Why are you flipping me off?” He looked at me and flatly replied, “Because you’re a cab.” Such nobility.