The Dollar Van Chronicles: South Jamaica, Queens, New York City, 1995-1998
The mid-to-late ‘90s in South Jamaica, Queens, was a time of raw energy, transition, and survival. The city was still shaking off the crack era’s residual grip, and the underworld coexisted with the working-class grind in an intricate dance that played out daily on the streets. Sutphin Boulevard was the beating heart of that world, a place where dollar vans congregated, waiting to take commuters to their destinations while soaking up the essence of the neighborhood. This was my world from 1995 to 1998—a time when I lived between the structure of hard work and the unpredictability of the night. Most people who are not from that part of the world wouldn’t understand so I must take the time to explain what they do. But when you really look into it, their phenomenon on the terrain of the competitive streets of New York City encompasses the epitome of the American Dream.
They do just what it sounds like. These guys will drive a passenger van along the bus routes picking up citizens in a swift and timely manner to reach their connecting train that will take them into work. They are more agile and can maneuver the congested inner city traffic in ways a hulking clumsy bus can only dream of therefore making it preferable to many…..especially since it was also a bargain at one dollar! But many who had so called “high paying jobs” looked down on these men in scorn who plied their trade in such a humble manner.
But at the end of the week when the well paid passengers were left to scratch their heads and wonder how were they going to make ends meet with their highly taxed and dwindling funds, many van drivers had an extra thousand dollars to go to the bank with after all bills and obligations were deducted. So who was in a better position?
I learned a valuable lesson from supplementing my income in such a way. Dollar Vans have their root in Jamaica West Indies as “Juta” Vans, but it started here in Jamaica Queens as the result of a New York City mass transit strike back in 1979 where residents of the outer boroughs were left stranded for a ride to the subway train.
Someone saw the opportunity in this and took their private vehicles on the road and filled the gap that the absent buses left unattended.
How did I get into it?
Well, I have to give credit to my long lost friend Gerald Ihekuma, a Nigerian “Ibo” who worked with me at The South Ozone Park Home Depot in Queens New York. We were both hired in early 1994 but it was in early 1995 when he revealed to me how he had so much disposable income in his possession for eating the costly lunches that he insisted he treat me to everyday.
It was so funny to me that he would reveal his mysterious source of income to me especially after he observed how a Caucasian supervisor harassed me as though I was his slave possession on a southern plantation. I was angered to the point of going righteously postal! Gerald knew that I was on the edge of madness and knew it was on him to help me make a change with the knowledge he possessed, because he knew I was only there for the little money that I earned to take care of my family.
So like two slaves working the fields together just beyond “masters” evil gaze, he whispered to me on how to legalize a van to put on the street to get my hustle on. He told me the ins and outs of extracting a fortune from the streets day in and day out without notice. I couldn’t believe what he was telling me but I knew he wouldn’t lie…..”Well why are you still working here I asked?”
….Well, I won’t repeat the answer that he gave because it would put him at odds with the powers that be but I will say this:
He is a brilliant man!
You see, he is one of those individuals that come into your life to affect and influence you in such a way as to change you for the better….to raise you up a notch or two in life. Well I was appreciative of what he gave to me and took to the streets like a madman possessed!
It was such a victory to quit that job and within a week or two have the money and time to fix up my house. Spending more money at the Home Depot from what I earned in a week in the streets of Jamaica than I could make there in that orange plantation in two months time!
The characters and unique individuals that I have had the pleasure to meet, know and love that have influenced my creativity in the art and writing that I would eventually embark upon in the form of this website. And how can I forget the other drivers: Fat boy, K-9, Nigel (Always peeking out from under a hooded sweatshirt!) Ruddy, Ralphy, Bruce-BRUCE, Birdman, Polar Bear, K.P. (R.I.P.) alias P.K. (You’ll have to ask me what those initials mean, it’s an inside joke!), Ian alias “Joyride”, Junior, Meatneck Tony, Al Capone, Tallman (Who almost got an a** whippin’ from me one night on Sutphin Blvd. after mouthing off! ) Trini….my buddy Gus (God bless his soul) who never legalized his van but would sneak out at night after the authorities went home so he could make a few extra dollars to supplement his regular job.) African Charlie who drove the brand new Mazda MPV.
I could go on and on but I must also mention Tony the Sutphin Blvd “regulator”…..Anyone who remembered Sutphin Blvd and 93rd Ave. by the fish market will remember him for screaming at the top of his lungs calling for passengers to ride the Q40 Dollar van: “Foooorty over Heeeeeere! He would get a dollar kickback from the driver for filling up his van for him…..We all knew he had a heroin habit (That he hid well) but a more charismatic street personality you would never find. The ladies of all ages loved him bringing him home cooked delicacies and slipping wads of spare change that they would get after shopping in the fish market in his pockets when no one was looking.
The unique personalities and inimitable characters that I was blessed to connect with and absorb energy from would eventually be invaluable to my psyche on a creative level as I would never ever be the same after knowing them
The Pulse of the Streets
Driving a dollar van wasn’t just a job; it was an immersion into the soul of Queens. I knew the routes like the back of my hand: the Q40, the Q9, the Q6—all essential lifelines connecting people to their daily grinds and nighttime hustles. The mornings were filled with working-class folks—nurses heading to shifts, construction workers gripping their coffee, kids rushing to school. The scent of buttered bagels and street cart coffee filled the air as the early-morning fog lifted from the asphalt.
By noon, the streets told a different story. The morning rush had faded, replaced by the neighborhood’s heartbeat at its rawest—vendors hawking everything from knockoff designer bags to incense, elders playing chess on the corner, and the neighborhood fixers making deals in hushed tones.
The Transition: Day to Night
The transition from the working world to the underworld was seamless, almost poetic in its rhythm. As the sun set, the streets became charged with a different kind of energy. The streetlights flickered on, and the night shift took over. Women in tight skirts and sky-high heels worked their corners while stick-up kids lurked in the shadows, sizing up potential marks. The hustlers—some polished, others still finding their way—moved product with a finesse that only street knowledge could perfect.
Weekends were the wildest. The corporate types, fresh off a week of boardroom battles, melted into the same spaces as ex-cons and local legends. Married men crept into the passenger seats, whispering to be dropped off near the strip clubs, away from familiar eyes. The backseat confessions were endless—stories of broken dreams, of double lives, of hustles gone wrong and fortunes made overnight. Driving my van was definitely a school for learning the raw vast mosaic of human nature.
I remember the fast food parking lots that served as late-night meeting points, the corner bodegas that never seemed to close, and the police who knew exactly what was happening but only intervened when it suited them. The system had its own rules, unwritten yet universally understood.
The Hustle and the Danger
Driving at night meant navigating not just the streets but the hidden currents of the city. You had to know who was safe to pick up and who would try to turn your van into their escape vehicle. You had to be quick with words, sharp with instincts. Some nights, the tension was thick—stick-ups happened in a flash, and a wrong turn could land you in the middle of a beef you wanted no part of.
Yet, for all its dangers, the job had its freedoms. I wasn’t tied to an office or a clock; I moved with the streets, dictated by its rhythm. Some nights, the tips were good—extra cash from grateful passengers, or from those who needed discretion. Other nights, it was about making it home in one piece.
A Time That Will Never Be Again
That era is gone now. The dollar vans are still around, but the energy has changed. Gentrification has washed over parts of Queens, erasing the raw edges, making things cleaner but less authentic. Many of the old heads are gone—some to prison, some to the grave, and some simply moved on, vanishing into new lives.
But those of us who were there remember. We remember the smell of the pavement after summer rain, the way the streetlights painted long shadows on late-night passengers, the unspoken rules that governed the underworld, and the camaraderie of the hustlers, drivers, and survivors who made the streets their own.
It was a time of danger and opportunity, of fleeting victories and inevitable losses. It was a life lived at full throttle, where every night held the promise of something unexpected. And for those of us who were behind the wheel, it was an experience that will never be forgotten.
This was one of the best chapters in my life that taught me so much about Human Nature as it was up close and personal, raw and in your face! I have a vast amount of stories to tell from the colorful palette of experiences that I have been afforded in that part of my life! I will always cherish those days and those who worked those street beside me!