John Hockenberry, in his book "Moving Violations" on hailing a cab in a wheelchair, and when the crazy guy who shares your head with you takes over:

I rolled over to his cab and knocked on the window. "Can you take a fare?" The driver was pretending I had just landed there from space, but I was freezing and needed a ride, so I tried not to look disgusted. He nodded with all the enthusiasm of someone with an abscessed tooth. I opened the door and hopped into the backseat. I folded the chair and asked him to open the trunk of his cab.

"Why you want me to do that?" he said.

"Put the chair in the trunk, please." I was half-sitting in the cab, my legs still outside. The door was open and the wheelchair folded next to the cab. "No way, man." he said. "I'm not going to do that. It's too damn cold." I was supposed to understand that I would now simply thank him for his trouble, get back in my wheelchair, and wait for another cab.

"Just put the chair in the trunk right now. It's Christmas Eve, pal, why don't you just pretend to be Santa for five fucking minutes." His smile vanished. I had crossed a line by getting angry. But he also looked relieved, as though now he could refuse me in good conscience. It was all on his face. "You're crazy, man. I don't have to do nothing for you." I looked at him once more and said, "If you make me get back into this chair you are going to be very sorry." It was a moment of visceral anger. There was no turning back now. "Go away, man. It's too cold."

I got back into the chair. I placed my backpack with my wallet in it on the back of my chair for safekeeping. I grabbed his door, and with all my strength pushed it back on its hinges until I heard a loud snap. It was now jammed open. I rolled over to his passenger window, and with two insane jabs of my right fist I shattered it. I rolled around to the front of the cab, and with my fist in my white handball glove took out first one, then the other, headlight. The light I was bathed in from the front of the cab vanished. The face of the driver could now be seen clearly, illuminated from the dashboard's glow.

I could hear myself screaming at him in a voice that sounded far away. I knew the voice, but the person it belonged to was an intruder in this place. He had nothing to do with this particular cabbie and his stupid, callous, insensitivity; rather, he was the overlord to all such incidents that had come before. Whenever the gauntlet was dropped, it was this interior soul, with that screaming voice and those hands, who felt no pain and who surfed down a wave of hatred to settle the score. This soul had done the arithmetic, and chosen the weapons. I would have to live with the consequences.