The New York City Cab Driver
I held up my hand to hail my first yellow taxi in New York City this week. The Middle Eastern cab diver’s stern-faced head shake sent me back up on the curb to refortify my courage. From behind me I heard a gruff, “Hey, come back. They’re getting out here.” I didn’t dare disobey and climbed into the back seat.
“Where are you going?”
“Wall Street Inn – Wall and S. William.”
“Which way do you want to go?”
To myself, “There are choices?”
To the driver, “I have no idea. I’m a stranger.”
“Oh man, what are you doing telling him you’re a naïve visitor?”
“Well you’re not a stranger to me now”, turning to smile through the opening in the shield between us.
“OK, he’s not so gruff. I can talk.”
“I’m here from Boston for business for the first time. I’m originally from New Hampshire.”
“He doesn’t care where you’re from!”
“How do you pronounce it? New Hampsher or New Hampshire (long i)?”
“New Hampsher.”
“He’s interested!”
“Where are you from originally?”
“New Hampshire”
“No, I mean your heritage?”
“English, Scotch, Irish.”
“I could tell. My ex-wife is Irish.”
“Hmmm, I’m something like the ex-wife of the Middle Eastern cab driver.”
Now it got quiet except for his phone conversation with someone in a Middle Eastern tongue, the cars honking, my heart pounding as he raced and swerved through the crowded streets, pounding less from fear than from an amusement park ride excitement.
Fifteen minutes later, “Here’s my hotel.”
“$14.20”
I handed him a twenty.
“How much back?
“I have no idea how to tip a cab driver.”
“I’m good.”
“Thank you very much.”
The New York City cab driver turned around to look though the opening in the shield between us. Our eyes met and the glance held. And we both smiled as I got out of the cab – a striking human connection in the swirling city.