Taxicab Confessions, Part II

It would be neglectful to tell the story I just did without telling the story that preceded it. Several months ago, before the sleepless night, before the swollen eyes, before caramel handshakes and grins over the partition, there was another.

I don't know his name because he never told me, but I climbed in the back of his cab one chilly morning in November, lugging a big navy suitcase with a broken wheel, and settled in the back, shaking out my sore hand as he asked where I was going. After I gave him directions to my office he chirped, "You hungry?"

I was hungry. But I wasn't accustomed to partaking in food from strangers, much less cab drivers on cold November mornings on my way out of town. But before I had a chance to respond he was handing me half of his bagel, clean cut and carefully wrapped in foil. "Oh no, I'm okay, really!"

"No no. You hungry. Eat! Is good."

I eyed the breakfast and the driver, the latter tallish and Middle Eastern with dark and silvery hair that was almost elegant. Both seemed clean and fairly trustworthy, so I tentatively asked, "What kind is it?"

"Cinnamon raisin. Toasted. With butter. Eat! Is good."

I was hungry...

"Where you going?"

I took a bite of the bagel. "I'm going home to California. I'm so excited-- all my family is there."

"Oooh your family live out there?"

"Yes. I miss them a lot."

"Your husband live here?"

"No, I don't live with a husband."

Immediately I could tell something was wrong. Even through bleary morning eyes and the crinkling of foil I could see the back of his neck tense up and hear the pitch of his voice raise.

"That is no good. You must live with husband! Man and woman no live apart! You must be in same house--"

"Oh no no no! I don't have a husband! NO husband! I live alone-- no husband! If I did we would not live apart. You're right! It's NOT good. No husband, but I definitely would..."

He was visibly relieved.

"Oh. Is good. You have boyfriend?"

"No boyfriend."

"You know, I tell you something. Marriage hard work. But good work. You find good man to marry, love him. All people these days, they marry, and like moving into house-- you have house and light bulb break, you move house? No! You fix bulb! So many people just move house! Stay-- fix it! Good house!"

I loved this conversation already. Crumpling the now empty sheet of foil, I was about to ask him a question when he reached into the bag beside him and pulled out a steaming styrofoam cup.

"Tea?"

I refused again, this time for good, but not without so many protestations on his part. "I won't drink! Is good! You sure? Here. Napkins."

I cleaned my fingers and he continued. "Woman like egg-- what happens when you hold egg too tight? ...That's right, break! You hold tender. Gentle. Egg not fragile, but you hold too tight, too rough-- squish! Gentle with egg, gentle with woman."

He continued in this way, expounding passionately on simple yet profound analogies for marriage and relationship that would have silenced Dr. Phil and befuddled half my generation. I loved every word.

We were nearing my destination by this point so I kept asking questions and offering my agreeing opinions, trying to get any more from him. When we stopped he looked at me in the rearview mirror and said, "You have safe trip! Tell your family taxi driver from New York says hello and greetings!"

I couldn't contain my laughter as I swung open the door. "I will!"

And I did.

Taxicab Confessions

It was morning, early before work. I had awoken swollen and tired from a rough night of too little sleep, and decided that the stairs of the subway were too much for me to conquer. A taxi was called for.

I stepped out my front door and onto the curb where, with clock-like precision, a sullied but still-gleaming yellow taxi appeared. Ducking in and shutting the door firmly behind me, I said, "I'm going downtown-- Broad and Beaver, across from the Stock Exchange," and settled back in my seat, letting my puffy eyes drift closed as the cab rattled down the road.

"You from here?"

My eyes blinked open.

"...No, I'm from California," I said, wondering if it was my shock of blonde hair that had given me away to the small, middle-aged man I could hardly see over the partition. "Where are you from?"

"Oooh, California people very nice. Best people. I'm from India. My English not so good. You work downtown?"

"Yes I do."

"You have good job? Benefits?"

I was sitting up now. "I do. I'm so lucky. In California I didn't have a good job, but here I do. Yes-- I have benefits."

"You have job for taxi driver?"

"Haha-- not at the moment, but if we did I'd hire you!"

My new friend laughed with me and started to talk about how lucky we are to live in America (this opinion is a common thread amongst cab drivers, I've discovered), how the economy is so much better here than at home, how California people are the best ("So nice. The nicest people."). He asked if my family was in California, and if I lived alone in the city.

"No-- I mean, yes-- I mean, I have a roommate but all my family is in California."

"You no have husband? Boyfriend?"

I shook my head.

Shocked face. Then, a pause.

"You have girlfriend?"

I shook my head again, laughing.

Relieved face.

We were at a stoplight and he turned around, grinning at me over the partition and extended his hand to shake mine, "You are exceptional!"

I laughed out loud. "Thank you! I think you're exceptional too."

Then he started telling me about his marriage, and why people should date before they get married, but "people marry someone light outside, black inside... No good. You marry someone light inside. Good inside. I'm married 14 years--"

"Was your marriage arranged?" I interjected.

"Oh yes. We get married, she is my best friend. At beginning, no crazy sex, no crazy nothing, she is best friend. I don't need money, I don't need Princess Diana-- I come home, see happy face, kiss my wife. All work go away. Happy! That is all I need."

Through his cracking English I was amazed by his wisdom and the simple yet profound way he talked about marriage and his love for his wife. He went on to talk about how I was young and shouldn't worry about needing to get married-- but he was still shocked by my unattached status (which, I cannot feign, was deeply flattering), and just kept saying, "You are exceptional person. I could drive you around all day."

When we had reached my stop I wished him a wonderful, rich day and slid my credit card to pay the fare. He turned around again, reaching his soft, caramel colored hand for mine across the partition and said it one last time, "You are exceptional. Hope I see you again! Have a great day!"

As I slid from the leather seat onto the black gravel of Wall Street, my eyes didn't feel puffy any more and a smile was tugging at the edge of my lips. I walked past security in my office and waved at the guards and thought, "Why is it that taxi drivers give the best marriage advice?!"