Taxi driver

Tonight I contemplated the life of a taxi driver. After an excellent work dinner in New York’s Chinatown (at a British gastropub, which spellcheck is suggesting I change to gastrique or gastrointestinal) called Fat Radish, I walked out to Orchard Street, where a taxi pulled up to where I was standing. There was a young couple sitting in the back, kissing, giggling, and digging out the cash to pay, as I looked straight at the cabbie and pointed to him like, “dude, will you drive me somewhere,” and he nodded like, “dude, I totally will.”

So I got in the cab. It was pointing downtown. I said, “Grand Central,” and he said, “Grand Central, okay.” I closed the door Nd he started driving. I didn’t know in what direction we were headed until he abruptly turned around, pointing us toward Grand Central. Then I thought to myself, here’s this dude heading one way and then I come in saying let’s go some other way, and he says okay and keeps changing direction all night. What does he care? He plays his music all night and drives around seeing where people want to go. It’s like a sociological experiment and he gets paId for it. Not bad.


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