When my wife and I moved to New York, we gave up our car.
We could have kept it–for the price of a one-bedroom apartment in Boise, Idaho–but we traded it for a taxi instead.
I`ve discovered that most cabbies are great. For one thing, they know where they`re going, which is a welcome relief. But beyond this, they`ve got a knack for the 10-minute ride. They will tell you exactly what they think about almost anything, from U.S. foreign policy to the mayor`s private life, from a game-booting error to the tragedy of the day.
Now that baseball is back, I`ve shifted my priorities, but during the winter doldrums, I asked cabbies about themselves. ”How`s business?” I said. As with all such polls, it was unscientific, but for a reflection of human nature, their answers were revealing.
If you pose this same question, the response is likely to fall into one of four basic categories: 1-Get lost, 2-It stinks, 3-Same as usual and 4-Great.
The first cabbie, a blessed rarity, blinks at you with disbelief, slams the plexiglass partition and turns up his radio.
For me, all this means is that I spend the entire trip self-consciously cowering in the back seat, while trying to work up my courage not to tip. Thus far I`ve failed.
The second fellow jumps at the opportunity I`ve provided. He bemoans his fate. As it turns out, life is a conspiracy among the mayor, the taxi commission, the potholes, the passengers, the weather and God, with him as chief victim, served up by cruel circumstance for daily slaughter. The problem is, it`s hard to work up sympathy for someone who`s dead sure that he`s both wronged and right.
The third cabbie, representing by far the largest group, acknowledges that everything`s basically okay. Today may not be all that good, but experience has taught him that tomorrow will balance things out. Sure, the traffic is lousy, but when it comes right down to it, driving a cab is just a way to make a living, nothing more.
But then there`s the fourth type, as rare a bird as the first. He`s worth waiting for. He opens the partition, turns off his radio and waxes lyrical.
”Business? It`s great. It`s always great. Don`t let nobody tell you different.” He`s got pictures of his kids taped to the dashboard, and maybe a St. Christopher medal, too, or a pair of sponge dice hanging on the rear-view mirror. But most of all, he`s got spirit. In fact, you`ve got to pray that he`ll keep at least one hand on the wheel.
Question a cabbie and you touch the pulse of the people. Think about your coworkers, neighbors or family. Some are so angry that they haven`t the time of day for you. It`s as if they were saying, ”Go ahead, just try to make me feel better.” Don`t. It`s not an invitation.
Others are looking for sympathy and quick to blame. Whatever`s wrong, it`s not their fault. Be careful here. Before you know it, it will be your fault.
Still others have a stoic view–life is grim but manageable.
Perhaps they`ve been around the block a few too many times. With such people, the best thing you can do is try to make them laugh.
Blessedly, a goodly number of our friends and acquaintances fall into the fourth group. Somehow they manage to exult in life.
Not that it`s a bowl of cherries, simply a menu filled with possibilities. When the traffic is good, it is ”great.” When it`s not, ”not to worry.” And when they ask you how you are, they really want to know.
So I find myself in this grimy cab with an unshaven, tough-looking character. ”How`s business?” I ask. ”Well,” he says with a grin, ”I woke up this morning, didn`t I, so today`s a good day, right? I got work. I can feed my family. We`ve got our health, thank God. So that`s enough, right?
How`s your business, buddy?”
All of a sudden we are talking about me. And so I tell him a bit about myself. We pull up to my destination. ”It`s been a privilege,” he says. The privilege has been mine.
We`ll probably never meet again, but the least I can do is contribute to the adage that happiness spawns happiness, and goodness is something more than its own reward. Paying a $3.50 fare with a $5 bill, I tell him to keep the change.
And then I think about that line of his. Not a bad way to end a ride, or a day, or, for that matter, a life. ”It`s been a privilege.”
