As the cabbie turned right onto Lexington Ave., he asked me would I like to get off on the left or right side of the street? Very professional; well in advance; I felt shuttled by capable hands.
“Left side,” I said.
“Ah,” he said, “you’re going to school.”
I puzzled; I savored in silence this latest enigma from the yellow, peripatetic dimension of the Manhattan taxi. Indeed, there are classes held at the Y… I suppose…?
“School on Saturday night,” he reiterated.
I couldn’t lie to my cabbie, not after he was so professional. “No,” I replied, “I’m going to a concert.”
“Oh.” He laughed. “I thought you only good person in Manhattan.”
I mused in the back seat how wrong he was. Should I reply “haha,” or the more dismissive “Hah”?
“Go to school while everyone party. Go to school Saturday night, church Sunday … that’s a good person.”
Was he serious? There was a glint in the side of his eye, dimly visible through the plexiglass. “I’m zero for two then,” I said.
Without approval or disapproval he turned to me as I stepped out, crunching in the Lexington Ave. slush: “then you’re a real New Yorker.”
