On my way

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.”

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