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People think being a taxi driver in New York is all about knowing the streets. Sure, that helps — but what it’s really about is knowing people. And trust me, after a decade behind the wheel, you get a front-row seat to human nature in all its raw, unfiltered forms.

I usually start my shift around 6 PM. That’s when the city shifts gears — office workers heading to bars, tourists trying to catch Broadway shows, couples on date nights. By 9 PM, it’s a different crowd. The after-hours world comes alive: bartenders, dancers, chefs, night owls, and sometimes folks who’ve had one too many.

You get a thick skin fast. I’ve had fares throw up in the back seat. Others try to skip out on the fare. A few, after too many drinks, will spill their life stories to me — about their divorce, their estranged kids, their lost dreams. I just listen. Sometimes, that’s all people want.

There was a night — maybe two years ago — a Wall Street guy in a suit got in around Battery Park. He looked wrecked. “Drive,” he said. No destination, just “drive.” So we circled Manhattan for an hour while he stared out the window. When I finally dropped him off, he handed me $100 and just said, “Thanks for the silence.”

That’s what this job teaches you — to read the moment. Some riders want to chat. Some want to be left alone. Some just need to cry in the back seat of a yellow cab because in this city, sometimes that’s the only place you can.

The apps have made things harder. Uber, Lyft — they’ve taken a lot of business away. But there are still plenty of people who wave a hand on a cold night and want the classic yellow cab experience. I keep going for that.

By 4 AM, the streets start to clear. The city exhales. I grab a coffee, head home, and watch the sun come up. Tomorrow night, I’ll do it again. Different faces, different stories. Same city. And for now, that’s enough.

It’s 4:30 AM. The city that “never sleeps” does, in fact, sleep — but not all of us. My day (or night, depending on how you look at it) starts with a strong coffee from the bodega on 8th. The streets are quieter now. No horns. No chaos. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional drunk stumbling home.

I’ve been driving a yellow cab in this city for 12 years. I’ve seen it all: Wall Street sharks who talk mergers in the back seat, tourists craning their necks for a glimpse of the Empire State Building, dancers from Queens heading home at dawn, and more heartbreaks, hookups, and arguments than I can count.

Every ride is a story. Some funny. Some sad. Some… just plain weird. One night a guy from Brooklyn paid me $200 to circle Times Square five times so he could propose to his girlfriend in the back seat. Another time, a woman burst into tears because her boyfriend texted her mid-ride to say it was over. I handed her a tissue and just kept driving. What else can you do?

The job’s changed a lot. Uber. Lyft. Apps. Algorithms. There was a time when hailing a yellow cab was part of the NYC experience. Now, we fight for fares. The medallion that once cost more than a house is worth a fraction of that. Some drivers left. I stayed. This city gets under your skin.

I like the rhythm of the streets. Midtown at lunch hour. The chaos of after-theater crowds. The dead calm of 3 AM. The way the city breathes. It’s not glamorous. Some days it barely pays the bills. But it’s real.

People often ask: “Aren’t you tired of the traffic?” Truth? Sometimes. But I’ve learned to flow with it. There’s an art to navigating these streets, reading the lights, sensing the pulse of the city.

At the end of a shift, when I hand in my keys and step into the cool morning air, I remind myself: This is New York. No two days — or nights — are ever the same. And tomorrow, another hundred stories will climb into my back seat.