The Rearview Mirror Doesn’t Lie
Looking at the way a person sits in the back seat, you can tell a lot about them. Some slowly slide in, headphones on and eyes glued to phones; they usually prefer silence. Others lean forward the moment the door shuts, and already, we are old friends. And then there are the ones who don’t say a word, but their body language tells you everything: the slump of a bad day, the tension of a fight, the stillness of heartbreak. I’ve driven all of them. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands, in the fifteen years I’ve been behind the wheel of a yellow cab in New York City.
This job is part hustle, part meditation. Most people don’t understand it. They think we’re just traffic-chasers, or worse, relics of a city that’s moved on to apps and ratings and ride-share perks. But this cab? It’s more than transport. It’s a moving confessional, a pressure valve, a therapy couch with seatbelts.
I’ve seen proposals. I’ve seen breakups. I once had a guy take a business call so loud and obnoxious that his girlfriend sitting next to him got out mid-ride, right in the middle of Midtown traffic. Didn’t say a word. Just opened the door and walked. The guy didn’t even notice for a full minute.
You develop a sixth sense in this line of work. Who’s in a rush? Who’s lying about being “just five minutes late.” Who’s trying to escape something or someone?
Sometimes, late at night, I drive with the window cracked open and the radio low, letting the city seep in. I know every steam vent, every deli that stays open past 3 AM, every shortcut no algorithm can teach. This city speaks to you if you’re quiet enough to listen.
I’m not sure how many more years I’ll do this. The job’s getting harder. The money isn’t what it used to be. But there’s something sacred in the routine. The hum of the meter. The brief, fragile trust between strangers. That still means something to me.
So tomorrow, I’ll pull up to the curb again. A stranger will get in. And for a few minutes, we’ll share the same space, the same journey. Just two people, one behind the wheel, one in the rearview, moving through the city that made us both.