The Yellow Light Never Lasts
You learn to live in the in-between when you drive a yellow cab in New York.
The light turns green, you go. The light turns red, you wait. But the yellow? That’s the moment you live for — that brief, pulsing second between decision and instinct. Go or stop. Risk the ticket or play it safe. That’s life here, in a nutshell.
I’ve been driving for almost eighteen years. Long enough to see the skyline change, neighborhoods gentrify, diners turn into dog spas. I’ve driven Wall Street interns, fresh off their first bonus, trying to act like they own the world. I’ve picked up single moms at 2 AM walking home from their second job. I’ve dropped off Broadway actors too nervous to speak before opening night.
You don’t need a psychology degree when you sit behind the wheel long enough. The way someone slams the door tells you how their day went. The way they stare out the window tells you what they’re running from. I once had a teenage girl whisper directions like she didn’t want someone to hear. Halfway through the ride, she asked me, “Do you think people really change?” I told her they do. I wasn’t sure I believed it, but she needed to hear it more than I needed to be right.
There’s a kind of poetry to this job. You’re always moving, but you’re never going anywhere for yourself. You’re the in-between. The vessel. You carry people from crisis to comfort, from boredom to excitement, from one version of their life to the next. Then they get out, and you disappear.
Some nights, when the shift ends and the cab is quiet, I sit in the lot a little longer. Let the silence settle in. There’s a loneliness to this life, sure. But also a strange kind of privilege. I get to see the city not from the top floor, but from the street. Where it’s messy and honest. Where the yellow lights flicker, and the stories pass through like shadows.
Tomorrow, I’ll be out again. Same streets, different lives. Always chasing that yellow light. Never quite stopping. Never fully going.
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