Meter Running, Mind Wandering
Most people step into my cab and forget I’m there. That’s fine. I’m not here to be remembered. I’m here to get you from point A to point B with the least amount of stress and the most possible green lights.
But while you’re checking your texts or arguing on the phone, I’m watching the city unfold. Every block is a different story. Every pickup is a new chapter. And while the meter runs, so does my mind.
I’ve seen a woman cry in silence all the way from JFK to Park Slope, wiping her tears with a hotel napkin. I’ve driven a delivery boy who barely spoke English but insisted on paying for his ride because “today is first day in America.” I once had a man hop in, hand me a $50 bill, and say, “Just drive until it runs out. I don’t want to be home yet.”
Funny thing is, the ones with money often have the least to say. The ones with backpacks and beat-up sneakers? They’ll talk your ear off, share their dreams, their plans, their heartbreaks. You learn quickly that everyone’s running from or chasing something. And this cab — for a few minutes — becomes their hiding place.
The job’s not glamorous. The seat cushion’s worn thin. My back hurts more than it used to. The city’s mean sometimes. Tourists treat me like I’m Siri with a steering wheel. Cops hand out tickets like candy. And Uber drivers? Don’t even get me started.
But still — there’s something sacred about watching the sunrise on the FDR, the streets still wet from last night’s rain, no traffic in sight. Or hearing a kid in the back whisper, “Look, Mom! The Empire State Building!”
I’m not just driving a car. I’m carrying lives. Fragments of joy, stress, love, regret. It’s a lot for one yellow box to hold.
So yeah, the meter’s running. But sometimes I forget I’m getting paid for this. Because some days, I feel like I’m not just moving people — I’m witnessing the soul of the city, one fare at a time.
And that? That keeps me coming back.