Meter Running, Mind Wandering
Most of the time, people forget I’m there when they step into my cab. And that’s fine. I’m not here to be remembered forever. I’m only here to help them get from one point to another with the least amount of stress and as many green lights as possible. But while they are checking texts or arguing on the phone, I’m watching the city unfold itself. Every block has a 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 the 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.”
The funny thing is, the ones with money often have the least to say. The ones backpacking and wearing beaten-up sneakers are the ones screaming about their dreams, plans, heartbreak. You learn quickly that everyone is running from or chasing something. And this cab, even for just a few minutes, becomes their hiding space.
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 yes, the meter is still running. But sometimes I forget I’m getting paid for this. Because sometimes I feel like I’m not just moving people, I’m witnessing the soul of the city, one fare at a time. And that keeps me going.