The Night I Realized NYC Can Read Your Mind
People always ask me, “What’s the craziest thing that’s happened in your cab?”
I usually laugh it off — tourists love drama — but there is one night that still hits me like a cold wind down 5th Avenue.
It started like any other late shift. Manhattan was glowing, a little too loud, a little too alive. I was parked near Union Square when a guy in a black hoodie tapped on my window. Nothing unusual — this is New York, after all. He got in the back seat, kept his head down, and muttered, “Harlem. Fast.”
His tone was off — sharp, nervous, like he was racing against something I didn’t know about.
But hey, you learn not to judge. My job is to drive.
A few minutes into the ride, the police sirens started. One car. Then two. Then six. They weren’t after me — but they were definitely after someone near me.
My passenger suddenly slouched deeper in the seat.
That’s when I noticed it. His hands were shaking.
His hoodie pocket looked heavy.
And his eyes kept darting to the rear window like shadows were chasing him.
I didn’t need a confession.
The city told me everything.
We were stuck at a red light, and he whispered, “Don’t stop the car.”
Manhattan traffic disagreed.
That red light lasted a lifetime.
Two seconds before it turned green, he jumped out, sprinted into an alley, and disappeared like a glitch in the streetlights.
Before I could process anything, two officers knocked on my window. They asked if I’d seen a guy in a black hoodie. I told them the truth — or at least the version that kept me alive.
They nodded, thanked me, and ran after him.
I just sat there for a minute, engine humming, heart racing, thinking about how close danger gets in this city — how it brushes past you like a stranger on the sidewalk.
New York has millions of stories.
That night, I accidentally drove one of them.
And trust me — I still check my back seat twice before I start the meter.