Nobody Notices the Driver
In this city, you could vanish in plain sight and no one would even blink. That’s what being a taxi driver feels like most days — invisible. I open the door, you climb in, and for the next 15 blocks I’m just part of the background. A voice that asks, “Cash or card?” A hand that swipes the meter. A presence you barely register.
And you know what? I don’t mind. Invisibility has its perks.
I get to observe without being observed. Watch the city breathe. Watch you take off your heels and sigh after a long night. Watch some kid from Ohio stare out the window, wide-eyed, as if Times Square is a portal to another world. Watch a couple hold hands for the first time or let go for the last.
You get to know the seasons not by leaves or weather, but by behavior. Spring? Everyone’s falling in love, wearing sunglasses too early. Summer? Impatience. Sweat. Impromptu rooftop confessions. Fall brings silence — people in their own heads. And winter? Winter is loneliness in a puffer jacket.
Once, around Christmas, an older woman hailed me near Columbia. She didn’t give a destination. She just said, “Drive slow. I want to see the lights.” I took her down Fifth, through Central Park South, past the tree at Rockefeller. She didn’t say much. At the end, she paid double and said, “Thank you. My husband used to do that with me.” Then she got out and disappeared into the night.
Moments like that stay with you. More than the tips. More than the GPS routes. It’s the quiet humanity that lingers.
Sure, the job grinds you down. The city’s tough, the hours are long, and the back pain is real. But every now and then, someone opens the door and reminds you — this isn’t just a ride. It’s a sliver of their story.
I don’t know how much longer yellow cabs will be around. The apps are winning. The medallions are worthless. But for now, I’ll keep driving. Keep listening. Keep fading into the background.
After all, nobody notices the driver — and maybe that’s the point.