Return of the Cabbie

Early this morning, at minutes to 2 a.m., I was trudging up the stairs at Kennedy Station towards the taxi stand.

I’d had a great night, and so far a great weekend.

I also had $27 in my wallet and was hoping I’d get an understanding taxi driver. As I neared the front of the line, toward a mini-van taxi, I suddenly thought to myself, I really hope I don’t end up taking a ride from that taxi driver I ran into a few months back.

I approached the van, slid the door open and, as I sat down, came (almost) face to face with …

The Pick-Up Cab. (This is the point at which you click on the link to refresh your memory.)

Motherfucker, I thought.

“Hi,” is what I actually said. “How are you?”

“Fine,” said Mr. Pick-Up Cab.

I gave him the intersection where I wanted to go, and almost simultaneously, he said, “Yeah, I think I’ve driven you home before.”

Aw sheeit, I cursed silently.

“Oh, really? Yeah, probably … you kind of look familiar,” I said, none too convincingly.

As we drove home, he asked me about where I was coming from, where I worked (again), what I did, and asked whether I was just coming from work (although I’d JUST said I was coming from downtown from a social function.

He kept the conversation about work (except for the two seconds that he asked whether I’d always had braids), pretty much up until he pulled onto my driveway.

And as soon as I’d settled up my cab fare, he said, “Nice to see you again … even though you never called me.”

And then he turned and looked right at me.

Play me off, Keyboard Cat.