The cabbie pulled over to get me at the corner of 78th and broadway. In the predawn darkness, it was hard to discern whether he was Indian or African and I was grateful for his question about which route to take, as it allowed me to confidently place him somewhere between Pakistan and India.
“Ve tek Vest Side Driwe yeh?”
We drove along West Side Highway with my friendly driver cursing loudly at cars who dared to press on their brakes along the way. He narrowly missed several pedestrians, but undeterred continue to lurch the cab toward jay-walkers at every opportunity. Fortunately , I had left the apartment in a rush and had no time for breakfast. We arrived 20 minutes later, my fingernail scratches visible on the pleather banquette beneath my sweaty palms. My stomach gurgled with gastric juices now well agitated by the sea like swells traversed at break neck speed in the car. I thanked my driver, tipped him well, and accepted his heartfelt blessings for my family, and entered the hotel lobby grateful to be alive.
