Pushing my feet in their worn-out sandals, stinging from the cold autumn air, I rushed into the cab this evening. The old driver, a shock of snow-white hair melting from the top, asked me how I was tonight. "Cold," I replied.
"Do you want a mint?" he asked. "If you keep your mouth moving you might get warm."
As we sped across the Washington streets with the bright lights and the sparse Sunday night traffic, the old driver kept his mouth moving. Mostly he mumbled. There was something about a strike. From time to time, I would say, "Hmm." I said this in various tones and at the right intervals to convey that A) I was listening; B) I was in general agreement; or C) I was at least not offended by what the old driver was saying.
Mostly people just want someone to listen. I listen, but what is there to say most of the time? How many different ways can you howl into this modern world? It's been some time since anyone told me a quiet story.
There was some cool jazz playing on the cab radio. Finally home, the old driver tried to overcharge me until I corrected him that I had taken many cab rides to my office. I knew the price to pay.
No comments:
Post a Comment