The sun sizzles upon the pinstripe-clad white meat of my thighs. I’m in Westchester County, home of NYC’s closest suburbs, and I can’t believe I’m in a cab with no air conditioning, much less a shared cab with no air conditioning. This is the land of in-house washer/dryer combos and attic storage - luxuries magnified by their proximity to Manhattan, where someone regularly pees in my building’s basement laundry facilities and I have to call on the professionals. Frankly, I’m disappointed.
Two thirty-year-old teenage boys sprawl in the backseat. I sit beside the cabbie and stare into his smiling license picture. The grin transforms the stern face he now wears. There’s a sticker above the picture: “If someone other than the person on this license is driving this vehicle, call the police.” I think we are never exactly who we were a minute ago, flashbulbs or not. I also think I’m going to sweat to death if the cabbie’s erratic swerves and sudden braking don’t kill me first.
It’s Indian Summer here in White Plains, if they still call it that. I mean, it’s that hot spell before winter, but maybe “Native American Summer” is what they’re calling it nowadays. The green monotony of foliage gushes reds and yellows every few trees. From the train, it looked like stingy, barely perceptible smears of color across a canvas. But from the clear view of the cab, I see there are quite a few leaves with beaten chlorophyll.
The cab skids into another lane to avoid a bumper it’s been riding since the last stoplight that was green gone yellow gone red gone green, like a summary of deciduous life. The man-boys get dropped off at a flagstone-speckled 3 BR, 2.5 BATH. Pinpoints of blinding light glint off the unused seatbelts.
The cabbie and I ride into the flames. Every few minutes we’re changing lanes, and every second we’re just changing.
sounds like the most beautiful cab ride even with all the skids, swerves and uncomfortable heat.
I need to hurry up and start saving for a house somewhere. It’s such a nice change of pace.