Nina In New York: Taxi Cab Driver Confessions Part II
A young professional's take on the trials and tribulations of everyday life in New York City.
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By Nina Pajak
I've mentioned before that I have a knack for getting into bizarre conversations with cab drivers. On today's very special episode of "Taxi Cab Driver Confessions," things get weird. Let's tune in.
A couple of weeks ago, I was watching one of the NFL playoff games at a friend's apartment in Murray Hill. I left the party early to go take care of Gus and hailed myself a taxi going up Third Avenue. The driver asked me how my day was going, which was the cue to me that he was in the mood to chat. So I asked him how his day was going, and whether he'd been busy.
"Not really," he said. "I just started my shift."
"I'm sure it'll get busy later, with the Giants game."
"Oh," he said. "I hope people won't be drunk."
"Oh, they'll definitely be drunk." We laughed. Har har har.
He started to tell me about a fare he'd picked up, a young woman who was very small and thin and terribly drunk. In her intoxicated state, she'd opened up to him about how she was only nineteen, engaged to be married, but still in contact with an ex-boyfriend. He tsked.
"Too young!" I said, picking up on his tone.
"Definitely too young!" He agreed. Now we were friends.
Once our friendship was established, he felt free to inch closer to more scintillating topics.
"I picked up a woman once. She was very beautiful and young, and she told me she was going to marry a rich old man. But she didn't love him. She said she wanted to have boyfriends on the side, too."
"Well, that happens," I said.
"Yeah. She was very beautiful. I had another woman who also was very young and beautiful, and she was married to a rich man. And she wanted me to be her boyfriend on the side!"
I wasn't sure what to make of this. Granted, I was mostly looking at the back of his head, and I guess everybody has a type. But Clooney he was not. Let's call this the first official red flag.
"Er. Really? I mean, really!"
"Yes," he said proudly. He looked at me then in the rearview mirror. "How is your love life?"
Oh, lord. "I'm married," I said.
"Good, good. You're a good girl?"
"Um. Yes. No boyfriends on the side."
"Good. Good. You know, I was married for a long time. Then I get divorce."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that . . . I guess?"
"Yes." He was quiet for a moment, and I thought perhaps our friendship had come to a natural stopping point. But no.
"Then I had girlfriend. And I did not meet her until five years after I divorced my wife. And guess how many people I slept with in between!"
Oh, God. Please don't make me.
"Go on, guess!"
I had no idea how to play this. I couldn't guess low, that would be insulting. But too high and that might be equally offensive. What is high, even? Ten? Fifteen? How many women does the average middle-aged taxi driver bed when between monogamous relationships? "Er. Eight?" I said quietly.
"What?"
"Ten?"
"Zero!"
Curveball. "Oooh, wow," I said, unsure as to whether I was supposed to be impressed, sorry for him, or simply flabbergasted.
"Yes. Zero! My girlfriend when I met her said this cannot possibly be true. Someone like you, you would need many women to satisfy you! We used to make love many times a day. Every day! All the time."
"Gaah—wowthat'ssomething . . . " I mumbled.
He amused himself for a while reminiscing about the frequency and virility of his sex life. I looked studiously at my phone and found myself turning up the volume on the taxi TV.
"We broke up," he said suddenly. "But she wants me back. She calls me all the time. Her father called me and he said I should not take her back, she is no good."
"Oh, that's weird . . . " At this point, all of my responses were half-mumbled, awkward trail-offs. I could tell this would go better if it was a one-way conversation.
"My wife, too. When we divorced, her father said to me that I should leave her. She is spoiled and he said I am too good man for her. He respects my choice, and he will support me and not her."
Aha. I get it, buddy. "Wow. How unusual," I said, attempting to sound impressed. When you're in the backseat of a car being driven by a stranger, it's best not to argue.
I looked up and realized we were a block away from my apartment.
"THIS IS GOOD!" I shouted too loudly. "Right here! This corner!"
He hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"Oh, yes. Quite sure. Thank you!"
He pulled over and we parted with many well wishes. He drove off, no doubt thinking fondly of his aptitude for turning women's fathers against them and reflecting on his incredible abilities as a lover. I walked home, shuddering from time to time. When I reached my door, I'd come to the decision to put a moratorium on talking to strangers. I knew there was a reason for that rule.
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Dear Readers: While I am rarely at a loss for words, I'm always grateful for column ideas. Please feel free to e-mail me your suggestions.
Nina Pajak is a writer and publishing professional living with her husband on the Upper West Side.
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