Have not bought into the whole Uber enthusiasm, in part because ’m not good at buying into enthusiasms, and in part because I like cabbies.
I don’t know why. I have rare occasion to take advantage of the talents of either group. I understand that Uber drivers are a beautiful testimony to capitalism and the American dream … our chance to help our fellow citizens make a little extra cash and move up the economic ladder. I don’t begrudge them their enterprise, their energy, their moxie. And hear tell they’re cheaper, too.
But somehow, in my mind, cabbies are to Uber drivers what little hole-in-the-wall restaurants are to a hot dog stand on the street. I like that little extra touch of professionalism, of formality, of health inspection. Don’t mind paying a little extra.
Plus, there is just something of the swashbuckler in a cabbie.
In D.C. this week, I was shanghaied along on two Uber rides, and treated myself to one cabbie. The first of the former was a middle-aged fellow from Pakistan; five years in the U.S., trying to support seven kids and a wife off his seven-day-a-week, 6 a.m.-to-9 p.m. driving. It’s not working especially well. Riders are relatively sparse except on weekends.
“Some days, we don’t eat,” he says. Tell him ‘ll pray for him, mostly ‘cuz that’s all I know to say, and he breaks into a broad smile and ardently calls down all of the blessings of God upon me. He says his name is Raj, and I am trying to remember to pray.
Did not catch the second Uber driver’s name – his accent obscured it. He, too, has been here about five years, from Tajikistan which (looked it up) is just north of Pakistan. Wonder if he and Raj met in transit. He’s younger than Raj, but doesn’t seem any more enthusiastic for Uber work, and like him is fonder of the Virginia suburbs than D.C. itself. They both are prompt, safe, and smooth, but seem to know more about traffic and streets than about the city, its teeming history, or its raison d’etre.
America is real to them, and they speak glowingly of the freedom to be found here. D.C. is just the city they work in.
Friday morning, at 4:30 sharp, the cab ‘d requested swings into the hotel driveway. The cabbie exits talking, talks as he loads our bags, talks through our answers to his questions, and never stops talking (with one 30-second exception) for the entire 10-minute drive to the airport. He is wearing a short-sleeved, cleanly pressed white shirt, flip-flops, and a swimsuit.
‘m joined at the last minute by a colleague heading in the same direction, and we chat quietly for a moment or two, while he talks about something that doesn’t seem to require a reply from us. Suddenly, he interrupts: “Would you like to hear a poem?”
After the briefest of pauses, we confess that we do. At 4:30 in the morning, driving the dark streets of D.C., who doesn’t want to hear a few rhymes from a stranger? Especially with the streets empty, the hotel fading behind us, and the stranger steering the wheel?
Wish I had thought to record the poem, because a) it’s rather good – something about sunrises and hope, b) it’s an original composition of his own, and c) I can’t remember a line of it. He tells us that in 27 years of driving a cab, he’s never failed to ask permission of his passengers to cite a poem, and never been denied that permission. Curiosity is alive and well in our nation’s capital.
Can’t resist asking if he’d like to hear a poem, too. He says he would. I walk a little doggerel of my own out for his review. He expresses mild approval, asks if ‘ve written mine myself, asks how often I shared my lines with others. Not often enough, it turns out, to meet with his approval. (We invite my friend to share a poem, too; she declines – “How’d I get into this pre-dawn literary society?” her wide eyes ask.)
“Cab drivers are like bartenders,” our cabbie says. “People tell us everything. You can’t talk about abortion, politics, sex, religion with people you work with. Not anymore. People gotta talk to somebody.” He says he spent “10 years living in a bottle,” and that the poetry was one of his ways out. He writes and recites as he drives between fares. He thinks more people should, and that if God gives us that creativity, we ought to be sharing our creations with the people in our lives.
That’s a lot to talk about, and many a question crowds my mind. Wish, as he says, we were leaving from the other airport – could have a good talk then. I don’t quite get his name, or another word in edgewise.
He’s a swashbuckler, though – through and through.
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