You’d be lucky if you got in my dad’s taxi. He was a neat freak, and for all the 37 years he was driving, he cleaned behind the seats almost every night. (He turned 66 and retired in 2009.) He had a light hand with the air fresheners. If you left your wallet or cell phone in the car, he would get it back to you just as he found it. He wasn’t like Jimmy, the greasy MTV cabbie who would never shut up, and he wasn’t the angry driver from Seinfeld who kicked George out of the car twice, and he wasn’t the soulful Judd Hirsch type from the TV series. He was more in the Taxicab Confessions school. He would put on his Ella Fitzgerald, crack open the window, and ask you how you were doing.

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New York Dec. 2011

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© 2012 Hanna Rosin