It was the worst job that I've ever had, but it fit my schedule. Driving the cab four nights every week left me three evenings to take classes at our university, which was a twenty-minute walk from our apartment. My wife was a full time student, and I took care of our young son during the day. For fun, I faithfully attended the five-pm class at a neighborhood Taekwondo gym on the nights when I had seven o'clock classes. I also went to the noon classes on Saturday, before showering and running out to the taxi garage to pick up a car.
I kept that up for well over a year. The energy of someone that age is hard for me to imagine now.
You learn a lot about people driving a taxi. You learn about people in general, and you also learn some of the secrets that many people carry around with them. You, the taxi driver, are a perfect audience for a confession. You have no idea what the passenger's name is, where they work, or who they know. You will never see each other again. It's late, and the interior of the cab is dark. Oh, brother, do you hear the damnedest things. Especially after the confessor has had a few drinks.
Sure, the job was demanding. New York traffic is no picnic. Just a small radio on the seat next to you for company most of the time. Twenty-five to thirty-five mostly boring rides up and down the avenues and across the streets of the Big Apple. Walking home after two-am could be a lonely moment. I must admit, though, that it did get interesting occasionally.
You need to get up off of your couch to hear people confess to murdering a group of P.O.W.s twenty five years previously, in the Korean War.
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