For our date-night dinner Thursday, Tony and I went to a wonderful restaurant in the historic Mehrauli District. We called a taxi from our neighborhood stand and got picked up by Mr. Kapoor (not to be confused with the Kapoor who drives us to school every day). As we inched along in traffic, Mr. Kapoor couldn’t resist judging us.
“Most people go out on Friday or Saturday,” he said.
“That’s true,” I admitted.
“This restaurant is very far. Are you meeting people there?” asked Mr. Kapoor.
“No, it’s just us,” Tony answered.
Did we really have to justify our mid-week excursion to a taxi driver? Did he really want to hear that we have made a commitment to spending time together on a school night once a week? It was funny but also annoying.
I had felt a cold coming on, and sure enough, during our date my voice went from normal … to Kim Carnes-esque sultry … to gone. Within two hours, I had completely lost my voice. I contemplated texting in sick on Friday, but I knew several of my colleagues were out, and substitute teachers are hot commodities. I showed up, skipped my in-class support lessons and taught a whispery EAL class before taking off early. Outside the school gate, I walked the short distance to a taxi stand and climbed into a taxi van. The driver called out my address, which was a relief since I couldn’t speak. (We take taxis home every day, so most of these drivers know where we live.) About halfway home, I spotted something that snapped me out of my head-cold haze.
The dashboard components had been ripped out, and wiring hung down around the driver’s feet.
Devoid of needles, the gauges were useless. I was riding in the equivalent of a motorized tin can.
When we arrived at my house, I made several universal gestures of confusion – shrugged shoulders, hands outstretched, crunched up forehead and questioning smile – and then swept my arm toward the dangling wires.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why,” he replied.
I decided to interpret his answer as a powerful commentary on our life choices. Rather than assume the obvious (that the driver didn’t speak English), I am choosing to believe it was a sign.
Why? Why, indeed?
Why do we put up with this silliness? Why worry so much about transportation? Why panic when I can’t find a taxi to take me home after school? Why ride in a bone-rattling death trap? Why wonder if the driver is drunk, crazy or simply reckless? Why stress about getting stranded somewhere?
So that was a long, convoluted way of announcing … we bought a car!
We won’t take possession till the end of the school year (the seller is a departing AES teacher), but I already feel a sense of relief. Even better, we are hiring the driver who works for the car’s current owner.
Ahhhh … freedom.
Congratulations! I didn’t at all see you leading up to that, and thought your “why” questions were more philosophical, a la Bobby Ferrin. So your driver will leave the car at your house, and come to & fro every day, or will he drive it home every night (like a school bus driver)? Never knew anyone with a driver!