I’m sitting in on a 2-hour conference call, which is as good a time to blog as any. Apparently Monday's post was a bit morose, so I am here to make amends. Although nothing much has happened in the last 20 hours, I completely forgot to tell you about my most recent cab ride, which was wonderfully inappropriate:
It was Saturday night at about midnight. I was coming from Jewboo’s house in the depths of Greenpoint, and I was quite emotional. I was tired, pissed off, and even had a bit of a cry on the steps when I was waiting for the car to arrive. I just wanted to get home and sleep so that the annoying night would be over. Because I’m in broke-ass Greenpoint, I can’t just go out and hail a cab—I have to call a car service. It started off easily enough, as I hop in and tell him to take me to a train station in downtown Manhattan (economy is rough, y’all, gotta watch the wallet!). He asks me where I’m ultimately headed, and then offers to take me to to my home in Harlem for a rather low fee. My spirits perk up as I totally pull a Blanche Dubois.
As I’m texting a friend to pass the time, the cab driver starts chatting me up.
RandoCabDriver: How was your night?
Me: It was okay.
RCD: Did you have some drinks?
RCD [turning on the radio]: Do you watch cricket?
RCD: No, you don’t?! It’s the world championships.
Me: Who’s playing?
RCD: My country, Sri Lanka. We will win, I feel it.
Me: That’s good.
RCD: You going to your boyfriend’s house?
Me: No [note the use of one-word answers—which I hope will let him know I’m not trying to talk].
RCD: You don’t have boyfriend?
Me: I’m going home. [note my attempt at changing the subject]
RCD: You have some drinks tonight?
Me: No [Why does he keep asking me this? I start to wonder if he’s projecting just as he starts speeding down the highway.]
RCD: I like you. You are very innocent.
Me: I am? [clearly years of cab driving hasn’t taught him how to read people].
RCD: I can take you out?
Me: What? [when faced with a question that should never be asked, I’ve found it’s best to feign stupidity.]
RCD: I cook you dinner. I am a very good cook.
Me: Really? [I don’t know what else to say. Notice I did not reply to his invitation.]
RCD: yes, yes, I am very good. What kind of food you like to eat? You eat meat?
RCD: You eat chicken? You eat lamb? You like lentils?
Me: I like chicken.
RCD: I make very good chicken. Last night I make a delicious rooster.
Me: Oh! [from watching Criminal Minds and "To Catch a Predator", I’ve learned that when faced with a potentially dangerous delusional person, it’s best to agree with them and return their interest—within reason—so as to ensure one’s safety. How did homey go from chicken to rooster?]
RCD: Yes, yes. I went to a farm, and I got it fresh. You like that, huh?
RCD: We have some rooster, we have some white wine.
[He’s really getting into this non-existent date. I keep looking up at the street signs to make sure we’re still headed in the direction of my home.]
Me: I don’t like white wine.
RCD [sighs]: Okay, okay. You can have red.
RCD: I like you. You are very sweet. I know you are very pure.
[Does he think I’m a virgin? I laugh lightly.]
RCD: You fight with your boyfriend?
[Why do I believe that lying will make this easier?]
RCD: I never fight.
Me: Except with roosters! [I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood]
RCD [suddenly sharp]: No! I don’t fight them. I cook them!
[We get within five blocks of my crib. I can now spend the rest of the ride giving him directions. I pay him the agreed upon fee and open the door.]
RCD [in a sing-song voice]: Good night Pure and Beautiful. You sure you don't want some rooster and white wine?
Me: No thanks!
RCD: You are so nice, thank you, good night!
He drives off. I’m left outside my door, wishing I could be as pure as he wanted.