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Zen and the Art of Cab Driving
Trying to find my true self
I am 10 hours in to a 14-hour shift in my taxi cab and I am in the zone. The weather is perfect and my soul greased just right. The street lights turn green at my approach and even the stink-eyes from the other drivers don’t bother me.
Dispatch gives me a pick-up at one of Tucson’s many “spiritual retreats.” My chakras squinch-up as soon as I pull in. A line of pine trees leads into the “ashram area.” The trees are watered artificially and suck god knows how much water from the aquifer, but it’s pretty. I find “meditation abode number 14” which looks as swank as a miniature Marriott. My passenger is portly white woman around 60 years old wearing Birkenstocks and a Himalayan pashmina with what appears to be a mustard stain on the front. She gets in the cab.
“6565 Carondolet Drive, please,” she says.
“Sure.”
“Been driving a cab long?”
“8 years.”
“Oh, well, these are hard times.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Are you going to take Speedway or Grant?”
“I was going to take Grant.”
“Oh, I see…”
“You don’t like Grant?”
