So there I was, at 11 p.m. on the Monday after Christmas with work the next day, at the LaGuardia airport trying to pick the best way to get home. Last time I was in this situation, I took the M60 bus, which costs all of $2.25 and is more eco-friendly than a cab.
But I was tired, and the last thing I wanted to do was sit in a trundling bus for 45 minutes. I wanted sleep!
So I guiltily found the line for cabs. It was a long one, and while I waited, I had time to think and realize that I was in a long line of singles. So silly–a waste of money and Co2. I considered the skinny college-age dude in front of me, and then the 40-ish, well-dressed guy behind me. I chose the latter. It turned out to be a wise choice.
“Hey, are you going to Manhattan?” I asked.
He considered me a moment before replying. (I was glad I had put some effort into my outfit so I didn’t look crazy.) “Yes, I am … ”
“Do you want to share a cab?”
“Sure, why not?”
So we got to know each other. I told him about my job, he told me about his at a hedge fund. Well, “told me about” isn’t really accurate. Whatever do you say when someone says that? Oh, so interesting. Do you enjoy moving money around on a daily basis? How does it feel to be part of the 1%?
So anyway, I said something bland and we moved onto other topics. By the time our cab came around, we had satisfactorily ascertained that neither of us was crazy, though he did make a comment on what my mom would think if she knew I were taking cab rides with strange men in New York City. “Well, it’s not just you and me. The cab driver is up there.” He agreed, that was something to consider.
Around this time, I guess he decided I wasn’t worth hitting on and brought up his college-age kids, saying they were about my age. Well, I’m 25, but point taken. I didn’t want him to flirt with me anyway.
His was the first stop, as I’m in Gramercy and he was on Central Park South in the Trump Tower. We pulled up in front, and he hand me $40. “I can expense it,” he said. The meter was only at $25. I shrugged and took it, thanking him. “Hey, I never got your name,” I said. I forget what his was. Bill or something. I told him mine, he got out, and I will never see him again.
The cab driver got an awesome tip, we split our emissions in half, and I got a free ride home. Things like this in New York make me happy.
Photo credit: Nestor’s Blurrylife on Flickr
