Fetching Casper

So here I am eating a bowl of ramen noodles on my living room rug (even though I have a coffee table). Living solo is fab! Or so I thought. Last Friday, I took a day off to fetch my car in a (Gasp!) bad neighborhood after having been towed outside a train station.

I got in a cab with this driver in full swagger to get my Casper (my white Toyota Solara), which I thought was right in my neighborhood. As it turns out, Casper was four exits away.

Oh, did I mention I made my somewhat-creepy cabbie guy stop at an ATM because I didn’t have any cash on me? And then I stopped at a deli, too, because I can’t go to the other murder capital of the world (the first one is Newark, conveniently right next door) without a cappuccino (the cheapo kind that comes out of a machine with all that artificial sweetener which will likely cause a stroke before one even gets close to being shot at in either of the murder capitals of the world).

Breathe. So I’ in this cab in designer boots (Did you think they were actually designer? Fooled ya! they’re Dibas), black tights, an oversized merino wool sweater, and my eggplant handbag (my fave). Hair long, and blond, and wavy, and fake. In a town where I stick out like a sore thumb due to my inability to look “fierce.”
My cabbie stopped at his house! What’da?! So now I’m in his cab, parked in his driveway, and he’s inside. As I sit there, my mind starts racing: I just know it — this guy is getting another guy and they’re going to kill me, rob me, rape me, or something! I’m not biased against cabbies by any means, but when alone, these projections can’t help but creep into brain.

So somewhat-creepy cabbie finally comes out … And wouldn’t you know, he just needed his Bluetooth.


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February 2008
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