I’m 29 years old today.
I took a cab to work, because it’s so hot in New York City that people who descend into the subways immediately burst into flames.
As I get into the cab and close the door, I notice several spent shell casings on the floorboards.
“Where ya going?”
“28th and Park, please.”
I’m curious, so as the cab driver pulls onto the FDR Drive, I reach down and pick up one of the casings. It’s from a 9MM. I start to worry a bit. Does Mr. Cab Driver have a Glock in his glove compartment? Obviously, someone recently fired a handgun either in his cab or close to it. Will I be shot, driven to Jackson Heights and dumped in an alley? That would suck. I do, after all, have about 100 relatives and friends coming over on Saturday afternoon. It would suck if I disappeared, Chandra Levy-style, on my birthday.
What would everybody think happened to me?
The cops would notice the large sums of money I recently withdrew from my account. They’d think I had a mid-life crisis and took off for Mexico. They’d tell my mom and my sister that I probably needed some time away from New York to clear my head, and that I’d probably turn up in a couple weeks. They would say to my Mom, “This kind of thing happens all the time.”
Meanwhile, I’d be meeting my maker, before I had the chance to redeem myself. Before I had the chance to start going to church again. Before I got married and had kids.
And all because I got into the wrong cab. How is that my fault? How is that even remotely fair? Why should I get shot and killed by a crazy cab driver in the prime of my life when I try to be a good human being, help my fellow man, and-
“That’ll be 8 bucks.”
“Here’s 10. Keep the change.”
[sub]“And thanks for not killing me.”[/sub]
Sometimes my imagination is just plain weird. After all, it was only a few shell casings in a taxicab…what’s so uncommon about that?
