8 Million Stories: My Cab Driver, Myself

As the cab went north on Eighth Avenue during the early morning hours last spring, curiosity won. Did the taxi driver (a woman) have safety concerns regarding the nightshift? No. Besides, I learned the job had hidden benefits. “Right when the night gives over to the day it’s the most beautiful cobalt blue,” she claimed.

Cobalt blue? Who was driving this cab, Elaine de Kooning? “That’s quite a specific color. I need to see that,” I laughed.

“What do you do?” She asked with an arced brow from the rectangle of mirror.

“Copywriting. But I went to school for book illustration.”

“What school?”The driver pressed.

I hesitated. Chances were she didn’t know of Parsons, and our slender connection would fade. After I answered, the driver was silent until she let out:

“Wow… me too!”

The news sizzled in my brain. Nothing about her said artist: She had long gray hair and rounded edges that encased a solid, dignified, Irish toughness. I’m a tallish, chatty, blackclothes-loving African-American Unitarian.

“You take Color and Design?” The driver quizzed. The question, along with a sharp lane change, brought me back. “More like it took me.Those color studies almost killed me.”

“Me too,” she said. “Where I excelled was Dave Passalaqua’s figure-drawing class.”

“Yeah, Passalaqua was legendary,” I seconded, struggling to hide the sadness the words turned out. The driver and I shared an alma mater but little more. As the miles clicked-off on the meter, I learned the death of her father compelled her to leave Parsons to support the family. As the cab sprinted pass the Museum of Natural History, we sorted through our personal histories. She had married and had two children, while I hadn’t achieved either goal. During gaps of conversation, one looked aslant at the other from the rear view mirror. A red light at West 90th Street broke the rhythm. One set of eyes caught the other, revealing solidarity. We were members of different chapters of the Sorority of Hard Knocks.

“Do you draw now?” the driver asked.

“Just started again. I sketched on vacation in Italy.” Instantly I wanted to reel the words back into my mouth. I sounded pompous.

“I haven’t touched a charcoal in years,” she confessed. “Too busy.”

The taxi made a U-turn and stopped beside my prewar doorman building on Central Park West. An acid shame bubbled up. My Bainbridge sketchbook withstanding, I was no artist. I was an advertising sellout with a park view. Just so the driver wouldn’t think my life was all croissants and Beaujolais Nouveau, I shared that the man I loved most had ended our four-year relationship, collapsing my heart and faith.

“Take it a day at a time,” she said, studying me in the mirror. “Life takes you where it’s going to go. It doesn’t mean he won’t come back.”

I nodded. A few tears shook loose. My head angled, trying to run the wet gobbles back up stream. I saw home through the window. In that moment an idea came: After settling the meter, I slowly pressed a $20 bill through the thick, plastic opening. It was immediately shoved back.

“From one artist to another,” I said, inching the bill forward. “Buy a sketchbook. Get back to drawing.”

The driver’s face softened. “Thank you.”

We stayed braided together in the silence, neither wanted to break the bond. “Tell me your name before I go,” I asked.

“Rosemarie.”

“I’m Jenine.”

Two seasons later, in October, outside of Café du Soleil on Broadway, I hailed a taxi.As I slid across the cool leather seat, I spotted a gray ponytail through the Plexiglas.

“Excuse me, but you’re Rosemarie…right?” The cab stopped. The gray head swiveled around. Its face wore a smile. “I thought that was you, but I get so many people.”

Again we parked on Central Park West, this time talking late into the night. I heard how Rosemarie’s struggled to stand on the sidelines of her daughter’s life. I shared my lingering regret over a failed relationship, a maze I couldn’t mow through.

“Letting go is the key to everything,” Rosemarie said. She sighed and flipped open her cell phone. “Wanna see my prize?” A oneyear-old dark-haired beauty beamed back, her granddaughter. I had news too.

“You’re adopting a baby from Ethiopia? Now that is great,” she said. “We’ll take the girls to Wolman Rink and watch them skate.” We exchanged cell numbers to ensure the plan wasn’t just puffery.

“I’m not charging you for this ride,” she laughed. “And I’m not kidding.”

I protested.

“I know you can afford it,” she chuckled. “But this one’s on me. In fact I still have the 20 you gave me from before.”

I’d forgotten.

“I want a hug,” I announced and jumped from the rear of the Crown Victoria. Rosemarie met me in the center of the avenue. She was a squirt of a woman, 5-foot-2 at best. My doorman watched the long good-bye, puzzled.

Its glow trailed me to the elevator and up into my apartment and lit up the hallway along with a Joan Miró poster—scarlet and black on a field of blue. Cobalt blue. A few days later I called Rosemarie to share my artistic reawakening. She hasn’t called back. Yet.

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