Dear Diary:
I flew into J.F.K. after a long business trip and was eager to return home to my family in Astoria. I groaned when the taxi driver explained that his machine wasn’t working properly and asked if I minded paying cash. His meter suddenly stopped working too, and both of our frustration levels went up another notch.
When we hit standstill traffic on the Van Wyck, it seemed that the trip was doomed to be among the worst cab rides ever.
Then his phone rang and I heard an excited voice on the other end. He explained that his brother-in-law, who had finally received his green card, had just arrived from Pakistan. He, too, was looking forward to a happy family reunion.
The taxi driver relayed to me his own coming-to-America story at the age of 19, and we discovered that for his first years in the city, he lived around the corner from where I live now. We swapped stories about the neighborhood and our families.
When I told him that I was an employment attorney, the conversation took an odd bent. He shared with me all his youthful indiscretions, then asked, “Am I a criminal?†I looked around for a video camera, sure that I was in a Bizarro World episode of “Taxicab Confessions.†But it was just him and me. I told him that we are not defined solely by what we’ve done, but by who we become.
Somewhere around the 31st Street exit on the Grand Central Parkway, we crossed the invisible divide that separates strangers. When we finally arrived at my home, he stepped from the car and introduced himself to my children. After he left, they asked who he was.
“A friend,†I answered.
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