nodded his turban-covered head, clicked the meter and pulled into traffic.
Kate leaned back, enjoying the blast of air-conditioning on her damp skin. She lifted her hair, twisting it into a loose chignon, and let the coolness caress the nape of her neck. Her eyes roamed the cabbie’s unique domain. A picture of the Dalai Lama in saffron robes was paper-clipped to the right visor, the holy man’s serene visage beaming at her. A jade-colored Buddha bobblehead perched on the dashboard, happily nodding with each careening motion of the yellow cab. Amethyst rosary beads dangled from the rearview mirror, a silver Jesus, arms outstretched on the cross, swung gently from side to side. A picture of Pope John Paul II was taped to the glove compartment, one hand lifted as if to make a sign of the cross over the faithful. And if Kate was correct, she was pretty sure the turban meant the cabbie was a Sikh. Only in New York.
She leaned forward slightly. “Your cab reminds me of the United Nations.”
He looked at her in the rearview mirror and laughed heartily. “My wife is good Catholic woman. My son is a Buddhist. And I think…God loves us all.”
“You’re probably right.” She edged forward in the seat, resting her head on her forearm as she peered into the front of the cab. She could hear the world’s most infamous shock jock inflaming his listeners over the radio. “God loves everybody. Even him.” She nodded her head toward the radio.
A woman was having an orgasm—real or faked, Kate had no idea—on air.
“Oh, he’s a crazy man,” the cabbie said, in Indian-accented English. “Craaa-zzy.”
Julian Shaw’s raspy voice filled the cab. “You heard it here. Live. Lana Luscious, the world’s hottest lesbian porn star just gave oral sex to Jenna Jones. In my studio. Right here. On my couch. For those of you listening, let me tell you that, if you don’t know Lana, she’s a gorgeous, smokin’ hot brunette with 42-double-Ds, and Jenna is the platinum sex goddess of your wildest imagination. That was so hot. So friggin’ hot. If this couch could talk, baby. So Jenna…did you fake it or was that the real deal?”
“How can you listen to him?” Kate asked the cabbie. She only half listened to the radio now as Julian Shaw sped on to his next favorite point of conversation—mocking gays.
“I always wonder what he’s going to do next.”
“But as a spiritual man…” She gestured with her hand toward the religious items. “I mean…he’s really, really raunchy.”
“I think God has a sense of humor. And maybe…maybe this crazy man is the best and worst of America all in one being. I listen because I want to understand America.”
“America?” Kate tilted her head. “This guy helps you understand America?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” The cabbie nodded his head vigorously. “He is America. He is an insane demigod presiding over chaos.”
Kate smiled. “Now this theory I have to hear.”
The cab stopped at a light, and the cabbie turned his head slightly. “He is America. He is what your country is fascinated with. He is both sides. Yin and yang.”
Kate crinkled her nose. “Um…not seeing the logic yet. Both sides? Lesbians and porn stars? Lesbians and gay men? I don’t understand.”
“No. America loves its sex.” He gestured out the window toward a shop on Fifth Avenue, its mannequins futuristically haunting and sexualized, empty-faced yet erotic. The clothing adorning them accentuating every pointed body part. Yet the overall effect was strangely androgynous.
Kate gazed out, the cab speeding by the window. “Yes, America does.” The next window was Gucci, then a short time later Abercrombie and Fitch. Designers flaunted their wares behind plate glass, with beautiful models, their lips slightly parted with promise. A big poster for a new designer perfume showed a tousled-haired blonde looking as if she was in the throes of passion.
“But then,” the cabbie intoned, “America is very repressed. It pushes sex, sex, sex, but then it’s not happy with sex. It gets offended by sex. Very strange. Very strange.”
“That it is. But still, that show.” She looked at the radio dial. “That show is out of control. I never listen. There was even an argument in the office about him one day. One of the assistants had him on the radio at his desk. He almost got fired for it. The woman in the next cubicle complained that he was creating a hostile work environment.”
“Where do you work?”
“At a publishing house. I’m a book editor.”
“A very honorable profession. I love to read. My son, also. Always his nose in a book. He got a scholarship to university.”
Kate smiled at his pride.
“He wants to be a writer.”
“My boyfriend is a writer. He wrote The Jackal’s Feast.”
“I know that book!” the cabbie said excitedly. “I read it! It was a wonderful book. Very excellent.”
“I was the editor.”
“You are famous!”
“No. Not famous. My boyfriend’s not even famous. The book was well-reviewed though. I think his next one could be huge. If he ever finishes it.”
“I can say I know you,” the cabbie said.
“Sure.”
She leaned back as the DJ continued. Periodically, his words were bleeped. She shook her head. How could anyone stand that guy?
“Pull up over there.” Kate gestured toward the building where David lived. “I’m surprising him with a fresh-off-the-press interview he did with Gotham magazine. The magazine writer clearly adored him.”
“You are a very nice girlfriend then, miss. Surprises are very good. I always like to surprise my wife. One time, I brought home three dozen roses—three dozen. I made her cry happy tears.”
Kate’s eyes watered. She didn’t know why, but the little love stories of people’s lives always touched her.
The cabbie clicked the meter, which chattered and chinged as it spat out a receipt. She handed him a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you. You have a very nice night. God bless you.”
“Thanks. You, too.” She smiled at the bobblehead jiggling on the dash as she clambered out of the cab and walked to David’s building. The doorman let her in. “Evening.” He nodded at her.
“Hi, Henry. How’s your wife feeling?”
“Better, thanks. The doctor says the treatment is working.”
“Oh, that’s very good news.” Kate prided herself on remembering the names of doormen and bodega owners, the bagel guy, the little old man who walked his terrier each day near her apartment. Her father had always taught her that you could go through the world knowing no one, or go through it knowing everyone. She liked knowing everyone’s name, their little love stories and big love stories. It made Manhattan seem a little smaller.
