This post was initiated by the misfiring of a few synapses after finding out that the NYPD has at least five undercover "Cop Cabs".
Boys will be boys.
And that brought back the memories of the blogster's last cab ride in fabulously diverse and welcoming New York City, New York. Well, Manhattan.
Having successfully hailed and boarded with its* company, we enjoyed a leisurely, if somewhat bumpy ride through Gotham's numbered streets. Always curious, at time noticeably perceived as obnoxious by the other party, we asked the driver where he was from.
The question is well intentioned and also kind of a game to see if an assumption holds true. The assumption in this case was Pakistan.
Pakistan, was the single word answer.
That was the extent of the conversation. The driver checked in with the dispatcher over the radio as we took in the sights and smells.
Getting close to our destination, the Port Authority, on this early evening, we started counting our cash as the driver talked to dispatch.
I'm almost at the Port Authority. Yes, I'm available. I'll take a break at nine.
He stopped, told us how much we owed him, and we paid and gave him a tip. We got out and walked around the back of the car, then turned towards the front to head to the entrance.
A tall black man in his late thirties, early forties, dressed exceedingly well in a good business suit - unlike us jeans and such peeps - told the driver his destination through the open car window.
We heard: I'm not in service as the roof light turned forbidding red.
The black males shook his head.
He knew the drill.
* Gender neutral editing, folks, it's a thing.
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