It was raining just so.
Like a melody I knew well, but couldn’t place. The kind I wanted to hear over and over again for the rest of my life.
I was crossing a bridge in a cab at 1am. I was alone with a cab driver.
There was water all around. A river beneath and the rain above.
The windows of the cab were speckled with gorgeous rain drops that shined with the city lights. It was like a painting that would never stay the same, no matter how much you wanted it to.
It was blurry, but it was beautiful.
I had just left a group of friends and Mr. H was out of town. I never do this anymore…stay out late on a school night.
But, this was a night I would never forget. One that changed me, from one side of the river to the other.
My thoughts were rampant. I had to say goodbye to an old piece of me that night, a wild piece that no longer existed.
And this transformation all happened in a cab with a guy I didn’t know.
Even now I couldn’t tell you what his name was. But he had a Russian accent. That I can remember.
We got to talking about the usual which turned into the unusual. These things happen in the middle of the night.
Somehow we got onto art, writing in particular. I told him about my struggle with writing novels full-time…I don’t know why. When you’re talking to a stranger, one that you’re paying for a short period of time, there is safety in that.
Also, I knew that he would understand. He was a professional listener after all.
You see, every cab ride I’ve taken late at night has been like jazz music to me. Slow, other-worldly—honest and sexy.
Toward the end of our ride, we talked about robots. Yeah, robots.
Again, these things happen in the middle of the night.
The cab driver told me that soon cabs would be taken over by robots. And while that would have made me snicker ten years ago, it doesn’t now.
I said: “It’s a damn shame.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, because I’ve always loved cab conversations.”
He said: “Thank you.”
I swiped my card and tipped him well. Then I shut the door and he drove away. The cab vanished behind a thick veil of misty Portland rain until it was just me standing alone on my curb, trying to balance in my boots.
I stumbled inside to write this gibberish in my journal. I almost forgot about it until I came across it. The writing was sloppy, almost not mine.
But the story was pretty special.
Like a melody I knew well, but couldn’t place. The kind I wanted to hear over and over again for the rest of my life.
This was the song I had stuck in my head that night… “All Things to All Men” by The Cinematic Orchestra featuring Roots Manuva. I played it while I wrote this blog post.
Strangely enough I found the perfect video on YouTube that has Russian subtitles—the language of my cab driver.
Pretty amazing world we live in. We’re not all that different, are we?
Britt Skrabanek 