mohammads
listening to destiny, what i always listen to when i'm on my way. the cabbie is racing another cabbie down the street, and pulls up next to him at a red light. "mohammad," he calls him. mohammad looks over at us with baleful eyes. i look for my cabbie's name badge, and i think it was something like porat.
porat: "you see how he's driving? very unfriendly."
me: yeah.
porat: he swerves and drives down the middle of the street so nobody can pass him.
me: yup.
porat: these freaking people, it's not a game. if someone wants to pass, let them pass."
me: that's right.
porat: mohammads.
i take one ipod earphone out so i can listen up if he wants to chat some more. cab drivers have conversations the way my mom used to when she was scolding me—there were pregnant pauses, but you needed to stay alert for the next round or else matters would get worse.
it's cold outside afterwards, when i'm on my way back home, but i decide to walk to save some cash, get some exercise, and clear my head. this walk is familiar and thoughtful, but i guess every gay man in new york eventually develops 100 different feelings associated with walking down eighth avenue. i'm listening to destination (beach towel mix) which i always listen to when i'm on my way home.