I like taking taxis. The gentle vibrations of the movement calm me, and the occasional banter amuses me. But when there is no conversation, I look out the window. Sometimes, there is music, courtesy of local radio channels. At that time of the night, they usually play some retro music, or some sentimental early 90 ballads. I’ll gaze out of the moving vehicle, the other cars and trucks and buses and bikes zooming past, each with their own passengers, with their own burdens. Sometimes I wonder about their burdens, their problems, their impossibly flawed perfection, that seamless illusion.
Perhaps that beautiful and well-groomed caucasian woman in that red Ferrari has just finished work, needing a drive to clear her head from a bad call from her husband; that young malay chap on the white vespa is fretting about a well-paying job that takes time away from his loved ones; the frowning chinese uncle in the old white Merc is really thinking about morality after an old friend has just passed away.
We all have problems. We sometimes choose to wear it on our sleeves, sometimes we think keeping it in helps. Me? I stopped looking for sympathy, for empathy, for love.
I remember the old days, where he’ll drive me around looking for good supper places after work. Taxis remind me of him – the same music often plays, the uncle always understanding and looking out for me. I didn’t intend for this to be like this, but it seems that this story will be about him, the elusive him.