“I never could sleep much,” the driver said.

I watched his eyes in the rearview mirror as they lazily scanned the road before us, uneasy and tired. But not red-rimmed. He wasn’t tired from crying or screaming. It wasn’t the tired that a new parent has, either. It wasn’t an intellectual’s tired. It was a vacant and inane exhaustion. 

Not too many drunks crawling about. Not too many eager women or lonely men. It was too late for nannies and kids and too early for hustlers. There was a peace in the city at this hour, on this night. But it’s easy to be skeptical. The rain had kept most people in, but it’s since cleared up. Just a blue night with a wetness and this man’s eyes.

“I never was much of a sleeper,” he reinforced.

“Well, why is that? You nervous when you go to bed?” I offered.

“Nervous? What I got to be nervous about?” he retorted.

“Well, maybe anxious, are you anxious?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m a little anxious the cops’ll find me.”

“What’ll they do when they find you?” I inquired.

“They’ll do what they always do with guys like me.”

“What’s that?”

The driver made a slight right and hopped a corner. His head fell a bit into his chest as he turned, as if the car was knocking him into place. Aside from his vacant eyes, he seemed to have a loose neck. The kind that doesn’t support a head very well. Almost like a baby that hasn’t developed the ability to stand upright or look to a wet blue sky. 

The inside of his car was warm and felt like a hooded sweatshirt. It was dark outside and in. The darkness comforted me. But not in the usual way, where I’m glad to be surrounded by people of a certain variety. I just mean that the darkness helped me to not focus on the innards of his vehicle. I was left to imagine instead what was roaming about the carpets beneath my feet. I could hear things, loose change, pieces of plastic, discarded waste, rattling around along the liners. At times, I pushed with my foot and was thankful that I’m not a man who wears open-toed shoes in any circumstance. Not even the beach.

“sorry about that,” he said.

At first I thought he was apologizing for the state of his car. For the temperature being too high and for the cluttered floors. 

“Hey, bud, you could use that sleep before too long,” I opined.

wouldn’t that be nice. He didn’t say this, but I imagined him replying with this sort of hopeful positivity.

“So what do you do?” he asked.

“Well, I write most days. And drink others. I support my wife with positive talk and imagine having grown up in another time completely. You do anything else outside of this cab?”

“Sure. I run a small business. Well, it’s a small business inside of a larger business. The bottom line is that, I’m my own boss. And I get set the hours.”

“Why don’t you set some hours where you can sleep?” I questioned.

“Because it’s not like that. Plus, if I’m not doing my part as the business owner, I won’t be able to make the money. Someone else will make the money.”

***

Earlier in the night, a friend of mine harangued about a new investing opportunity he was endeavoring to learn more about.

“It’s not like day trading,” he pleaded. “I’m not trying to sit at home all day and trade stocks and watch the market.” 

“Well that’s good, because you’ve got a restaurant to run. And I like the food the way it is. Untraded.”

“It’s not about that for me. Don’t worry. It’s about the fact that my eyes have been opened for the first time.”

“As it relates to your stocks?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, alright, bud. If that’s what you need to do now, then go for it.”

“Well, don’t you want to know what I’m talking about?”

“I’m not sure it’ll be of any use to me,” I replied. “I don’t know much about stocks and trading to begin with.”

“Well see, that’s the problem right there,” he offered. “That’s what they prey on. Your fear. Your lack of understanding. Your insecurity with how to trade. They love it. They want you to stay like that so you just give them your money and they do the work for you. But guess what?”

“What’s that?”

“They’re not trading with your best interests in mind?” he concluded. “They’re just running your tab. Running your tab just like all these people here. Just like I train my bartenders to do if you forget your card. They run the tab. Because their interest isn’t in helping you. You the scared. You the anxious. You the stupid. And I mean me, too by the way. No. Their interest lays in the deals they’ve already cut with other brokers, other funds, other banks, and other special interest groups well before they took you on as a client.”

“So what’s your point with all this? You’re not going to be a day trader?”

“My point with all of this, ‘Why would I give these guys an extra thirty precent of my money.’ My point is that, I’m starting to ask the right questions.”

I looked around his restaurant and saw an untrained army of potential investors. Young men and young women, eager to pick up the same trade in the market. Eager to seize this kind of an opportunity and take charge of their futures. Angry about thirty percent, or more depending on market fluctuation. This cell phone army’s future is bright. And it’s illuminating their faces.

***

“Is the right side, okay?” the driver asked me as I prayed silently that no mysterious liquid would fall onto my shoulders from the area underneath the rear windshield.

“It’s perfect,” I said. “Just nice and easy. I just ate a big meal.”

“Well, you must do pretty well.” he offered.
We were nearing the building where I live with my wife and with our dog. On this blue and wet night, she was out of town, but I wished that she wasn’t. I wished that I could have walked into the house and spoken to her about a book, or about a feeling. But she was out of town on a business trip.

“Here we are. You have a good night, okay my friend?” the driver said to me with a level of sincerity that drew out discomfort in me. Then as I paid, he turned around our eyes met. In his exhaustion, I saw my father and every bad thing about every tired person I’ve ever met.

“You know, I can bring you in on my business. My business inside of the other, larger business, if you want.” he offered. “You just gotta give me you card.”

At this moment, I was thankful that I’ve never been a man to carry a card in any circumstance. I was happy that I had nothing to offer but I deep concern for his wellbeing.

“Listen….” I said. But before I could finish the thought, he replied, this time with anger. And as he spoke, I thought of my father and every person who has ever turned on me in an instant.

“I know what you’re thinking.” he began.
I noticed that the lock on my door was down. And that the window had its child lock activated. I felt like a child.

“If you just give me a few minutes of your night, I can explain to you how a guy like you can make plenty of money. Can make a business. A business inside of another larger business. I’m just a cab driver. And look at me.”

“You’re not just a cab driver,” I offered. I confused myself with this retort and wondered why I was continuing to worry for this man. His eyes were so hollow.

“So what do you say?” he pleaded. “Will you give me a few minutes of your night?”

For the first time, I wished that the streets were full. I wished that he was dropping me off in the middle of Times Square. With lights and police and with people. I would prey that the bystander effect wouldn’t apply to me. I wished that the hustlers or the nannies were outside right now. But they weren’t. It was just the blue, wet night. And being tired.