As usual I had miles to go.
Rushing to a meeting.
And miscalculating how long it would take to get up and over.
And over some more.
The thing that screwed me up, actually, was the elevator.
The building I was leaving apparently has one of the originals.
You know, installed by Elisha Otis in 1853.
Ca-chunck ca-chunck ca-chunck wheeeze ca-chunck.
It was like that for 14 floors.
I ran out like a prisoner released from Camarillo.
Free at last.
I couldn't find a cab.
Nine-degree weather can do that.
Finally, I found one going the wrong way.
The driver snapped at me.
"I can't make a left, man."
"Just do what you have to do."
And he did.
He wove more than Betsy Ross.
Around trucks. Past New Jersey-ites. Underneath city buses.
We made it to the West Side Highway.
The man didn't just have a sixth-sense.
He had eight, nine, ten senses.
Every lane he chose was the right one.
He was a wizard.
We made it.
Six minutes late.
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"They don't drive like that in Kathmandu," I said.
"They don't drive like me anywhere."
Ten dollar tip.