New York cab ride.

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.

A magician.

We made it.

Six minutes late.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Nepal."

"They don't drive like that in Kathmandu," I said.

"They don't drive like me anywhere."

Ten dollar tip.