The Meter Keeps Running

Everybody thinks New York belongs to them after midnight. Maybe it does. For six or seven blocks at a time. A couple climbs in on Forty-Second, sits on opposite sides of the back seat like the middle is international waters. She says, “Brooklyn.” He says nothing. I start the meter. Rain on Lexington, steam from the street, cab light glowing like a tired heartbeat. Red turns green, green turns red, somebody says the thing they’ll wish they hadn’t said. He watches his window. She watches his reflection. Neither one looks at the other. I know that trick. The meter keeps running. The city keeps humming. You can sit there saying nothing— the meter keeps running. One twenty-six. Bodega on the corner, bright as heaven if heaven sold lottery tickets and batteries. Woman gets in carrying her shoes. Says, “Twenty-Third and Ninth.” Then: “Actually— just drive.” Best sentence you can hear in this job. Worst one, too. So we roll— Canal, Houston, headlights bruising the rain, sirens talking to sirens three avenues away. Guy waving for a cab, girl laughing on a fire escape, delivery bike cutting between us like he’s got someplace important to be. Everybody’s got someplace important to be. Even when they don’t. Twenty-Third, Thirty-Fourth, uptown inch by inch, and I’m counting cross streets like I’m not counting something else. The meter keeps running. The city keeps humming. You can take the long way home— the meter keeps running. Two fifty-eight. Nurse from Bellevue. Still in scrubs. She gives me an address two blocks from yours. Funny thing about this town: eight million people and somehow every street knows exactly who you’re trying not to think about. Third Avenue, yellow lights, wet pavement, coffee gone cold in the cup beside me. Couple kissing under scaffolding. Guy asleep against a laundromat gate. Some kid in a suit throwing up while his friends tell him he’s doing great. That’s New York— everybody falling apart with someplace to be in the morning. And there it is— your block. Not your building. Just the block. Which is different. I tell myself. You married? No. Not anymore. He says, “Sorry.” I say, “Don’t be.” Then we both stare straight ahead like men do when there’s suddenly too much room in the car. Four fourteen, four twenty-two, four thirty and the sky turning blue. Last call dying, bakery waking, night shift ending, day shift taking the same streets back. I could turn left here. Two blocks. Maybe three. Park the cab. Walk upstairs. Ring the bell. Say something brilliant. Say something true. Say— JFK? I look down your street. Then back at him. “Sure.” The meter keeps running. The city keeps humming. Morning comes whether you’re ready or not. The meter keeps running. And maybe that’s something. Green light. I drive on.