The Cabby Commiserates

I was driving up Lavaca, top down in my Miata, taking JQS home. A woman driving in the far right lane begins drifting to the left. The cab in the lane directly to my right slows and seems about to swerve into my lane to avoid her. I slow, ready to swerve into the lane to my left to avoid them both. The woman crosses in front of the taxi, crosses in front of me, slowly makes it to the far left lane, and turns left at 12th Street. In one block she crosses four lanes to make her turn.

I let her know with no uncertain gesture what I think. “I can’t believe it. I only have to drive 26 blocks to take you home and I can’t manage to do it without a near death experience!” I’m still fuming as I pull up to the light at 15th street. The cabby pulls up on my right and rolls down his window.

“Hey,” he says with a Jamaican accent. “That lady was one crazy lady.”

“I thought we we’re going to be killed!”

“Yeah. I saw what you did.” He smiles sympathetically.

I smile back. The light turns green and we start off. Suddenly I feel much better.

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