After five years of driving a cab, the only day Bob still looks forwards to is Sunday. The traffic is light and the fares are out there if you know where to look. Even now, forcing himself out of bed in the pre-dawn darkness, ever so careful not to wake Nettie or the kids, kissing his bronze brown babies so lightly they stir without waking. He is out of the apartment ten minutes later. Sunday morning is the time, like the song says, “The good people are going to church and the bad people are going home.”

Of course, if he took another teaching job out on Long Island, Sunday morning he’d be curled up in bed with Nettie. He’d own a car instead of just driving one and the kids would have a back yard. But the Long Island of his memory is a hostile ocean of white people. As he walks to the subway, Delancey Street almost deserted, he hears the faint rumble of waves on a white beach.

FROM Around the Way
(Lower East Side, NY, NY)
BY Martha Pinson

Waiting for the train Bob misses the car he doesn’t have, and wonders if he’ll get to the garage before 6:30 a.m. Most Sundays an elderly Episcopal priest and a dark-skinned boy around eleven years old appear at the corner of Ridge and Houston Street between 6:45 and 6:50 a.m. Up the Drive to 135th Street the meter humming, furiously flipping numbers, the final destination an Episcopal Church on Convent Avenue with, Bob assumes, a West Indian congregation. 6:16 a.m.

It was a month ago that, after discharging his fares, he left the cab and walked to the front of the church. The entrance was almost blocked by an enormous basket overflowing with tropical fruit. This fruit bouquet was as bright as flowers and so numerous as to be beyond words.

Bob remembered Nettie and her Jamaican family and friends discussing mangoes and arguing for their favorites: be it a “Blackie,” an “East Indian,” or, a “Number 11.” He continued to stare, momentarily silenced by how many tastes and textures that remained unknown to him, remembered his mother-in-law mourning the fruit trees she had left behind in Honduras and Jamaica.

The priest and the boy, both in gowns, emerged from the back of the church. The priest tentatively smiled. Bob briefly nodded in reply and returned to the cab. He was overwhelmed in the face of close to bewildering abundance: in nature, in people’s natures and in the nature of different people. He should have stayed long enough to see the congregation: the hats, the fans, the flowery dresses.

The only other person waiting in the subway is a disheveled man, muttering to himself and, Bob thinks, waiting for more than the next train.

When the train arrives the disheveled man stops muttering. He stands up straight, faces the train, his head thrust forward, his eyes no longer dull but open wide in wonder and appreciation. Bob sits by the window, stares at the solitary man on the platform who is staring at the train rushing past.

FROM Around the Way
(Lower East Side, NY, NY)
BY Martha Pinson

The dispatcher, this being Sunday, is almost friendly. The priest and his charge are not on the corner. Maybe Long Island is a smart move. The thought lulls in his mind as he corrals six fares. Having booked a fast twenty dollars, he opens the window, elbows out, feeling the wind and the sun on his left arm, wondering where he can find a decent basketball game. A couple, with baggage, flag him down. Kennedy Airport.

Bob hates Kennedy Airport. The Port Authority cops have it in for cabdrivers and most of the dispatchers take payoffs. He gives the couple a perfect ride and they give him a lousy $1.15 tip. He rushes back to the city.

He is willing to bet that the teachers out on Long Island get the gym all to themselves on Sundays. Isn’t that the American Way, a better future in a bigger house?

Bob has been up and across Houston Street several times. Each and every fare has been picked up just before he reaches them. The taxi gods are mocking him.

It is the kind of early spring day when the entire Lower East Side seems to move outside: tables are set up for dominoes, old friends meet on familiar corners with a winter’s worth of tales to tell. He walks home from the subway hoping enough players are left in the park for a full court run.

Heading west towards the Village he sees a derelict at Bowery and Houston lying on the ground, a bottle tilted high. He stops at the light. The derelict lowers the bottle, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and with his free hand hails Bob. Bob ignores him. He comes over to the driver’s side. Bob doesn’t roll up the window.

“Are you free?”

Bob considers the question. He looks at his potential fare square in the eye surprised that the bum doesn’t smell half as bad as he looks.

“Got any money?”

Reaching into his pockets the man extracts three crumpled-up dollar bills. He stuffs them into Bob’s hands and enters the cab. For the remainder of the ride he is silent except for giving the most perfunctory of directions.

The cab travels along Houston to Broadway, goes south on Broadway. The meter relentlessly tallies up the fare and, crossing Canal, it registers $2.45. Bob begins to get anxious. At Wall Street the fare has reached $2.85. The passenger motions him to pull over and, seemingly in the same motion, indicates that he can keep the change.

It is a quiet Sunday afternoon, no other traffic except for a few cars and several solitary bike riders. The bum gets out of the cab, lies down on the sidewalk, takes the bottle out of his coat and continues drinking.

Bob leans out the window and asks, “Why did you want me to drive you here?”

The bum looks at him as if he is crazy. He lowers the bottle, wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

“Are you kidding,” the bum explains, “this is a much better neighborhood.”

A few fares later, Bob flashes on the “OFF DUTY” light and returns the cab to the garage.

It is the kind of early spring day when the entire Lower East Side seems to move outside: tables are set up for dominoes, old friends meet on familiar corners with a winter’s worth of tales to tell. He walks home from the subway hoping enough players are left in the park for a full court run. He says hello to eighteen people: six Blacks, six Hispanics, three Whites, two Asians and a Native American. A sea everyone can swim in.