More like Contact Ground
Neither of my planes crashed today, so the photo above is funny to me. Now if you showed me a picture of a cab stopped at a green light while the driver looked at his phone, that would offend me. Around 5:45am, I got in an off-duty on Third Avenue and negotiated a flat rate to LaGuardia. After a polite silence, the driver informed me that his first child had been born Sunday afternoon. “She’s my angel” he said, showing me a picture on his phone until the driver behind us honked. He had a lot of pictures, but each was important. “That’s beautiful,” I said. “You’re lucky to have each other. Green light.” At one point, he missed the go-ahead from a traffic cop. He was so happy I had to tip him immensely. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said, letting me out in the terminal through lane. “You can just run across there.”
Now I’m in Missoula, where the cab drivers don’t give a shit about their kids. It’s spring here, and my fear of missing the lilac bush proved unfounded. The air is crisp and under hot light from a low angle. As I took my dinner at Veselka last night, John the waiter remarked that he hadn’t seen me lately. It’s been about seven years since I ate there regularly. “I’ve been out of town,” I said. “Living out of town, actually.” As soon as I said Montana, he asked if I was in Missoula. “Lucky,” he said.
He was right. I am lucky to have such a friend as Stubble to let me stay in his apartment for two weeks. I’m lucky to know the woman who gave me occasion to go to New York, and the friends who gave me reason to stay. We’re all lucky I’ve been reunited with my electric personal groomer. And once I take a shower and unpack my bags, I’ll be lucky to make it to my bed before I pass out. Good night, eastern time zone, who governs my workings once more. I shall sleep you off.
