Dear Cab Driver from Woodside with Five Asian Wives,
The gruff and taciturn cabbies that preceded you could never measure up to your brilliance; you knew exactly what to say when I was feeling rushed. I am truly blessed. It was as if, at the very moment when I needed it most, the whole force of the cosmos were summoned to my aid. That force was given a powerful voice in your stories of picking up oh so many whores underneath the Queensborough Bridge.
I knew this, CDFWWFAW, was a singular moment in my life as soon as you told me you’d retire to an RV. Like a corpulent male Zooey Deschanel you enchanted me with stories of redeeming your childhood interest in geology by going to Seattle, to finally see that Volcano you think they might have there.
But, CDFWWFAW, the great Fantasia of my emotions laid still until you began to tell of your past as the “Horny Housewife Helper”. The tales of your hiding nude on a massage parlor fire escape and taking kickbacks from pimps in exchange for providing your dispatcher with willing hookers for his card game, why, you are the link between the magisteria - the real and the divine overlapping as Stephen Jay Gould believed they never could.
And as you walked me through the various “Asian mixes” you’d married and why the relationships fell apart, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because you, like all the truly great, live among us but are not of us. If you were like the rest of us, how could you say things like “Asian women don’t care about money, but they know how to” then repeatedly put your fist in and out of one of the empty parts of your steering wheel while smiling and winking.
I understood what you were doing CDFWWFAW, but the depth of my understanding will remain as still as the water on a rural pond awaiting the mighty rock of your casual racism to send ripples anew across my inviting mind.
When we parted, you reminded me where I could get a happy ending, not realizing that this, sweet CDFWWFAW, was just the beginning.
You are terrible, but I love you.
