The Midnight Taxi

Chapter 1

I spend most of my free time thinking about murder. The facts, means, motives, opportunity. My true crime podcasts are a lifeline to help me escape traffic, the passenger yelling at his wife who should surely divorce him, and the people who deem it appropriate to eat what appears to be a three-course meal in the back of my cab. Funny how murder is a tantalizing reprieve from my real life.

As I drive along the East Side of Manhattan, I'm trying to figure out who really stabbed the Italian tourist seven times before the host does. This podcast is trying to throw me off the scent by suggesting a stranger did it. Like many true crime aficionados, I know 90 percent of murders are committed by people the victim knows. I'd almost be offended by this obvious red herring if I weren't so engrossed in the story. Instead of obsessing about a crime thousands of miles away, I should be focusing more on picking up passengers. The clock disapprovingly blinks midnight, taunting me for only completing eleven rides today, which is nearly an all-time low.

I look out on unobstructed views of the Brooklyn Bridge set against the backdrop of the Brooklyn skyline. I remind myself that I'm not just a taxicab driver. I'm a New York City taxicab driver. My superpowers include weaving through bikes in rush hour, finding my way around the city without a navigation app, and silencing dudes in seconds with my resting bitch face when they have no manners. No, I don't want to go on a date with you, especially after seeing the tip you just left.

I take an exit off the highway and find myself close to Centre Street, which houses the criminal courthouse in Manhattan. There are often lawyers streaming in and out at all hours thanks to night court, which allows those arrested to see a judge even when it's late. It's usually a reliable spot to pick up a fare, and at times the people who enter my cab from court fill my incessant desire to learn more about those New York Post headlines. Is their "Groin Graffitier," charged with spray-painting all those penises on subway cars, going to get prison time? True crime podcasts are interesting, but it's best to hear the stories from the sources themselves. Sometimes I think I could be a lawyer, only to remember that my LSAT prep book has remained untouched for longer than the hair-waxing kit in the back of my bathroom cabinet. Ah yes, to be a twenty-eight-year-old woman who can grow a mustache to rival that of a pubescent boy.

I know I shouldn't try to talk to my passengers. Most people prefer to sit in silence, their pursed lips telling me that every word out of my mouth is one dollar less of a tip. I can almost hear my bank account whine in protest each time. Still, I'm nosy. I ask the person how they are doing, and depending on their response, I can quickly suss out whether they want to talk to me or tell me to shut up. Lucky for me, lawyers like to talk, especially about themselves and by extension, their work.

I slow my car outside the courthouse. I find the brutalist architecture a style more suitable for a bomb shelter than a bastion of justice. The quote etched in the stone facade declares Equal and exact justice to all men of whatever state or persuasion. I laugh when I see that someone has added a WO in front of MEN. That's the type of graffiti I can support.

Scanning the steps of the courthouse, I see a man milling about before I spot a woman on the corner. She is shivering slightly. The late-night fall air certainly calls for a coat, yet she's without one. I hear Ammi tutting in my head. Even in 80-degree weather, my mother insists I keep a sweater around so I don't catch a cold.

The man waves me down just before she does, but if I have a choice, I'll take a female passenger any day.

The woman appears to be a lawyer, judging by her suit and high heels. Both of her bags are filled with files that are popping out the top. I make the snap judgment that she is a public defender. Most of the prosecutors I pick up are white men; she is some sort of Brown, like me, and while her suit is nice, it looks well-worn.

I try to avoid judging people on their appearances, because if driving a taxi for this long has taught me anything, it's that people are often more than they appear to be. Or less. Like the man in a tuxedo who clipped his toenails in my cab one time-when I asked him to stop, he pretended he couldn't hear me.

I pull over and the woman hops in, taking a second with her bags. The man who hailed my cab looks annoyed when he sees I've decided to pick up the woman, and he calls me something I can't quite hear but I'm positive isn't a compliment. I ignore him. If I had a dime for every lazy, sexist diss I've received, I'd be able to afford to see the Knicks courtside . . . well, maybe not courtside, but in great seats, and I wouldn't have to smuggle in my own snacks.

"Do you need help?" I ask the woman. Men always seem a little offended when I offer to load their bags into the car, but it's just part of the job. Fragile ego, bro?

"No, I'm fine," she says, settling in. "Bedford and Greene Ave. Brooklyn, please."

She immediately turns off the taxi television that plays the same loop of puff piece news stories. I'm grateful when people do that so I can better hear my podcasts, which I play at low volume on my phone-just loud enough to drone out an obnoxious guy in a suit complaining about the stock market but not loud enough for my passengers to think they hopped into the car with a cab-driving murderer. Less than 10 percent of serial killers are women, so I can't imagine I pose too much of a threat, but you never know. There are also very few women cabdrivers, yet here I am. Sometimes the taxi television plays interesting news stories though. The one last week about the goats at Riverside Park was entertaining the first and second time I heard it. However, by the end of the day, after hearing the story repeat over forty times I officially hated goats and sought out some goat curry for dinner.

She doesn't seem to want to talk; nevertheless, I ask my customary question. "How was your night?"

"Ugh, it was rough. Rough," she replies.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Why?" This seems like it may be my first real conversation of the day. People who don't want to talk simply say "fine" and take an urgent phone call where the phone suspiciously doesn't manage to ring. Not sure if I can blame them. I'm just a mode of transportation after all.

"My last guy got held in on five hundred dollars' bail. He's homeless; how is he going to afford that? Bail for trespassing," she says, an air of sarcasm in her voice. "He was evicted from his own home, didn't leave it instantly, so they arrested him. It's barbaric."

That all but confirms she's a public defender, and I congratulate myself on my successful assessment.

"It's very cold outside," I say as I pass yet another cardboard-box house on the street. Even though I can't really afford it, I've given more than a few free rides to those in need. It seems like basic decency. My Venmo balance would suggest otherwise.

I notice how candid she is as she continues discussing her day. It's a degree of honesty that I frequently see in my cab. People revealing their most real, raw selves to someone they will never see again, also known as free therapy!

I look in my rearview mirror but can't really tell what she looks like because my plastic divider, graying with age, gives everyone a murky appearance. The dark night further distorts my view. As soon as I save enough money, a new divider will be the first improvement for my taxi. Not being able to see what people are doing in my back seat, especially at night, is a constant source of anxiety. I've been avoiding the 2 a.m. bar crowd for this reason, but with my passenger numbers so low, I may risk the occasional surprise puke-or worse-in the back seat. We need the money.

The woman is speaking animatedly, and her voice is pleasant. It rises a little when she makes her important points and grows just a note deeper when she seems irked. It's a wide range for just a few seconds of conversation.

"Sounds like you've been through it tonight." I want to offer something more profound, though nothing comes to mind. I'm starved for conversation, yet I can't think of anything to say.

"Thanks, that's nice of you. Anyways, how is your night going?"

I startle a bit at the question, not remembering the last time someone asked me about my day.

"It's going okay, I . . ." I mumble, unsure what to say next. I think about the question. How am I? Goose bumps form on my skin, and a familiar ache fills my heart. I'm certainly not going to reveal how I genuinely feel to a perfect stranger . . . or to anyone for that matter. Imagine the type of tip that would result in if I poured my heart out to her. She might ask me to pay for her time.

"Wait, wait . . . are you Sri Lankan?" the public defender asks, not waiting for me to expand on my answer to her previous question.

What? How does she know? Just as I can't see her, there's no way she could see my face through the divider.

As if she can read my mind and silence, she says, "I can see your name, Siriwathi Perera, on the taxi license!" I had forgotten all about that small, unflattering passport-type photo paired with my name and license number, which is displayed prominently in the rear of my taxi. You're not supposed to smile, so instead I look like I'm either suppressing a fart or slightly pissed off, so basically just a gorgeous headshot. Should anyone lose anything or have complaints, they know whom to blame. I'm proud to say that I've never received a single formal complaint, though I have been cursed out plenty in the car.

"I am Sri Lankan," I say, impressed that she didn't automatically assume I was Indian, the default assumption of most everyone.

"I'm Sri Lankan too," the woman replies excitedly. "I'm Amaya Fernando. I almost never meet other Sri Lankans. And you have a beautiful name. Siriwathi." She says it slowly and pronounces it perfectly.

"Uh, thank you!" I respond, my excitement rising at meeting another Sri Lankan. "Most people just call me Siri." Ammi said that in America I had to make it easier for people to pronounce my name. Easier to blend in was more like it.

"Hi, Amaya. How can I help you?" a robotic voice sounds out of seemingly nowhere.

"Oh, shut up, Siri . . . Not you, Siriwathi . . . it's just my stupid phone . . ." Amaya mumbles as she clicks her phone off.

"It happens all the time," I respond. "Don't worry about it." I've finally trained myself to not respond to my own name in my own car.

"You should go by your full name, it's incredible. And you wouldn't have Apple products harassing you either . . ."

I rarely hear anyone outside my family call me by my full name. In America, I've always been Siri.

"That's a good idea, maybe I will." I haven't even seen Amaya's face. But, somehow, I just know I'd like her.

"Have you managed to have any good Sri Lankan food in the city?" Amaya asks.

"Uh . . . there are a couple of places in Staten Island that are great," I say. While the city is full of excellent Indian restaurants, there is only one Sri Lankan restaurant in all of Manhattan.

"There's a new place that just opened in Manhattan! You seen it?"

"Really? I haven't heard of it!" I respond with genuine excitement.

"Yep, Fifteenth and Irving. I'm planning to get a big group together to go. Least I can do is try to support Brown-owned businesses. To support people like us."

People like us. I smile thinking of a big group of friends at a Sri Lankan restaurant, clinking glasses over chicken curry that tastes like my ammi's. I try to remember the last time I went anywhere with a big group of friends. I just hang with Alex, my best and only friend. I used to have more, but friendships fade if you're not constantly tending to them. And I'm either driving my taxi all the time or, as of late, moping around as my friends move forward with their lives.

I see my old group of friends that I've lost touch with on social media. At one point in my life, it seemed as if we went everywhere together. Now, one is getting married, another just received her PhD, and a third is moving abroad. Everyone is doing incredible things, and I still feel stuck. I heart the photos but feel too far removed from those friendships to even comment on them. These used to be my people-the four of us would make microwave nachos while we binged Law & Order: SVU, drank wine out of a bag, and marveled at life's biggest question at the time: Will our crushes text us back and when? Now, we've all gone our separate ways-friendships that weren't meant for the ages. I'm left with Alex, whom I adore more than anything, but who also still burps the alphabet and gawks at me awkwardly when I cry about a hard day at work or a recent breakup.

I wish I could have found friends at work, but driving a New York City taxi is a boys' club. One driver asked me who was feeding my husband and taking care of my kids while I worked. Thankfully, most of the cabdrivers mean no ill will and just ignore me. They have their own friends. Their own routines. Not to mention, most of the cabdrivers at the stand are decades older and literal grandpas.

"A big group dinner at a Sri Lankan restaurant sounds incredible, wow." I pause, thinking of what to say next, desperately wanting to keep the conversation going. It's in this moment I realize how lonely I truly am. "Your parents must be so proud," I blurt out awkwardly, wishing I could say the same for myself. My parents are not happy I've chosen this life. It's a constant barrage of them telling me it's too dangerous, too hard, and that I should be settling down. Twenty-eight is apparently the start of almost certain spinsterhood.