A Narrative on a visit to New York City

It isn't nighttime but the foggy sky permits flashing billboards and lights to brighten up the small space occupied by people, buildings, and vehicles.  Cabs, red buses, vans, cars, trucks, and bikes speed through the strip designated to them at a pace on would think to be unsafe for the surrounding pedestrians.  Unlike my family, this fails to stop me from racing to the edge of the crumb covered sidewalk.

Without words, I make an attempt at hailing a cab by violently waving my hand above my head.  I am completely ignored by more than a dozen cabs.  The rest of my family casually walk up to my side and ask me what I'm doing.  Frustrated with their lack of punctuality I agitatedly indicate the fact that we must reach Ground Zero by five p.m.  After a small pause, I roll my eyes as I tell them it's now four fifty, a.k.a. rush hour.  I'm told to calm down, which has the opposite effect on me than the intentional suggestion.

Mom and the others walk towards the end of the sidewalk before I have time to make a scene.  After a deep breath and heavy exhale, I follow them and sulk while they attempt to hail a cab.  As much as I want to make the Ground Zero reservations, I get a sense of delight when her and my sister are unsuccessful.  A small smirk crosses my face.  Since I know it's going to be a while, I begin to observe my surroundings.

Worn in sidewalks are occupied by the most diverse of crowds.  Times Square at rush hour brings all kinds of people to the streets.  Tightly congested walkways are jammed packed with both tourists and New York natives.  Men and women.  Boys and girls.  Tall and slender.  Short and stout.  Every shade of skin color known to man.  Business people wearing suites of darker shades.  Women with skirts and men with ties.  Tourists studying maps wearing back-packs.  Small children holding their nannies hands  too small to be seen unless through a gap in the crowd.  Average Joe's walking about that don't draw eyes.

Eyes.  I realize dozens are fixated on us.  Uncomfortable, I stop studying the area around me and turn to my mom right as she attempts to open the back door of an unmarked black car.  As she gets hold of the door, the car takes off.  She stumbles back onto the sidewalk and my sister and I simultaneously burst out laughing and ask her what she was thinking.  She defensively claimed he motioned for her to open the door and she assumed it was a different type of cab.  Still laughing we walk further down the strip to see the same car sitting still with the driver motioning us to get in.

Mom, Amanda, and my uncle open the door and squeeze into the back seat leaving me to sit in the front.  A nicely dressed Middle Eastern driver opens the door for me.  In a heavy accent, he demands I get in fast.  I reluctantly slide into the leather seat. As I buckle up our driver explains how it is illegal for cabs that aren't yellow to pick passengers up in Times Square.

We give him our desired destination and he heads south towards Battery Park.  Right when I begin to relax, the true driver in him is exposed.  All New York taxi drivers are aggressive, but calling our driver aggressive is an understatement.  Whilst driving chaotically, he takes out a device similar in looks to an mp3 player, places an earphone in his left ear, and converses with someone in a different language.  My paranoia tremendously increases and I now feel more uncomfortable than ever.

The judgmental part of my persona has come alive.  Black car, foreign driver, talking in a different language on a device I've never seen, driving like a madman.  All red flags that lead a paranoid me to think he is conspiring something with the person at the other end of his conversation.  My mind races.  In it I keep repeating over and over that I don't want to die. I want to get out. Get out now.

My heart plummets as we come to a long line of traffic just blocks away from the end of this nerve wrecking journey.  When I thought I couldn't possibly be any more anxious, the extreme aggressive nature of our driver prompts him to cut out in front of a large moving truck almost leaving us crushed.   The fact he's done speaking with his "friend" doesn't ease my anxiety.

Right as the clock strikes five thirty, we're stepping out of the vehicle across the street where Ground Zero rests.  Mom hands him her last twenties because he can't take credit cards.  I walk away before she even says thank you.  I don't care that it's pouring or that I'm headed in the wrong direction. I don't even care if we're late and can't get in.  I'm just glad we're out of the black cab.

Walking away, I scold my mom and go on a judgmental rant on how I felt that whole ride and conclude with promising never to get in a black cab with no markings ever again.