Taxi rides stressed out my dad just a tad when my parents visited. My dad texted “I think we may die” on their way from the airport to the hotel. Followed shortly by “Is there a hospital close to you?” The driving didn’t faze my mom, a regular on the New York scene.
My dad feared for life every time he slid onto a taxi’s cool leather seats. If he wasn’t clutching his chest or wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, he was frozen with fear and unable to respond to even simple yes/no questions. I swear I saw the last few gray hairs in his beard turn white during sudden stops and swerves.
He finally found his voice after one taxi ride and exclaimed, “I swear they try to kill me!” To which I emphatically responded, “No, no, no! In New York, that’s what we call EFFICIENT.”
Time is money, folks.
No comments:
Post a Comment