Dashboard Confessional

For some strange reason, cab drivers tend to pour their hearts out, let go of their inhibitions, pull a Lifetime-movie and express their feelings. To me. Now, once is odd but can be dealt with. Twice, maybe a coincidence? But three times? Maybe I should shave my head and start making everyone call me Dr. Phil because this is what it’s come down to. This string of dashboard confessionals [Oh, I am so clever. Bask in my cleverness people!] began with a Caribbean car service driver who, during the short drive from Gerritsen to mi casa, proceeded to fill me in, in detail, on his struggling love triangle relationship with his coke fiend girlfriend and her drug dealers [“The triangle is not a friendly shape, okay? It's pointy, it's got sharp edges. Triangles hurt people.”- Cohen (!) I swear, most occurrences in my life can translate back to one of Cohen’s quotes of genius-ness]. As usual, I was buzzed beyond belief and therefore cannot remember or share my brilliant advice and slurs of wisdom.

Then, there was the angry Polish driver who was unsatisfied with his present automotive existence and dreamed of being an accountant. Yes, you read that correctly; he dreamed of being an accountant. He aims high. By the time I had paid the fare, I knew how and when he came from Poland to New York, knew the name of his first American girlfriend, and knew about the joy that numbers gave him. Numbers.

Then, last night’s cab ride from Manhattan just cinched it. A sweet Muslim man drove me home during which he inquired about the difference between boyfriends and boy friends, and interrogated me about the sexual behaviors and overt promiscuity of young American girls [who, us?], revealing that such, err, openness about premarital sex, condoms, etc. made his distraught and yearn for more spiritual and moral guidance in today’s youth. I don’t know what is it about me that makes people want to rip their hearts off their sleeves and hand them over, but they consistently do it. Whether it’s drunks pouring their hearts out to me while pouring another beer, or cabbies looking for an Oprah of their own, I am always on the receiving end [that wasn’t meant to sound that dirty], always the holder of their secrets, who is now publishing them worldwide on her blog. Good job. Ciao.