I'll Ask You Three Times, Are You OK?

by Naomi Shihab Nye

  Naomi Shihab Nye

  I’ll Ask You Three Times, Are You Ok?

  Tales of Driving and Being Driven

  In memory of Trinidad Sanchez, Jr.

  Everything feels tinged with the sting

  and prickle of loving.

  —NOËL HANLON

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  Fabric Thrown over the City

  Way to Go

  Shopping for Nothing

  Take Me with You

  Dangerous Taxis

  Taxi, North from Jerusalem

  What Happens

  The Thread

  Dora

  Random Taxis

  Greenhouse

  Passport

  The Same Bed

  Monsters

  Brown

  Rollentina

  Test Case

  Mouth of the Rat

  Sightseeing

  Tips

  Lending Library

  No Room at the Inn

  Bruce

  Fun with Grandpa

  Free Day in Toronto

  Criminal Handbags

  Too Many Cars

  After All That Walking

  Gifts

  Roses

  Backseat

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  In Eldorado, Texas, the lovely western ranch town unexpectedly popular with polygamists, I saw a hand-lettered sign in a triangular park that read, “A HAPPY PERSON IS ONE WHO ENJOYS THE SCENERY ON A DETOUR.”

  Introduction

  IN SYRACUSE, NEW YORK, A LIGHT MIST IS hovering at 5:15 A.M. I like it here. Nice friendly people and lots of old buildings. Just my style. I wish I were staying longer. A taxi driver has loaded another person’s luggage into the trunk, thinking he’s the one who called for a ride, not me. I stand with my red suitcase staring at his car. The driver says, “Are you room three-sixteen? Oh, I thought he was.” He hoists the man’s luggage back out of the trunk and loads mine instead. The other passenger sniffs, “I am waiting for a limousine, not a taxi.”

  This gives the taxi driver a big laugh as we pull out of the lot. “He’ll pay a dear buck for a limousine! Ha-ha! And it’s not a long trip to the airport! What a waste of money!”

  I’m remembering a time the driver of a shared taxi in Palestine gave my father’s luggage to another passenger when the older man disembarked first. My dad, sitting up front, didn’t notice his own bag had left the car. Upon arrival at his destination, he was stuck with the elder’s suitcase filled with white pilgrimage-to-Mecca clothes—not exactly my dad’s daily wardrobe. He spent days looking for that old man so they could exchange suitcases again. He had all kinds of adventures along the way.

  Now I ask my early driver, “Are you from Syracuse?”

  He says, “Proud to say, I lived here all my days—sixty-three years!”

  Then he says firmly, in the serious, rehearsed tone of a person giving a speech, “I’ll answer any Syracuse questions you have, but before that I need to tell you something important. Since you’re a lady and we’re alone, and it’s dark, I’ll ask you three times on the way to the airport: Are you okay? Just to make sure you feel safe and secure. We’re living in strange times, and I want you to feel very comfortable. Okay?”

  “Okay. Very nice of you.”

  We’re passing dark factories. Some look abandoned. One shadowy building has a repainted UNEEDA BISCUIT 5 CENTS sign on its side. Yesterday I ate lunch at the Lucky Moon and Stars Café. Their specialty soup was called Greens & Beans. It is really hard to be lonely very long in a world of words. Even if you don’t have friends somewhere, you still have language, and it will find you and wrap its little syllables around you and suddenly there will be a story to live in.

  He says, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m just great. A little early for bopping around, but I’m fine.”

  “Excellent. What else do you want to know about Syracuse?”

  “How has it changed in your lifetime?”

  “See this highway we’re on? It cut my city right in half. That’s a hard thing.”

  “I’ll bet it took a lot of good buildings away.”

  “Sure did. When I was little we did all our shopping downtown. We had five theaters downtown. Now we have one. The people made a decision to shop at the malls in the suburbs instead of downtown, and more and more malls grew up. It’s a decision, you know. A decision people make.”

  “I hate it. I prefer to shop downtown. We live downtown in my city.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “San Antonio.”

  “How many people?”

  “More than a million.”

  “We’re 141,000.”

  “Wow, Syracuse feels much bigger.”

  “I know—it’s spread out.” We stare off to both sides at all the twinkling lights. Then he says, “Are you okay?”

  “I am just fine, thanks!” I continue, “Well, one nice thing is when empty buildings turn into something again—that reuse factor. A lot of old buildings where we live are turning into loft apartments right now and young people are moving into them. That’s a good thing. It helps downtown stay alive.”

  “Sure it does. Good trend. It’s happening here, too. Very hopeful. Like an injection.”

  This makes me laugh. I like the image of giving a city an injection. I think most cities need a whole cycle of injections by now. I’m starting to wish the airport were in Albany, hours away. He keeps both hands on the wheel. I would bet money he never exceeds the speed limit.

  I say, “I like Syracuse a lot. It felt interesting here. I walked around.”

  “I’m glad you like my city. What’s your airline again?”

  “Delta.”

  “Excellent. We’re already there. See how fast it was? Not too much traffic this time of day. Are you still okay? Were you okay the whole time?”

  He’s jumping out to unload my luggage. He’s wearing a fresh white shirt and dark pants and a little brimmed cap like Greek fishermen wear. I could almost hug him.

  But I stuff a tip into his hand and say, “I was very okay.”

  I don’t know when it hit me that what happened in the margins, on the way to the destinations of any day, might be as intriguing as what happened when you got there. I used to think a lot about what happened on the way to school even while I was at school. It distracted me, but I was grateful for it. I would close my eyes and picture walking up the hill between the spooky trees, around the bends of streets, staring at houses in varying states of chaos, disrepair, or care, wondering hard about the few neat people, talking to squirrels, birds, dogs, and cats, trying to revive or rescue hurt animals, picking up lost buttons and papers and lovely leaves, harboring questions about mysterious families who never came out of their houses, inventing scenarios—all this fascinated me much more than economic facts about faraway France, or abstract equations.

  Walking in the hall at school, on the way to recess or lunch or the library, one also learned crucial necessities—who liked whom, who had broken a leg, who had broken up, who was suddenly wearing sackcloth, etc.

  Riding around neighborhoods in the evenings, in the backseat of anyone’s car, before shades were dropped or curtains closed, one might spy on other families through their lit windows—seeing a piano, a painting, a table set for dinner—my overactive nostalgia-tinged brain wanted to meet them. Weirdly, I missed them even before I met them.

  My mother used to tell me when I went somewhere, “Please leave your foolishness at home.” But how could I do that? It was stuck to me. Sort of like the
faded NO HOPE GOAT RANCH sign tacked to a fence we passed one time in southern Colorado.

  To this day, riding in taxis between places often seems as memorable as the places on either end. I suffer the delusion that I too am a taxi driver. My passengers are groceries, books, friends. I do not want to go home yet.

  The writers who meant the most to me in high school and college had wildly variant opinions about traveling. Henry David Thoreau thought we didn’t need to leave our own backyards or nearby woods. Jack Kerouac roared back and forth across the country in his friend’s old car. His most famous book was On the Road. I loved them both. Most teenagers I know have a mixture of desires—to go, go, go, but also to stay cozily contained, wherever one is comfortable. Many haven’t found that place yet and keep looking for it. Driving up new roads, peering out the windows…

  For every little tale in this book, there are hundreds of others untold. I did not tell about the taxi driver in Guatemala who roared like a race car driver up and around the mountain roads at midnight (he did not seem intoxicated, however), slowing down only slightly when we begged him to, who confirmed that the woman we saw outside our taxi, rising up in a flowing see-through chiffon gown, like a yellowed glowing curtain, was indeed the ghost of a mother whose children had perished off that cliff years before. I can’t remember now if she had pushed them, or if they were doomed passengers of another wild auto ride, but I saw her myself with wide-awake eyes and so I will always believe. A ghost. Rising out of the dark. The taxi driver said she was a famous ghost and everyone had seen her. My mother saw her, too.

  I did not tell here about the taxi in Nepal that also terrified us, on which I made a pledge to stay on flat land for the rest of my days, or the taxi drive in Egypt that ended up with us in a stone house by the pyramids, delivering a wristwatch to a family we didn’t know, from someone we had met on a plane, eating the largest meal of our lives when we weren’t even hungry, and then our little son deciding to clean the kitchen floor with a broom and a mop—while I stared out the window, thinking, “There is no end to the possibilities on this planet.” I didn’t tell about Carefree Highway in Phoenix or the faded HOLINESS IS BEAUTIFUL sign hand-lettered in blue on an old building in Memphis. I did not tell about driving cross-country with a baby, and the hotel sign in Lander, Wyoming, that invited us to “STAY HERE FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.” I found that ominous. I did not tell about the taxi in Saudi Arabia, which I was not supposed to wait for outside. I created quite a stir in the hotel lobby by defying the concierge. Nor did I tell about the taxi in Manhattan that could not find New Jersey. I’ll love that driver forever. He was from Bangladesh.

  I wish you smooth roads, safe travels, decent drivers, and interesting conversations. These days, in a world of so many unanswerable questions, it is possible taxi drivers have developed and chiseled more good answers than the rest of us. Think of it—their audience time with passengers is so short. They have time to muse and to meditate, to sharpen and consolidate their perspectives. I still have not figured out how they find all the places they find.

  Fabric Thrown over the City

  HE SAYS, “YOU COULD CALL IT A SHAWL OR a scarf—I call it a fabric—but it’s thrown over the city and only a few pinholes of light get through.”

  “Excuse me?” This is before a cup of coffee or anything. Six-thirty A.M. on a Saturday morning in New York City and the driver, staring up out his window, is pausing at a stoplight in a yellow taxi en route to Columbia University.

  His voice is butter smooth and soft. “I think about the light, how it’s always been there, when the Indians were here and the old-time people and everything. And they thought their time was the real time and we think our time is the real time and no one’s time is, really.”

  “Have you been up all night?” I say.

  “No, why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  He turns his head to the side and smiles. “I prefer morning to night. Do you?”

  “Sure do. More energy.”

  I feel as if a certain mesmerizing fabric has been thrown over…our car.

  There’s hardly any traffic. The streets are ripe with that pre-buzz emptiness, pre-crowd, pre-everything. The streets feel like childhood, like our lives before things happen. There’s so much that belongs to no one and to all of us, and mornings are rich enough to remember this.

  The driver’s damp blond hair rolls back in long waves. Odd how, with taxi drivers, you know the sides and backs of their heads. Somehow this feels very personal.

  And he just keeps talking. “Occasionally the light seems like a strong, straight beam, and other times it’s very faded and drifty. You know? There’s a whole mood, the way light is. It’s hard to know how a day will be when we first begin it. Like, we really don’t know about today at all. Do we? We just hope. We have ideas. And we think we’re wise, but we’re not. We just want to be. The world is not your oyster. It is not mine, either. The world is not an oyster, period. The world is the world. Whoever said it was an oyster, do you know?”

  “I do not.”

  “Why are you going out so early? Who are you going to see at Columbia? Smart people with big opinions?”

  “Teachers at a conference.”

  “Oh. People you know or people you don’t know?”

  I have to think about it. Then I say, “After a while, everyone seems a tiny bit familiar, even if you’ve never met them before, don’t you think?” His style is contagious.

  He peers at me in the rearview mirror. “Do I seem familiar?”

  “Yes, you do, sort of, but I don’t know why exactly.” I don’t want to say James Dean. I have always missed James Dean in the world. I have caught him in shadings of a stance, a posture, an eyelid, a hand in a pocket, a tip of a head. I feel the same about Jack Kerouac. He died before I found his books. Then I started looking for him everywhere in the world. This taxi driver has James and Jack both, and he’s not even standing up.

  He says, “We are dreamers in a windy sky, see? Floating among buildings and schedules. All a dream. Like that ‘Row Row the Boat’ song. We’re rowing right now, feel it? The whole world is rowing through the sky.”

  I stare out the window at pretzel carts and old men in faded raincoats and women with small sacks in their hands that might be a single bagel or a single muffin and ladies walking tiny nervous dogs on leashes. The stoplights click in predictable and comforting patterns. I think of that moment before a car starts up again after idling, how well we come to know that moment as passengers or drivers, either one. We are so accustomed to anticipation, being on the brink, pitching forward.

  The driver never stops talking no matter what the car is doing.

  He says, nodding his head slightly, “Today you will say things you can predict and other things you could never imagine this minute. Don’t reject them, let them come through when they’re ready, don’t think you can plan it all out. This day will never, no matter how long you live, happen again. It is exquisitely singular. It will never again be exactly repeated—ouch! Did you see? That woman dropped her bag on the sidewalk and swooped it up again, did you see that? She will never again drop her bag in exactly the same spot. Don’t ever forget it. Precious, precious, precious—oh.”

  “I do know,” I say to him, feeling a swoon overtaking me in rhythm with his words. “I know it and I care about it. Thoughts like that have occurred to me for a long time already, but I really like hearing you say them. I mean, it is so beautiful how you say them. I wish you were talking to these teachers today, not me. Seriously, and thank you.”

  We’re driving past a park lined with overflowing trash cans. My driver sighs, staring through the wide-open window with his left arm dangling on the outside. He says, “Isn’t it amazing how much garbage accumulates from one day to the next—just through the course of the hours? I wonder sometimes how cities hide dump sites so well. You’d think there would be more of them and we would see them everywhere, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”


  Then he says, “Look, look up! Oh, how I love that. Early sun streaks. So beautiful. If you look up right now, the fabric cracked a little.”

  Way to Go

  BUT HOW WILL I GET THERE? IT’S TOO FAR TO WALK.

  Come on. Some people walk across the whole United States. They walk across Canada.

  Peace Pilgrim walked back and forth across the United States many times. Did you ever hear of her? She wore a navy blue tunic and navy blue pants and simple navy tennis shoes, the old-fashioned kind. They didn’t even have thick soles. She called no taxis, and carried no money, but her friends picked her up and drove her here and there within cities, then dropped her off at the city limits so she could walk from one town to the next. Peace Pilgrim refused to speak about her mysterious early life, and what had turned her into a pilgrim. Some people said she had been very rich, with a chauffeur, before she devoted her life to wandering around speaking about peace. She used to say, “I once had all the possessions one requires for a comfortable life—a car, a house, everything material—but it was not what I needed.” Live the way you believe, do meaningful work, find your own inner peace so you can work for world peace, speak in a true voice, you’ll never be scared.

  My mother met her at a university when I was a baby, then stayed friends with her forever.

  Peace Pilgrim would sleep in our house when she passed through town. She ate no meat and she never had colds. I stared at her so hard, as if I wanted to soak her up. College students came over to listen to her speak about peace in our living room. We drove her to radio stations for interviews. She wouldn’t tell her age. If someone asked, she would say, “I am ageless! We are all ageless!” She said it with an exclamation point.