What Happens if Your Cab Driver Speaks English

I'm all too familiar with airport taxis. Going to and coming from. With the back seat that offers only enough leg room for a hamster. With the local affiliate of National Public Radio blaring through the radio speakers. I have a theory about this phenomenon. Check it out in your own test studies. The less English your driver speaks, the more likely it is that he is listening to NPR. I have long contended that this network is being used by terrorist organizations to send encrypted messages to their agents based on our homeland soil. None of these drivers speak English, but, for some odd reason, they are listening to a very technical debate about universal health care on their radio.

Hmmmmm.

And, of course, it is a well known fact that, approximately thirty minutes before the first plane hit the World Trade Center, cabs driven by those of Middle Eastern descent were hard to find in Manhattan. There were also a rash of drivers calling in sick that day.

Hmmmmm again. Just what secret code came through NPR on September 10?

I am horribly digressing.

I had a very rare happening last week when I returned from Atlanta. The taxi driver that pulled up at the stand to take me home was English. And young. And intelligent. And he had a rock station on the radio. Woo hoo!

He also provided me with one of those bizarro life moments that I will remember for a long time.

As I entered the cab in a manner reminiscent of John Glenn crawling into his space capsule, I quickly told my driver where I was going. Politely, he asked me which route I preferred. Now, I've had this happen before, but, generally, it's because the driver has no idea how to get there. But, this guy actually wanted to know my thoughts on the subject as opposed to querying the disembodied voice on his GPS. We shared a brief dialogue on LA traffic and then I caught him looking at me in the rear view mirror.

"I know who you are."

Huh?

"I recognize your voice. You're on the radio."

I swore that I was not.

"Oh, come on, it is you, isn't it?"

I had no clue what the hell he was talking about. But, I was doubly curious what celebrity he thought I was.

"You're that guy on the radio who does the food and restaurant reviews."

I swore I was not. And what guy is that?

"Merrill Shindler."

Okay, I know who the guy is. I even know what station he's on. But, I had never really paid attention to his voice. And whether it sounded remotely like me.

I finally insisted to Dan, my cabdriver, that I was truly not Merrill Shindler. We continued on in an engaging conversation about life in LA, his desire to get into animation, and the fact that Norman Lear is a lousy tipper. I even took Dan's card so I can call him directly for future trips to LAX. But, I was still curious even days later. Did I really sound like Merrill Shindler?

I mentioned the story to a friend, who immediately recalled the guy's voice.

"That whiny New York Jew?"

I was tempted to rip up Dan's card. Maybe I'm better off when the driver doesn't speak English. As we motor to the airport in a chilly and wordless vacuum. As he writes down the latest secret missile coordinates that have been transmitted by NPR.

Dinner last night: Sausage and pepper pizza at Game 1 of the NLDS Series between the Dodgers and Cardinals.