My favorite car is yellow.
It has a meter up front next to the driver who fills the tank, changes the oil, and parks it.
All I do is step to the edge of traffic and raise my hand like the pop-quiz whiz-kid who has all the answers.
My favortie car is a taxi.
For car owners, the car is king; it transcends ego. It is the uber-self.
I get it.
I descend from Chevy savvy people.
My first ride ever, home from the hospital, was a finned Impala the color of a shiny new penny. One cherry ride followed the next: a butter yellow Malibu, an emerald green Camaro convertible, a silver Monte Carlo with a royal red pinstripe. The Monte Carlo was a big-ass two-door sedan; each door swung as wide as an aiprlane’s wing and looked to tip the chassis or launch it.
But like the self, a car requires care, fuel, fluids, filters, specialists.
Not so the taxi. If a taxi has a problem, it’s not my problem.
I don’t have to think about a taxi.
Unless I want one and then I simply hail.
And I hail because my heels are high, my parcels prodigious or my watch is slow.
A taxi turns my tapered neon nail into a fairy wand and my word into abracadabra.
A taxi appears like a genie from a bottle.
And a taxi, like the elephant-headed god, removes all obstacles.
Once inside I’m as calm as a yogi in a cave.
Liberated from all suffering.
Transported and free.
All hail the king.