One night years ago, when there were such things as open tickets on airlines and one did not have to establish identity to get through security, my wife and I left $900 worth of tickets on the back seat of a cab from O’Hare Airport to our home. It was two a.m., we were tired from crossing time zones, and we were careless.
We noted that the packet holding the tickets was missing just as the cab pulled out of the driveway and sped away. Even at two a.m. our Cynics Alert button must have been pressed, because we both assumed we’d never see the valuable items again. “You know how cabbies are . . .”
I like to start conversations with strangers by asking them to tell me about themselves. “I am a jazz musician,” this taxi driver had responded, “a jazz musician and a bluesman.“