I get into his cab at Penn Station. He asks me if I’d like to sit up front with him, but I tell him I’m comfortable in the back. He says that he can read people and he begins to tell me about myself; that I am an only child, that I have a birth mark on my left leg, and other truths that leave me fairly convinced.
“You do something artistic. A writer?” he says.
I nod. And he is pleased with himself.
“Yes, ” he nods. “You’re going to be famous one day,”
“You don’t believe me?”
“It’s just nice to hear that from someone other than my mom.”