Four a.m.
I roll my cab out of the garage shortly after four a.m. each morning, and I have a profound love/hate relationship with the hour. At four a.m. the all-night drunks and the druggies have gone to ground and most of the world’s random reprobates are now hidden away behind their locked doors. The people of the morning rush are, mostly, still in their beds, or maybe showering, or quietly fondling a lover or spouse. The point men of the rush are sipping coffee from a mug. I’ll visit each of them in a bit.
For now, though, I’m alone in my cab… my laptop and my dispatcher’s disembodied voice are my company. Sometimes I’ll have an order right away so I drive the quiet streets; as often as not, no one wants a cab and its driver at four a.m., so I wait. Those mornings, when I have only thoughts to occupy me, I loathe four a.m. Then, the hour proves to me that I’m a fool chasing an arbitrary errand, a mortal creature investing unrecoverable minutes in… nothing. An order to fill is a better thing at four a.m.
In October, there’s often a mist or a shallow fog over the Rocky River valley at four a.m. I sometimes drive my cab into a convenient earthbound cloud, and I don’t want to emerge. The mist is a comfort, an obvious return to my mother’s womb. But if I’m driving, there must be an order, someone who does want a cab and its driver. And so I drive, the mists are left behind, and I tell myself that I’m really not a fool after all. After all, someone wants me at four a.m.
When I’m driving at four a.m. I’m often entertained by racoons and opossums crossing the streets, returning home, having accomplished a night’s raid. Cats scamper from yard to yard. Skunks are about, sometimes seen but always smelled. Deer will pause in the unlikeliest places and stare at me as I pass. I think they’re wondering, after we’ve taken everything else from them, after we’ve built houses and offices and stores wherever they try to live, why we won’t at least leave them four a.m.
There are no dogs to be seen at four a.m. because dogs are sensible creatures.
I’ll pass trash cans at the curb, proud of their owners’ efficiency. Only the efficient have their refuse at the ready at four a.m. I’ll pass an upended newspaper rack and wonder how many beers were required to make that idea seem a creative endeavor. I might even see an abandoned pair of jeans in the road, because at four a.m. the police will not harass a loitering pair of jeans.
Of course, I’m really not alone at four a.m., the world really doesn’t ever stop. Bakers and nurses and bus drivers and flight attendants from the Vegas red-eye are about. My fellow cab drivers are prowling, too. But at four a.m., I feel the most alone, each and every morning.
