Yellow Cab, one of the stories in the Angel Zabar Series
Yellow Cab is one several stand-alone stories in An Angel Named Zabar by Bob Miller. When you
get in the back of a taxi, you never know who your driver is, that’s for sure.
"Where’s a taxi when you need one? Any other time there’d be fifty of ’em lined up waiting for their
next victim."
Dave Richardson was still complaining when a Yellow Cab turned the corner and came to a
screeching stop in front of him.
Opening the door, he muttered to himself, "Dave, be glad it’s not raining. This guy would have just
soaked you." Then he said to the driver, a guy in a turban, "Business Express Terminal at Midway."
He flipped his cell phone open and punched the number to his office.
"Global Insurance, my name is Nan. How may I direct your call?"
"Nan, Dave here. Listen, get on the horn and let Carl know I’m in a cab headed for the airport. I’ll
call him from Atlanta after the meeting."
"Okay," Nan said.
"Might as well get Bill on, too, make it a conference call. He’ll want the bottom line."
He hung up and pressed another stored number. When his wife answered, he said, "Caroline,
just enough time to let you know I’m on my way to Atlanta. I’ll be there at least two days. You pick
up that bounced check at the country club?"
"Yes. You remember what tomorrow is?"
"For Pete’s sake, Caroline, I’m trying to make a living here."
"I only asked—"
"You can always go eat with your sister and her brood. It’s just another day anyway. The whole
thing is commercial crap dreamed up to keep turkey farmers and Hallmark Cards in business."
Again he hung up before a response could come. Closing the phone, he muttered, "Double
whammy. Thanksgiving and a damn anniversary on the same day."
"What’s that?" the cab driver said, looking at him through the rearview mirror.
"I wasn’t talking to you," Dave said.
"Holidays," the driver said. "Yeah, holidays always make me think of something I once heard."
Great, Dave thought. Now the font of immigrant, lower-class wisdom will speak.
The cabbie said, "‘There are two great tragedies in life. One is not getting what you want, and the
other is getting what you want.’"
"Seems to me," Dave said, "if I were driving a hack for a living I’d want to watch the road and keep
my brilliant opinions to myself."
"That’s how you would do it, sir?"
"Look, I don’t know how much you make driving this pumpkin, but I doubt you or any of your rag-
head relatives pull in as much in a year as I’ll make on this one business deal tomorrow."
"Wow," the cabbie said, "that’s a lot. Didn’t mean to upset you. By ‘rag head’ I presume you mean
a person from the Middle East?"
"Presume any damn thing you like." Dave looked out the window. "Hey, why are you taking Archer?
That airport exit is under construction. It’s been closed for a month now."
"Oh?" the cabbie said, sounding unconcerned.
"You idiot, if I miss my flight because of this—"
"Yes?" the cabbie said.
"Let’s just say I better not miss it."
The driver gave him a long look in the rearview mirror, looked like he was studying the corpulent
passenger in the wrinkled business suit and frayed shirt collar. "You’re right," he told Dave. "I don’t
know what’s wrong with me. You taking the 1 o’clock flight?"
Dave grunted in the affirmative.
"There’s a non-stop that leaves just forty minutes later that gets there about the same time."
"So you don’t know the roads," Dave said, "but you do know the airline schedules?"
"No sir, I know this particular flight because I visit my rag-head brother in Atlanta. I prefer the non-
stop."
"You’re telling me how to schedule my damn reservation. I can’t believe this." Dave’s indignation
trailed off into silence, but soon reasserted itself. "You know, pal, given everything that’s happened
since September 11, I would think that all you camel jockeys would be careful about how you talk
to Americans."
The "camel jockey" looked neither impressed nor offended.
"I’ll give you this, though," Dave added. "You’ve got guts."
The cabbie, still a calm face in the rearview, said, "Guts? That has nothing to do with anything."
"Is that so?" Dave said.
"I was born in America. It’s my home. And since you’re bringing up the World Trade Center, I
mourn very deeply everything that happened there and everything that’s happened in the Middle
East since then."
"Congratulations," Dave said, clicking a button on his phone. When Nan answered at the other
end, he said, "There’s an outside chance I’ll have to take a later flight. If the Atlanta group calls, tell
them not to worry. I’ll be there if Omar the Tent Maker here can find the damn airport."
Pocketing his phone, Dave sniffed something sweet and acrid. "You smell that?" he said. Then he
saw steam rising from under the hood. As the cabbie slowed for a traffic signal, Dave said, "This
lemon is running hot? What’s next, Ebola virus?"
"Yeah, I’m afraid it’s overheating," the cabbie said. "Looks like you’ll have to take that non-stop
after all. I assure you it’s the best way to—”
“What you don’t understand,” Dave said, “is that I never asked for your opinion in the first place.
Right now, I'd sell my soul to get to the airport on time.”
With that, he jumped out of the cab and jerked open the door of any empty cab stopped at the red
light a few feet away. “Driver, if you can get me to the Business Express Terminal at Midway in
twenty minutes, this is yours.” He waved a hundred-dollar bill at the driver.
“For that kind of money,” the cabbie said, “I’ll drive you to the gates of hell.” He tipped his cowboy
hat—great, Dave thought; from Uncle Osama to Roy Bloody Rogers—and waved at his turban-
wearing colleague across the boulevard. Then he shot the cab across the intersection while the
light was still red...
The new cabbie would get Dave to the terminal on time, but that's not the good news...
get in the back of a taxi, you never know who your driver is, that’s for sure.
"Where’s a taxi when you need one? Any other time there’d be fifty of ’em lined up waiting for their
next victim."
Dave Richardson was still complaining when a Yellow Cab turned the corner and came to a
screeching stop in front of him.
Opening the door, he muttered to himself, "Dave, be glad it’s not raining. This guy would have just
soaked you." Then he said to the driver, a guy in a turban, "Business Express Terminal at Midway."
He flipped his cell phone open and punched the number to his office.
"Global Insurance, my name is Nan. How may I direct your call?"
"Nan, Dave here. Listen, get on the horn and let Carl know I’m in a cab headed for the airport. I’ll
call him from Atlanta after the meeting."
"Okay," Nan said.
"Might as well get Bill on, too, make it a conference call. He’ll want the bottom line."
He hung up and pressed another stored number. When his wife answered, he said, "Caroline,
just enough time to let you know I’m on my way to Atlanta. I’ll be there at least two days. You pick
up that bounced check at the country club?"
"Yes. You remember what tomorrow is?"
"For Pete’s sake, Caroline, I’m trying to make a living here."
"I only asked—"
"You can always go eat with your sister and her brood. It’s just another day anyway. The whole
thing is commercial crap dreamed up to keep turkey farmers and Hallmark Cards in business."
Again he hung up before a response could come. Closing the phone, he muttered, "Double
whammy. Thanksgiving and a damn anniversary on the same day."
"What’s that?" the cab driver said, looking at him through the rearview mirror.
"I wasn’t talking to you," Dave said.
"Holidays," the driver said. "Yeah, holidays always make me think of something I once heard."
Great, Dave thought. Now the font of immigrant, lower-class wisdom will speak.
The cabbie said, "‘There are two great tragedies in life. One is not getting what you want, and the
other is getting what you want.’"
"Seems to me," Dave said, "if I were driving a hack for a living I’d want to watch the road and keep
my brilliant opinions to myself."
"That’s how you would do it, sir?"
"Look, I don’t know how much you make driving this pumpkin, but I doubt you or any of your rag-
head relatives pull in as much in a year as I’ll make on this one business deal tomorrow."
"Wow," the cabbie said, "that’s a lot. Didn’t mean to upset you. By ‘rag head’ I presume you mean
a person from the Middle East?"
"Presume any damn thing you like." Dave looked out the window. "Hey, why are you taking Archer?
That airport exit is under construction. It’s been closed for a month now."
"Oh?" the cabbie said, sounding unconcerned.
"You idiot, if I miss my flight because of this—"
"Yes?" the cabbie said.
"Let’s just say I better not miss it."
The driver gave him a long look in the rearview mirror, looked like he was studying the corpulent
passenger in the wrinkled business suit and frayed shirt collar. "You’re right," he told Dave. "I don’t
know what’s wrong with me. You taking the 1 o’clock flight?"
Dave grunted in the affirmative.
"There’s a non-stop that leaves just forty minutes later that gets there about the same time."
"So you don’t know the roads," Dave said, "but you do know the airline schedules?"
"No sir, I know this particular flight because I visit my rag-head brother in Atlanta. I prefer the non-
stop."
"You’re telling me how to schedule my damn reservation. I can’t believe this." Dave’s indignation
trailed off into silence, but soon reasserted itself. "You know, pal, given everything that’s happened
since September 11, I would think that all you camel jockeys would be careful about how you talk
to Americans."
The "camel jockey" looked neither impressed nor offended.
"I’ll give you this, though," Dave added. "You’ve got guts."
The cabbie, still a calm face in the rearview, said, "Guts? That has nothing to do with anything."
"Is that so?" Dave said.
"I was born in America. It’s my home. And since you’re bringing up the World Trade Center, I
mourn very deeply everything that happened there and everything that’s happened in the Middle
East since then."
"Congratulations," Dave said, clicking a button on his phone. When Nan answered at the other
end, he said, "There’s an outside chance I’ll have to take a later flight. If the Atlanta group calls, tell
them not to worry. I’ll be there if Omar the Tent Maker here can find the damn airport."
Pocketing his phone, Dave sniffed something sweet and acrid. "You smell that?" he said. Then he
saw steam rising from under the hood. As the cabbie slowed for a traffic signal, Dave said, "This
lemon is running hot? What’s next, Ebola virus?"
"Yeah, I’m afraid it’s overheating," the cabbie said. "Looks like you’ll have to take that non-stop
after all. I assure you it’s the best way to—”
“What you don’t understand,” Dave said, “is that I never asked for your opinion in the first place.
Right now, I'd sell my soul to get to the airport on time.”
With that, he jumped out of the cab and jerked open the door of any empty cab stopped at the red
light a few feet away. “Driver, if you can get me to the Business Express Terminal at Midway in
twenty minutes, this is yours.” He waved a hundred-dollar bill at the driver.
“For that kind of money,” the cabbie said, “I’ll drive you to the gates of hell.” He tipped his cowboy
hat—great, Dave thought; from Uncle Osama to Roy Bloody Rogers—and waved at his turban-
wearing colleague across the boulevard. Then he shot the cab across the intersection while the
light was still red...
The new cabbie would get Dave to the terminal on time, but that's not the good news...
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We hope you enjoyed Yellow Cab and are
excited about reading the conclusion and the
other stories in Bob Miller's An Angel Named
Zabar. Amazon.com, Best price - Best Service.
Thank you.
excited about reading the conclusion and the
other stories in Bob Miller's An Angel Named
Zabar. Amazon.com, Best price - Best Service.
Thank you.