At my age, it certainly is difficult starting a new job. It’s also difficult walking away from one after thirty years. But I have to. The owner of the company died two weeks ago. She had no family, no partners, no one to take over the business. And of course, I couldn’t get the financing. I got the notice from the bank last week. In the last couple of years, the business had more overhead than income. It hadn’t always been that way. When I returned from serving four years in the Navy after high school, the business was going strong. But things change over time and we have to adapt. I was lucky to manage as long as I did.

Now thirty years later, here in Columbus, Ohio, several new places have come along offering the same service, and no doubt cheaper prices, making it tougher to compete. It is what it is.

So that leaves me where I am on this new day, a new beginning, heading out the door to catch the city bus to my new job at the taxi company. At least my income will be based on how much hustling I can do. This new job should also bring some financial tips. Over the years, I have learned clothes matter, even if it’s driving a taxi. So I dress nicely. Dark dress pants, white shirt, and dinner jacket. I even carry a briefcase. You may mistake me for a lawyer. It didn’t really matter how I dressed in my old job, but I still upped the game and wore nice clothes.

The bus is crowded. The female driver seems pleasant, smiles at me and speaks. I take a seat near the front. I’m looking at the city from a different perspective. My old job was behind the wheel and the new job will be the same in that aspect. Maybe it’s once a driver, always a driver. Do what we know best.

I watch the driver pull in at the next stop, pulling close to the curb as required. There’s a sound of a plastic soda bottle bursting as the bus tire runs over it. As luck will have it, the bottle is half full, or half empty, depending on one’s perspective. The man waiting at the stop is not happy. The liquid sprays him. Mumbling something under his breath, the man flips a finger and walks down the street. The driver manages an “Oh my.” Her lips form a slight smile. I’m now thinking driving a bus may be fun.

Well, here’s my stop. I bid goodbye to the driver. Again she smiles. “Damn,” I whisper. “If only I was younger.” I’m single, no kids. Been alone for the last ten years. The missus said I had too many nightmares. But a job can bring such, especially if it’s an occupation that’s tough to get used to. And in my previous line of work, one may see it differently as the years add up, and not always for the best.

Yes, it’s time for me to move on with my new job.

I walk into the manager’s office. He hands me the keys to a nice new yellow car. I was expecting something with dings in it. I’m happy. Let’s do this!

I was here yesterday and took my training. Turns out there isn’t much to it. Keep track of my mileage, gas, fares, and make certain I keep a service log on the car and its condition before and after each tour of duty. I’m starting out on the 4:00 p.m. to midnight shift. I turn the motor over. It purrs. I radio in to the dispatcher that I am in service. The dispatcher sends me to a docking area near downtown and informs me I will be the second taxi in line. 

Finally, my first call. I’m excited. Blood is pumping. I feel young! The words roll off my tongue again. “A new job. A new beginning.” Who will be my first customer?

I see the guy waving a hand at me at the corner of Broad and High Street, smack dab in the middle of downtown. At least I hope he’s the fare. I pull up and ask his name. He’s the guy. Cool! He gets in the back seat and closes the door.

“To the airport, please.”

“Yes, sir.” I activate the fare box. Cha-ching!

The airport is a fifteen-minute drive on a good day from downtown. This, however, is rush hour. I’m guessing more like double that. I glance in the rearview mirror at the man; he’s looking through papers inside his open briefcase. Quiet, asking nothing, saying nothing, easy for me as I maneuver this slow-moving traffic. That’s the worst part of driving here in the capital city, too many vehicles and too few lanes. The traffic moves slowly, picks up speed and then slows again. On and on we go.

Oh, how I miss the old job. Always quiet. Never did a passenger interrupt my thoughts. Never interfered with my work. Never complained about my driving. Those were the days. Another reason I appreciate the quietness of the man in the back seat.

My breathing is calm. Hands on the wheel. This taxi feels as smooth as the van I drove for so many years. In fact, in my mind, I am driving the van, still on the old job.

Out of the blue, I feel fingers tap me on the shoulder. I scream as if my life depends on imitating a donkey on a helium binge. The car in front of me stops. I spin the steering wheel to the right. The taxi kisses the guardrail, crunching metal like a shredder at a salvage yard. I bring the car to a halt, blocking two lanes of traffic. Steam rises from the engine as the motor goes dead. I turn to my passenger and ask if he’s okay. The man has an expression of a petrified chimp. His mouth is frozen wide open, eyes bulging, and if not for him sucking air, I would think he was dead.

I get out and wait at the front of the car and notice I have pissed myself. Dark dress pants—lifesaver!

The police arrive. Here comes a ticket, the first day on the job.

“What happened here?” The cop is not smiling.

The passenger climbs out of the back seat. Guess he thought it was best to wait for the police. I suddenly relate to Evel Knievel. The passenger looks at me like I’m Ted Bundy.

I point at the passenger. “He tapped me on the shoulder.”

“And that was all?” The cop rolls his eyes.

I take a deep breath. “For the last thirty years, I’ve been driving a hearse.”

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