1968. Black mother, babe in arms, hailed student cabbie Pete in the East Village.
“Take us to the Bronx?”
“I don’t know it, but give me directions,”
FDR Drive, the Triboro, turn after turn, into a crumbling housing development.
“Stop. Let me out.”
The meter: $27.75. Scrabbling through purse, pockets, fare finally found. No tip. Pete glowered.
She: “Here’s a quarter.”
Retired executive Pete dropped his grudge only this year. Lounging in his Lexus, seeing another mother and child struggling across the street made him ask:
“Who needed the quarter more?”
Now he always tips 20%, and a quarter. Reparations.
“Take us to the Bronx?”
“I don’t know it, but give me directions,”
FDR Drive, the Triboro, turn after turn, into a crumbling housing development.
“Stop. Let me out.”
The meter: $27.75. Scrabbling through purse, pockets, fare finally found. No tip. Pete glowered.
She: “Here’s a quarter.”
Retired executive Pete dropped his grudge only this year. Lounging in his Lexus, seeing another mother and child struggling across the street made him ask:
“Who needed the quarter more?”
Now he always tips 20%, and a quarter. Reparations.
