Boy and I are smiling in the cab as we go over the bridges of Paris at night. We've just eaten one helluva meal, and we're on our way to go dancing - just the two of us - in some sweaty and wild but not altogether unappealing nightclub. We're used to this routine. We're nightlife pros.
Tracy Chapman is on the taxi's radio. Boy is holding my hand and playing with my fingernail - running his forefinger along the curve of all of nail, over and over again. It's his tick.
We fall silent for a moment. After a pause, he leans in to discuss something with the driver. He can't help himself. He believes that part of the fun of cabs is talking to the drivers. Do you work for the union? What time do you typically work? Do you find people are very rude, or are they overall quite nice?
The bald, burly driver in overalls is short, too-the-point, but reasonably pleasant. They have moved on to talking about traffic in Paris and the new plans to change the bus and bike lanes. I watch blvd Sebastapol whiz by and casually listen to their small talk: Boy's excited chatter mixing with the low, mellow responses from the front seat. They seem to be getting along wonderfully.
Boy is saying, "Oh, I couldn't agree with you more, Monsieur. Although it seems the bike lanes are much more useful for the bikers, I'm not entirely convinced that the traffic is getting any easier for the busdrivers."
"Yes," comes the quipped reply.
Hm. For some reason Boy and I exchange a nervous glance. Was that hostility?
"Do you not agree, Monsieur?"
Silence. Yes. That was certainly hostility.
"Sir?"
Silence. The cab has gotten rather warm, it seems, and the darkness of the streets has gone from exciting and crisp to slightly frightening and cold.
"Monsieur, have I upset you somehow?"
Silence. More nervous glances mixed with bewilderement. With our eyes we tell one another that this is sort of getting uncomfortable.
Boy steps in to take the lead. "I'm sorry if I upset you, Monsieur. If you would prefer that we get out of your cab, you can just drop us off right here. I'm not clear what exactly the problem is, but obviously you're upset. It's only another two blocks, Monsieur. We can walk it."
The driver raises one arm in absolute fury, a clenched fist menacing us from just in front of the rearview mirror.
"I AM NOT A MAN!!!! I AM A WOMAN!!!"
Silence. This time far more uncomfortable than the last.
"Oh. Sorry ma'am. I didn't realize it. So you're a woman. Ok then. I didn't know."
Not the right response. Then again, what is?
Certainly not the stifled giggles we have kept to ourselves for the remaining five minutes. I'm sure she gets it all the time. A bald, big woman in overalls with a manly low voice driving a cab?
We never saw her face. I'm sorry lady, we were just going with what you gave us. Maybe if you had put on some girly perfume we would have thought twice.
D'oh!!
oh my! that's perhaps the most amusing thing i've heard in a while ...