Elliot picked me up. He was in his mid-fifties. I told him I was grateful he showed up, as all other Uber drivers had cancelled on me at this hour of the day.
“Really!” he said. “I never ever cancel a ride. And you know what, every time I take a ride, I get a story in return,” he laughed aloud, shaking the whole car with him. That’s when I noticed a handicap sign swinging gently from his rear-view mirror—like a forgotten talisman.
That evening, I had arrived in New York for a few days. I had had a day I wanted to erase swiftly and without ceremony. But the remains clung to me like stubborn shadows, refusing to retreat. They murmured to me of failures—failures in behaviour, in attitude, in self. And now here I was, seated beside Elliot, who zigzagged through narrow, overfilled lanes of the city as if they were footpaths known only to him. Horns blared behind us. Lane markings were mere suggestions. The day, I thought, might still end in wreckage. Especially as Elliot, rather than watching the road, had turned toward me and begun a story about his two grown sons who lived in the city and summoned him for errands.
“Last week, I picked up a television from Costco for my younger son,” he told me. “I drive for Uber to keep busy; otherwise, I’m enjoying retirement.”
He had been a mortgage banker on Wall Street, managing a team. But he’d burnt out.
Burnt out. That’s what I was feeling today.
“Do you miss those days?” I asked.
“Not a single minute,” he replied, with the serenity of someone who had walked away from the burning city without turning back.
I looked out the window, scanning the skyline, trying to remember where the Twin Towers once stood. Elliot had spent all his life here, and I felt the impulse to ask him where he was that day, when the towers turned to ash. Was he at his desk? Did he run? Did he look up in disbelief as the planes carved open the sky? I didn’t ask. The car was a fragile raft, and this conversation—despite Elliot’s erratic driving—had become the only buoyant part of my day. I didn’t want to puncture it.
By some miracle, he delivered me to my hotel intact. We exchanged cheerful goodbyes. I left him a five-star rating.
Ubers, I’ve come to believe, are the last unfiltered stages of American theatre. They are dating pods without the dating—intimate boxes where strangers meet, collide, and vanish. In one ride, you might be driven by an immigrant doctor moonlighting because no hospital would take him. In another, by a former banker seeking conversation to erase his loneliness.
Later, I met Zafar, a doctor from Russia who is now working as a masseur during the day and driving for Uber at night.
“Originally, I am from Uzbekistan,” he told me in careful, broken English. “And I know all Indian stars—Amitabh Bachchan, Raj Kapoor. I love Indian movies.”
“Why did you come here?” I asked.
“The war,” he said, his words clipped. Either he lacked the English to say more or the will.
Zafar drove with quiet discipline. Our conversation, unlike with Elliot, was laborious. Eventually, we gave up and let silence take over. But with Zafar, I felt freer to speak of uneasy things like wars and homes lost. He was an immigrant, like me—an outsider. There is a kind of fellowship in that.
My first night in New York was restless. I kept rising, drawing and redrawing the curtains that failed to keep out the electric spill of the streetlamps. Across the alleyway, I could see into other lives, boxed behind glass, lit from within. Morning crept in, grey and indifferent. I walked to the corner café and sat by the window, watching the city collect itself after a restless night.
Finishing my drink, I decide to walk Fifth Avenue. I see men walking poodles. Some run, jog busily around the blocks, shuffling impatiently at the traffic lights. But mostly I notice the women. They all seem to dress alike: in slacks and wearing caps, ears plugged with AirPods. Most carry yoga mats on their backs, while nestling a cold brew in their hands. They stare ahead, walking in measured steps, heading to a yoga studio. Yoga studios seem to be sprinkled all over the city. I read signs advertising "hot yoga," "hatha yoga," "fireplace yoga"—a yoga studio on almost every block I cross.
I passed the Flatiron Building, cloaked in scaffolding and netting. A USD 50 million renovation was underway to transform it into “sustainable” luxury housing. What does luxury mean here, I wondered. Higher ceilings? Unpeered windows? A friend once told me, “Luxury in New York is having water pressure. Or a balcony that shows you the skyline. “Would you ever leave this city?” I asked him. He thought a moment and shrugged. “For now, I’ve found a balance.”
I wandered past food trucks selling egg sandwiches and street coffee. A few office-goers had begun to line up. At a 7-Eleven, a Black man held the door open for me, his placard asking for change. I thanked him but didn’t enter. I turned into a back alley. A sliver of sunlight had found its way down to the street. In its narrow warmth sat a woman scribbling in a notebook. She was writing with the ferocity of someone trying to outrun forgetfulness. Was she a novelist, struck by an idea mid-walk? Then I noticed her bags, her clothes stained and frayed. She was homeless. Perhaps still a writer, just one without shelter.
“New York is squeezing out the very artists that once made it a cultural capital,” I had read before coming. I wanted to ask her what she was writing. But I didn’t. I lacked the courage.
I walked through what had been crowned the world’s “best city.” I saw garbage mounded on street corners. I smelled the layers of this city—coffee, rotting bins, marijuana smoke fusing into a single pungent perfume that trailed me block after block. Weed was everywhere. Sold openly in shops with bright green cannabis leaves in their windows—some as seedy as corner stores, others done up like spas, promising “wellness” through CBD.
I entered one. Inside, a fridge displayed neon-colored drinks, each more flamboyant than the last.
“Will this get me high?” I asked the girl behind the counter.
She is wearing a red top with no buttons to cover the cleavage and a short red skirt. She gave me a flat look.“Yes,” she said. “It will give you a buzz.” She said it with the gravity of someone prescribing serotonin.
I mumbled thanks and left.
Outside, a Black woman leapt into the air, laughing, trying to catch someone’s eye. She shouted joyfully into the void. No one responded. I looked away when she caught me watching. I descended into the subway. A train was waiting. I boarded, unsure of where it was going.
Inside, a man was speaking animatedly. Laughing, gesturing, amused by what someone—unseen—had just said. He’s been talking to himself, making everyone believe he is busy speaking to a good friend. Making us all believe that he is not alone. He has someone who cares deeply and makes him laugh, and though he may appear alone and homeless, he surely has someone who cares for him in this big city—the world’s best.
