Taxiology

“Charley’s Taxi.”

“Good morning. May I please have a taxi at 1088?”

“Atherton?! Brah! Dat you?”

“Yes, Noelani, it’s me.”

“Long time! You going 545?”

“No, Noe. I don’t live there anymore. I’m going up The Rise.”

“Ah, ok den. Eight to ten minutes, my dear.”

“Thanks, Noe.”

That’s not her real name, the female dispatcher for Charley’s Taxi. I don’t know her real name. But she always knows mine. Has known it, actually, since the first time I called for a taxi to pick me up at 2333 (all attired in glamour and glitter) for a midnight trip to Seaside and Kuhio, many years ago. This Honolulu taxi’s number has been on my mobile phone’s speed dial ever since I first spoke to her.

I lounged lazily in the sun, waiting for my taxi, extending my legs along the sun-warmed black marble bench, skin licking up the stone’s heat.

My taxi arrived momentarily, the yellow of its sign specific only to that particular company gleaming in the harsh rays of the late morning island sun. I threw my black messenger bag through the door, followed by a Longs bag full of the day’s accoutrements that I had purchased just moments before, glaring at a tourist in the line in front of me as she gave my favorite cashier some serious drama.

I confirmed with the driver that I was Atherton, and re-stated the destination address, not bothering to look at him.

“Ay! Marco Polo!” my driver yelled, once he heard my voice, calling me by the name of the first condominium building in which I had lived in Town.

I looked up. Saw his vintage Charley’s aloha shirt from the ’60s. Remembered him.

“Hey!” I exclaimed. “How are you?”

Remembered that he had a very good memory. And that he had shuttled me, at one point or another, for one ride or many, between nearly all of my island addresses.

“Back to 545 from 1088?”

“No,” I said, and gave him a new address, reminding him that I wasn’t a tourist and that he had better take the shortest route because if he didn’t I would know.

“You did live at 545, yah?” he queried.

“Oh, yes,” I confirmed, “but I don’t live there anymore.”

“And 1617, too, yah? And before that, Two Triple Three?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling wryly. “You know my entire residential curriculum vitae on this island.”

He laughed. “So, you move again? Still with your 1617 friend?”

“Yes, and no,” I smiled. “New addresses. New numbers. New friends. You know.”

He laughed again. Traded small talk with me and caught up on my life as a downtown designer.

I multi-tasked, alternately paying attention to him, staring up at the sun through the window and my sunglasses, and marveling at the fact that a complete stranger had mapped my entire life on this island. In numerical addresses. Marveled at the fact that my entire life here had been, however cursorily, observed, remembered, remarked on, by this man I see perhaps only once every year.

“What’s your new number, Marco Polo?” he asked, as I fished the fare and his usual hefty tip out of my wallet once we had arrived at the top of the mountain.

“4330,” I chuckled. “But you won’t be picking me up there.”

“Ah, no worries, brah,” he laughed, and thanked me overtly for the generous tip. “I’m sure I see you sometime again soon. Maybe 1088. Maybe 700. Maybe another number next time, yah?” More laughter.

“Yes,” I said, and chuckled. “I’m sure you will. And…perhaps.”

And I watched, smiling, as his sparkling white sedan sped up the rest of the hill, its yellow sign winking at me through the sunlight, and the mountain’s soft mist.

Filed under: Writing , honolulu, memories, urban appreciation