Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids

The space between indeed.

I was meeting Dave at a place in DC. I was coming from my weekend class that was supposed to reassure me about my future as... well anything. Things these days are murky.
Things weren't so dark then, I was riding a small high because of the Italian girl.
It was drizzling and Shelly's Back Room has no parking for blocks so I hailed a cab from the GW campus. The day was beautiful and I'd spent most of the time outside writing in my little black book about how the colors reflected off of the buildings. I'd picked out the name of my next blog post; "I look at buildings now".
The cab that picked me up was driven by a Sikh, I believe. I went to college with a Sikh and this guy had the same picture of 'bobba g' on the dash as well as the obligatory turban/beard. My buddy from college was named Randeep Nag, his nickname was Rippy. This guy's name was Jagtar S. Gill. Jagtar could have been Rippy in thirty years easily. When I knew Rippy, at age 20, he had the full long beard and always wore a turban. He told me about the Sikh's belief in not cutting one's hair because it was a gift from god. Rippy's fingernails were always neatly clipped, however, so were Jagtar's.
I was looking at the statues in the park near DuPont Circle as we headed toward Connecticut when I noticed that this guy wasn't paying attention to the road at all. He was preoccupied with a tape that he'd previously been listening to in his tape recorder before it had become mangled. The tape recorder was the old kind with a record button and a handle on it with the big speaker that comprised most of the body of the unit itself. It was the type that you had to flip the tape over in order to hear the other side. The side reserved for music that record companies assumed you didn't want to hear. Alas, Jagtar was interested in both sides of the tape, hence his predicament.
"Buddy, I got it, just drive" I told Jagtar. He hesitated, briefly, but relented. I had a pencil in my hand anyway and I wanted the guy to pay attention to the road. He handed me the tape and I began the slow and methodical process of winding this cassette tape back to imperfect utility with my pencil. It took nearly the entire ride but I welcomed the tedious, mind-numbing repetition. It completely took me out of my element. I was gone for five minutes. The window down, the warm breeze making me slightly drowsy, the smell of the slight rain on the asphalt. All of these things for five minutes were absolutely intoxicating. I didn't think about anything. I would say that it was like dreaming, but dreaming these days isn't good. These days the prospect of dreaming fills me with dread. But there we were...I was sitting in the back of Jagtar's cab fixing his cassette tape, something I hadn't seen in ten years, and there was Jagtar, driving in Saturday traffic in downtown DC.
I felt ashamed when I saw Jagtar's tape recorder, it was the kind my grandmother had when I was a kid. She kept it in the cardboard box from which it came. After every use (The Platters, Englebert Humperdink) it went back into the box religiously. Jagtar had kept this piece in great shape. I can only imagine if he'd brought it with him from his home or if he'd acquired it here. Either way, I was ashamed because I've never taken care of anything like that. It was how he got through his day though, listening to those headphones on that thing. I'd like to say that I was touched by Jagtar and his simple creature comforts. But that's not the case. I felt sorry for him. I looked down on Jagtar and his job as a cab driver in this strange land. I pitied his existence as a service worker in this country with his menial entertainment. I felt sorry for Jagtar and his inability to understand the complex workings of the American Experience and all of its travails.

The tape was nearly wound back up perfectly when we arrived in front of Shelly's. I'd made sure. I had taken my time winding the tape back in straight and tight. "Here, it's almost there." There was about three inches or so hanging out, but it was straight, I'd taken out all of the kinks. I asked him what I owed him to which he responded, "No, it's ok. You work for me, I work for you."
That's when I felt real shame.
I felt shame because I wondered in that moment how much Jagtar must have looked down upon and pitied me. This person in his cab who had lived the American Experience their entire life and still somehow didn't get it. This person that had everything given to him and every resource at his disposal and still just couldn't figure out how to enjoy life. This person that was so disinterested in living and looking at the scenery that he would prefer to look down at his lap and repair a cassette tape, that he would never listen to, while the world kept flowing by just outside the window. This person who had only moments earlier looked at him and thought, "you poor soul".

I exited the cab and walked toward Shelly's Back Room. Jagtar drove off to find the next fare. He'll probably never know that he even occurred to me again. But why would he?
He's got living to do.