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  • Unearned Intimacy
  • William Dunlap (bio)

In that time before Uber, when car services had names like Tel Aviv, Lenny’s Limo, and Manhattan Transfer, I phoned and asked to be picked up one February afternoon on Broadway at the corner of Prince Street. A late-model Lincoln Town Car appeared, for which I was grateful. As it glided up to the curb and came to a stop, the trunk popped open and the driver was out and around in a flash.

He was a dapper, elegant, and well-turned-out New York specimen, mid-40s, white-on-white tailored and starched shirt with French cuffs. He wore on this gray day sunglasses and a narrow black silk tie that matched his pressed and pleated wool slacks, which broke just above Italian lace-up shoes that, while not new, were spit-polished to a military sheen. My driver exuded the kind of professionalism often seen in midtown restaurants where the maître d' was better informed, better dressed and more deserving than most of his patrons. I moved to throw my bag in the trunk and was stopped immediately.

“No, sir, no, sir—I’ll do that. Where to on this cold winter afternoon?”

“Why, thank you, I appreciate that. LaGuardia,” I said.

He gave me one of those long, size-you-up stares. I assumed he had taken note of my accent. Everyone in New York did.

“Elliot’s my name. It’s a pleasure to drive you."

Elliot opened the rear passenger door and I slid into a warm cocoon of scented leather and tinted windows. On the seat next to me, neatly arranged, were current issues of The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, and Barron’s, neatly laid out and ready for my perusal.

“Thank you,” I said.

“All in a day’s work. The switch for the reading light is on your armrest.” Elliot looked back over the front seat. A barely visible gold toothpick moved [End Page 71] from one side of his mouth to the other. “All in a days work,” he said, and pulled out into the rush-hour traffic.

________

It had begun to snow. Flurries swirled high and low, following the updrafts of warm air from subway grates that clashed with the chilly winds coming hard across the Hudson River and racing through the man-made canyons of downtown Manhattan.

“What’ll it be?” my driver asked. “The FDR or the BQE?”

Elliot felt comfortable offering this option to passengers he perceived to be residents, or at least knowledgeable. I appreciated that as well.

“This time of day, in these conditions? It’s your call. You’re the pro.” “Very well then.”

Elliot laughed low and easy.

Classical music from WNYC played softly, and a laconic National Public Radio announcer intoned, “Brahms, Beethoven, Chopin, and much..., much..., less.”

________

As we turned on Canal Street there was a rumpus of some sort. Two police cars were stopped, their lights flashing. An agitated crowd gathered around a motionless, handcuffed figure lying facedown on the street.

“Looks like an out-of-sorts pedestrian,” Elliott observed dryly.

Cars slowed and everyone gawked at the free street drama.

“Eight-million stories in the naked city,” he said.

“Come on, move it! Move it!” shouted a policeman trying to straighten out the traffic jam.

Horns were blowing.

“Can’t figure it,” came from the front. “Ain’t nothing clear about this.”

I was looking on intently as well. “I’ll tell you who knows,” I said. “See those three guys? Look at them, the black guys off to the left. They’ve been watching the whole thing. That man on the ground, he may be one of their buddies.”

“I expect you’re right,” Elliot agreed.

“You know,” I volunteered, “when I come up on a situation like this, I stay clear of the cops.”

“Oh, I hear you on that,” Elliot agreed again.

“I’d ease up to one of those black guys,” I continued, “and talk to them. They know exactly what happened and would more than likely tell you.”

There was a long pause, and then, “Well, you know, if the shoe...

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