I’ve delivered two babies in my taxi! Thankfully they were still in utero. Gotcha! It’s true; some women still take a cab to the hospital while in the early stages of labor. It didn’t happened last night but it has happened in the past. I usually ask that the parents give the children my name. None have committed to the idea.
I hold out hope that someday, long after I’ve passed, there might be a club composed of the “not yet born” that were transported in my cab. They could meet, infrequently, at a sort of gathering where, when grown, they’ll talk about how their parents named them after the taxi driver who delivered their mothers to the hospital. What a sight it could be; a veritable cornucopia of colorful people, each imbued with a uniquely magical first name paired with their own unexceptional last name. This elite circle could congregate and reminisce. They could share stock tips and golf stories, comparing lawyers and bought politicians. Perhaps an evening could unfold into au pair trading and maidservant giveaways. One might be able to barter their sommelier for the shopworn tennis-pro of another. They could each keep the other abreast of the latest trends by providing their perspicacious coterie with all the voguish cautions needed among the well heeled. Timely advice could be exchanged, such as when to jettison a Portuguese jockey for that of a Taiwanese. The latter being so dernier cri among the wealthy and fashionable and those not quite born in a taxi.
So it is to them that we must pay deep obeisance, for in the generation that comes, we shall know well their names; PDX Cabbie Chu Fat Ho and PDX Cabbie Rufus-Cabeza con Marinara, alongside PDX Cabbie Von Drunkenstumblebum and PDX Cabbie Federline de Rothschild. I think you’ll agree; tint thy windows for the future is bright.