The rain in this city doesn’t wash anything clean; it just makes the neon bleed until the streets look like a bruised oil painting. I’ve been driving this tin can for twelve hours straight, and the vinyl seat has officially molded to the shape of my bad back.
Transactions were overwhelmingly cash-based. Carrying a thick roll of change made drivers frequent targets for crime, requiring a high degree of street smarts, intuition, and physical security measures like thick plexiglass partitions. The Social Hub cabbie 2000
I look up at the traffic light. It’s stuck on red. The rain drums on the roof. I check the glove box—my dispatch map is frayed at the edges, but I know the grid better than I know my own face. The dispatcher, Mack, squawks over the radio about a pickup on 42nd. The rain in this city doesn’t wash anything