Easter Lessons From My Muslim Cab Driver

Under any other circumstance, the cab driver pantomiming the recoil of a double-handled machine gun would induce extreme panic. His hands were definitely not at ten and two; more like the clock was about to expire on our earthly time.

For over 20 years Easter has meant a trip to the Washington, DC area for services and celebrations with my mother. Our favorite church is opposite the White House, and for two decades the pastor provided great insight and reflection upon the meaning of the passion, crucifixion, and rising from the dead of Jesus Christ. While I can’t speak for the rest of the congregation, we also looked forward to his insights on two secular, but no less religious, topics. As a UNC graduate, and with Easter often falling during the final four, our minister had very strong opinions about college hoops and how good should triumph over evil. To nobody’s surprise, Duke never made it as an example of good. And the start of the baseball season always brought out lessons about hope and eternal opportunity. As he was a lifelong Baltimore Orioles fan, the congregation definitely could see our minister as a man whose faith has been sorely tested.

Which brings us back to our overly-demonstrative taxi operator.

As with many large American cities, driving a cab in our nation’s capital is primarily a job manned by immigrants. On this bright Easter morning, Muhammad cheerfully picked us up and started speeding toward our church destination. Perhaps inspired by the miracle of empty traffic lanes, he started asking where we from, what brought us into town, and other cabbie chit chat. Returning the favor, we found out that Muhammad was from “a town outside of Kabul” which, geographically, meant little to us beyond “Kabul.” This being a few years after 9/11, the conversation then naturally turned to his experience with practicing Islam under the Taliban. It was at this point that our driver’s workable English morphed into charades while also going well over the speed limit on an otherwise deserted George Washington Parkway.

“Rat-a-tat-tat” he voiced, while simultaneously mimicking the gun recoil with both his arms. “They just beat it into you. All the time.” My mother and I nodded, simultaneously murmuring a sympathetic “Mmmm.” “I just want to pray, not be told how by Taliban.” Again, something we could all agree upon. With this triumvirate in agreement on the nature of peaceable assembly and practicing of religion, Muhammad managed to release his imaginary gun and return his hands to the very real steering wheel. Relaxing his demeanor and pressure on the gas pedal, he casually turned his head and asked, “So tell me about this Jesus and this Easter thing.”

Oh my.

Clearly the price of divine intervention at 60 MPH was God having a good laugh at my explanation of His Son. Sunday school had been many decades ago, and my less-than-daring twice-a-year church attendance meant I was still good with most of the popular hymns—liturgical instruction was going to be a big stretch. But if the man asked, I would reply, and so I gave the holy highlights of Jesus (Immaculate Conception, miracles, crucifixion, resurrection, absolving of sins). Muhammad took this all in, carefully considering this scant but heartfelt mini-ministry. “That was very interesting.” he concluded. “Thank you very much.” He seemed genuinely appreciative, perhaps even a little bit better informed. Equally clear was that professional Episcopalian missionaries had no fear of losing their jobs to me.

Despite some absurdity, surely this was an example of the day’s message of peace and love. What could be better than three people spanning half the globe hurtling along inside a steel and glass chariot discussing faith and God? For as my mother and I paid our fare and left the cab, Muhammad provided the final word—the simple wishing to us of a “Happy Easter.”

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Taxing State Of Mind

It’s April 1^st, which means tax filing day is near. I, for one, intend to celebrate until the 15^th and no, my accountant did not find a huge refund. We need to party now, because next year the crush of new taxes Albany has enacted will be an Excedrin-proof fiscal hangover.

First up is a new way to pick our pockets every time we shop. Next year the state is banning the use of plastic shopping bags, save a few, carefully constructed exceptions from the well-lobbied interests. Ostensibly this is all to save the environment, what with Flipper choking on Ziplocs and all. If you want to actually carry your groceries out of the store, counties have the “option” of a five-cent-a-paper-bag tax. Since taxing is the same as breathing in New York, we all know there isn’t a local body that can resist “free” money.

All of this activism is meant for us to walk around in lockstep with our reusable shopping bags dangling off our shoulders, virtue signaling our green bona fides. Perhaps those bags should also include a copy of Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book of Quotations so we can all get into the collective spirit. Of course, there are plenty of unintended consequences of this new movement. New Yorkers already recycle plastic bags in the form or trash can liners and garbage bags. The irony is that in order to throw out your trash we will have to buy plastic garbage bags, thus literally paying a tax on top of another tax.

Next is the vaunted “Congestion Pricing” tax, picking motorists’ pockets every time they want to drive south of 60^th Street in Manhattan. Every store that stocks daily necessities (including garbage bags), every restaurant, and every landlord will pass on the costs for deliveries south of this urban Mason-Dixon line. On top of that, I fear love may feel squeeze as well. Many remember the Seinfeld episode where Elaine, faced with a shortage of her favorite contraceptives, had to determine if intimacy would be “sponge worthy.” Similarly, dating may now be “Congestion Pricing” worthy—is pursuing that gal or guy “on the other side” worth paying a tax over and over again? Think Capulets and Montagues needing an EZ Pass.

And who is supposed to benefit? None other than the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, “operator” of the city’s subways and buses, as well as the commuter railroads. To those who use the MTA, operating is more of a euphemism—not working on time and in filth is more accurate. The projected $15 Billion that drivers, star-crossed lovers and otherwise regular folk alike, will cough up is supposed to help the MTA fix up its decrepit infrastructure. Does anyone believe this? Not a chance.

The MTA and I share the same birth year, and over 53 years I haven’t shoveled dirt and put down miles of new railroad track, but the MTA isn’t much further ahead on this account either. Four years ago they opened a mile-long connection between Times Square and the now-opened Dubai-on-the-River Hudson Yards development. Of course, anyone who can own or rent an apartment in Hudson Yards doesn’t take the subway, they take an Uber. An Uber which, as of the first of this year, has a $2.75 tax added for every ride. A block from my apartment the Second Avenue subway finally opened—a mile-and-a-half long and on the drawing boards since the end of WWII. Now the MTA gave this a try in ’70’s, but like many things from that decade, it failed miserably. They also set a record cost at $2.5 Billion per mile, four times as much as a similar project in socialist paradise Paris. Not to be outdone, at some very undetermined point in the future, work will finish on a tunnel connecting the Long Island Rail Road between Penn and Grand Central Stations, with an estimated cost of $3.5 Billion per mile. With the subway, bus, and rail fares going up in a three weeks, only an April Fool would think that any amount of money will change things.

Maybe we all need to take a deep breath and relax, and Albany has been talking about helping us with this by legalizing marijuana. While (excise and sales tax) whiskey is my solution, many see this either as natural progress or overdue social justice. But you can be sure on one thing—everyone sees plenty of tax dollars in every joint.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.