I’m trying out a new type of post as an experiment of sorts. This is a mostly true story that I wrote. I say “mostly” only because some tiny details may not be exact, but it’s pretty much true. I hope you enjoy it!

How to Have a Pretty Good Day

I like talking to taxi drivers. Whenever I hop into a cab I always try to get them talking by asking, “How has your day been?” Sometimes they mumble something, turn up the radio and don’t say another word. But other times, they end up telling me things you’d never dream of hearing from a stranger.

I’ve had taxi drivers tell me about their families, their marriages, their beliefs on how children should be raised, what it means to live in Canada, why they hate [insert any city here], why they love [insert city here]. I’ve heard about religion, where to vacation, why I should not live out of wedlock or wait to have children, how to cook a perfect meal.

But mostly, they tell me about their passengers.

On the way to the airport in Toronto, a middle-aged taxi driver with greying hair and a newsboy cap told me about how driving a taxi was the best thing that ever happened to him. How it supported his beautiful wife and their four young children, how it had helped him move from New York to Toronto, and how he tried only to remember the good customers. One of his regulars, he told me, had once made him lunch and brought it to him when she called for a pick up. Another woman tried to tip him $100 when he stopped to help her with a flat tire, and he refused it.

A few months ago in Calgary, a taxi driver told me that someone spit on him. The guy was young, drunk and angry about something, and when the driver took a wrong turn, the guy spit at him.

A female cab driver in Guelph with faded red hair told me she was always scared when she picked up groups of men after the bar, but she tried to believe that most people were good and wouldn’t hurt her.

Last night, after hailing a cab in Mission, I hopped in and said, “How has your day been?” to the man behind the wheel. He had dark black hair, and was wearing a suit jacket with a wrinkled white shirt underneath. At first I thought he wasn’t going to be a talker, but after saying, “My day has been pretty good,” he started opening up.

He told me that, yes, his day had been good overall, but he had been given a ticket for making an illegal U-turn.

“Not so bad though,” he told me. “The cop could have charged me more, and when I told him I was very sorry, he didn’t.”

We went on to talk about how much time taxi drivers spend on the road, how many people they see in a day, why he loves Calgary and the cab company he works for. I was surprised that he was still happy, resilient after having what sounded like a really bad day.

When we got to my destination, he pulled over and told me the debit machine was down. As I handed him my credit card he showed me a receipt from earlier that day where someone had scrawled “F YOU” above the tip line, where there was a big fat $0.00.

“This woman was so angry at me that the debit machine was down, she called me an a-hole and many other things.” He went on to tell me the woman had stayed in the cab, yelling abuse at him while he waited, unwilling to yell back. Finally she handed over her credit card, paid her bill, and got out of the cab.

“I’m orry you had such a bad day,” I told him.

“It wasn’t a bad day,” he said and shrugged his shoulders.

As I took my credit card back, said goodnight and walked toward the porch, I thought about how one little thing can put me off my day — an annoying phone call or request at work, someone cutting me off  on the road, finding no milk in the fridge when I’ve already poured my cereal.

When I got to my front door I realised I’d forgotten my keys. For a minute, I was angry. No one was home and I’d have to wait an hour before anyone showed up. Why hadn’t we put a spare somewhere? How had I possibly gone out without keys? Why wasn’t the lawn furniture dry so I could curl up there? Then I thought about the cabbie. This was one little thing in a big day. So I sat on the porch, wrapped my legs in the dresses I’d brought to my friend’s house to try on, and wrote this.

It was a pretty good day.