By Dina Di Maio

Amit drives up to the Hoboken cabstand, turns the cab around at the end of the road, and waits on line behind the other drivers. It is 6:30, the beginning of his shift. The torrential outpouring of yuppies on their way home arrives.

Young man after young man in a long trench coat, spurting 8^th and Grand or 10^th and Bloomfield. Young women with skirts and briefcases, standing on the yellow line. The most amazing requests, 2^nd and Washington. Amit wonders why they just don’t walk, why they waste four dollars on a cab every night.

But it’s not his job to question. His job is to drive. Take them five blocks, ten blocks, come back, and do it again. It wouldn’t be so bad if he worked regular hours, say six to two, but he didn’t get off till five in the morning.

So he rides his cab up, he rolls down the window.

"Where you going?" he asks a man with glasses and a baldhead.

"The Heights," the man says.

Oh, Jersey City. Amit had to take the man; he couldn’t refuse a fare, but if he didn’t find anyone else for the Heights, he’d lose money on this trip.

"The Heights? The Heights?" he repeats as he inches the cab farther along looking for another fare.

A girl in a long woolen coat and a purple scarf nods.

"The Heights?" he asks again.

She nods again, and he motions for her to get in the cab. "Where are you going?" he asks her after she settles in the back seat.

"Kennedy Boulevard and Zabriskie Street," she says, fumbling through her black bag. "Oh, it got so cold, didn’t it? Overnight."

"Uh, yes. It is very cold," Amit answers. He likes when customers talk to him. It is much better than the awkward silence of most cab rides.

When he reaches the corner she wants, she says, "This is good. Here you go." She hands him seven dollars, a dollar tip.

On the CB, the dispatcher asks his location. Someone wants to be picked up on Central Avenue.

Amit says to the woman, "Thank you."

The woman smiles. "Thank you," she says, exiting the cab.

Amit sees her walk back down the street, stopping in front of a yellow house, opening the gate, and walking to her door.

"I can get it," he says into the CB.

*

Later in the evening, after roaming back and forth around Hoboken dropping people off, he takes another cab of people going to the Heights. He thinks he will take them home and then visit his sister and get something to eat. He is hungry and already drank his Gatorade and ate his Twix.

Amit parks a few doors down on the corner of Liberty Avenue, the street where he lives in a one-bedroom apartment.

As he nears the restaurant, he sees his sister, Surata, serving an Indian couple. The store isn’t crowded, a few couples. It is late now and never very crowded at this hour.

"Amit, not busy tonight?" Surata asks him as he enters past the black tables with red padded seats.

"Not very. It’s only Wednesday. Tomorrow I will be, but I will still eat."

Surata smiles. "What do you want tonight?"

Amit does not know what he feels like eating. He is hungry. "I’ll have biryani."

"You want biryani?" Surata asks.

He nods.

She turns to her husband and tells him in Hindi what Amit ordered.

Amit sits at a table near the window so he can watch the passing cars and keep an eye on his cab. His sister brings over some chai and sits across from him.

"You’re quiet," she says.

Amit shrugs. "I’m tired."

Surata shakes her head. Waving a finger at him, she says, "You drive too much."

"If I don’t drive, I lose my job."

His sister shrugged.

"You should work like Neepa’s husband. Get your own cab and work for yourself."

Amit shakes his head. "No, I don’t want the problems. I hate this business. Driving a cab. I don’t want to do it forever."

"Then, what will you do?"

"Open a store. Like you and Vijay."

"You will cook?" Surata smirks. "That will be the day."

"No, I won’t cook. A liquor store."

Surata clicks her tongue. "It’s a good business. Expensive."

Amit looks out the window. It isn’t just driving a cab. And his sister knows that.

"You need a good wife."

"I don’t."

"You’re not happy. You can do anything—open a liquor store, open a restaurant—if you have a good wife by your side."

Surata nods, and Amit knows she is right. He wants a woman to be with, but he hasn’t found one yet.

Vijay brings out a plate. "Here is the biryani. How is it going tonight?"

"It’s OK. Not too bad. I’m just a little tired."

The biryani is good, not as good as his mother’s, and he wishes Surata had made it instead of Vijay. No, he really wishes his wife had made it and he is home eating it with her.

*

The next night, a little after his shift begins, he sees the woman with the purple scarf on line again. He has not seen her before yesterday.

Passing up a few people on line, he says, "Heights" to her and she nods, getting off the line and into the back seat of the cab. "Heights," he calls down the rest of the line and there are two other people, an older man with a moustache and a younger man with a New York Yankees hat.

He will drop the man off first in hopes that she will talk to him. Maybe he will get up enough courage to start a conversation with her.

"Still cold," she says from the back seat.

In the rear-view mirror, he can see her pulling off her leather gloves.

"Yes, it is supposed to be for a while," he says.

"Unfortunately. I need some sun. I’m from California. I’m not used to this."

"Really? Where in California?" the old man asks.

"LA," she answers.

"Oh, I used to live in San Francisco," he says.

"Two very different places," she says.

"Mm," the man laughs.

"I swear. I never owned a coat till I came here," she says.

"How long have you been here?" the old man asks.

"About a month. Just got a marketing job. I’d like to work somewhere like McCann-Erickson."

"Advertising?" the man asks. "I’m in computers. Can’t help you there."

Amit comes to the man’s stop first. "On the corner?"

"Yeah, that corner is good, " the man says, pointing.

He digs into his pants pocket for his wallet. He hands Amit a ten-dollar bill and while he makes change, the man gives her a business card.

"You can give me a call if you want any help getting around the city. I’ll keep my ears open for any jobs."

"Oh, thank you," Amit hears her say from the back seat.

He wants to talk to her so badly but can’t say anything. When he drives up to her street, Kennedy and Zabriskie, he asks, "Which house? I’ll take you to the house." He already knows which house from watching her last time, but he doesn’t want her to know that.

"Thank you. That’s very nice of you. 215—up here on the left near the pole."

He drives farther and let her out near the gate of the yellow house.

"Thanks a lot," she says. She exits the back seat, turns to hand him money, and he glimpses her eyes. They are brown like sandalwood and her lashes are long. The woman is obviously not Indian, and he wonders what she thinks of him.

"See you tomorrow," he calls to her. He does not know is she hears because the door slams.

*

Amit does not see the woman for three days. Then his day off, so he does not go to Hoboken. He stays in Jersey City and checks his mail at the Postal Annex. He checks the Indian papers to see if the matrimonial ad he placed last week is in. It is:

37/5’6", handsome Gujarati, U. S. citizen, seeks caring, loving life companion.

Perhaps he will get a response. He just wants a nice woman with the smile of the woman with the purple scarf. He wants to come home after work to that smile and a hot plate of food and little feet running around.

*

He does see the woman the next day—only later than usual. He drives up to her, bypassing people on line who yell "Fuck you."

"The Heights," he says and she nods.

She sits in the back seat and he drives up repeating "Heights." No one is going to the Heights and he is happy. Here will be his chance.

She coughs. It sounds as if she is sick.

"Are you all right?"

"Well, I’ve been feeling pretty bad lately. It’s this weather. I’m not used to it."

"You need tea," he says. "Do you have some tea at home?"

"No," she says. "I never really drink it. I’m a coffee person."

"Not good. You need some tea." He will stop at a grocery store and get her some tea.

She asks, "Where are we going?"

"Up here. Edwards on Central Avenue and get you some tea."

"Oh, really, it’s OK. I don’t need it."

"You do," he says. "It’ll make you better. Trust me."

He parks in Edwards’s parking lot, which, gratefully, is not that, crowded at this hour.

Driving in, he stops down the tea aisle and gets her two boxes of peppermint tea, then he goes to the medicine aisle and gets her a bag of Halls mentholyptus cough drops, and then down the refrigerated aisle and gets her two cartons of Tropicana orange juice.

Back in the car, he hands her the bags. "For you," he says.

"All this? I can’t take all this," she says. "Wow, cough drops, tea, orange juice. This is so nice of you, really."

"Now when you go home tonight, have some of this tea with a little sugar. Your throat will feel better in the morning. I promise."

"Oh, you promise huh? I just better do it, then," she says.

He leaves her off at 215 Zabriskie Street. She takes money from her purse, and he refuses it.

"No, no, don’t worry," he says. "Look for me and just get in my cab. You’re so nice. It’s OK."

"But I have to pay. You drove me home," she insists.

"No, don’t worry. Just get in my cab when you see me."

She smiles, beautiful white teeth. He is happy that he has made her smile. "Thank you," she says.

"It’s OK."

She holds out her hand. "I’m Linda."

"Hello, Linda. Amit."

"Amit? A. M. How do you spell that?"

"A. M. I. T."

"Amit? What kind of name is that?"

"Indian."

"Indian. You’re Indian?"

Amit nods.

Linda nods. "Well, nice to meet you, Amit."

"Drink your tea. Don’t forget."

"I will," she says, leaving the cab.

Amit hopes he left an impression on her. He hopes she will seek him out to ride in his cab.

*

The next week is Amit’s vacation. Amit drives his black Toyota Camry to the airport to pick up his cousin’s sixteen-year-old son from India.

"I want to go to New York," Anuj tells him.

So on his day off, Amit takes him on the Hoboken Path where a policeman tells a man he can’t go on the train with his coffee.

"No coffee, no drink, no smoke," Amit tells his cousin and they laugh.

On 33^rd Street, he and the boy transfer to the N and R to Times Square, walking past the homeless people in the hallway smelling of urine and sleeping on newspapers. Amit thinks it is bad but not as bad as the streets of Calcutta.

In Times Square, Anuj takes his camera out and has Amit take his photo in the middle of the lights, the noise, the action.

Amit treats the boy to ESPN Zone where they eat pizza and play table air hockey and basketball.

The week is filled with similar activities, including a trip to Columbia and NYU so Anuj can see the schools he wants to attend. He takes his picture in front of the library at Columbia and near the arch at Washington Square Park where Amit buys himself a Nathan’s hot dog from a vendor. Anuj doesn’t eat any meat but Amit eats whatever he wants.

On the weekend, he drives Anuj to Boston where they follow the red Freedom Trail and eat Boston baked beans at Faneuil Hall.

He notices that there aren’t as many cabs in Boston and suddenly feels grateful for that never-ending line of customers every time the Path lets out.

Thinking of the cabs makes him think of Linda and that is what his mind is on back at Surata’s house where he takes Anuj for dinner. His niece Dina also visits and has Anuj’s ear, asking him all kinds of questions about India.

"Why do you want to come to school in America?" is one of her questions.

Surata is doing henna on the girl’s hands from her own recipe of herbs.

Amit knows the girl has gone to India. His brother had taken her when she was a child. Samir still went once in a while to visit their mother and brother, but he did not take his children anymore. Amit does not know if he will take his children back to visit. He knows there is more opportunity for them here than in India.

"What are you thinking about?" Surata asks with a smile across the table.

Amit shakes his head.

"A woman," Surata says. "I know."

Amit sees his niece smile at him. "I think you’re right, Aunty Surata. Uncle Amit has a girlfriend."

"No. No girlfriend," Amit says, waving his hand in the air. Not yet, he thinks.

*

On his first day back after vacation, his eyes are peeled, waiting for her to come out of the mouth of the train station.

When she finally does, with her purple scarf, he inches the cab up to her and waves with a hand.

She sits in front. "I’ve been looking for you."

"Oh, I was on vacation."

"Oh, really? Where did you go?"

"Boston. I took my cousin’s son—he came from India."

"Oh, how nice. Did you have a good time?"

"A good time? Yes, yes, it was very nice."

"Well, I wanted to thank you for the tea. It really has helped. Can you tell? My voice sounds better." She holds a delicate hand to her throat.

"Yes, yes. Your voice sounds much better. I’m glad. It’s no problem."

"I never drank peppermint tea before. I don’t drink much tea, but I will from now on."

"Good. Good."

On the way up to the Heights, they pass a coffee shop at a stoplight.

"I’m getting used to the roads here now. Whenever I pass the ‘best coffee in Hoboken’ sign, I know I’ll be home soon."

"Oh, the best coffee in Hoboken. You want I take you there?"

Whatever she wanted, he wanted to give to her. Surely, he could stop for a cup of coffee, and he’d love to stop for a cup of coffee with her.

"No, no. I . . . well, OK."

So he pulls into the little awkward triangular driveway and hops out. He brings back two coffees and a doughnut for her.

"You didn’t get yourself one?"

"I don’t want to eat too much sugar." He is trying to watch his weight as he started gaining a bit since he’s been driving. Too many hours sitting.

"Well, is it the best coffee in Hoboken?" he asks, sipping some.

"I can’t say I’ve had any other coffee in Hoboken, so I guess it wins," she says, smiling. "Thank you."

"I’m glad you like it."

"So you work in business? I forget what you said."

"I work in marketing for an accounting firm. I don’t like my job. I just took something to be in New York, but I don’t think I like it here. I miss my family."

"Oh, your parents?" He hopes parents and not husband and children.

"Yes. My mother and father and my brothers. It’s hard to be so far away. Plus, I hate this cold weather. People tell me it’s like this a long time."

Amit shrugs. "Yes it is, but you get used to it." In India, it was never cold and temperatures reached over 100 degrees before monsoon season. Now, cold seemed like relief to him.

"I don’t know. I might leave. I don’t really like it here," she says.

No, she can’t leave. He looks forward to these nights when he waits for her, picks her up, and drives her home. He likes her smile, her eyes.

"You have to give it time, that’s all. You will like it," he says. "It was the same for me. I had to get used to it."

"Well, that’s true. And India is a lot different from New York than California is."

Amit nods, and they both laugh.

"I jus wish I knew what I wanted to do. It’s so hard to get the job," she says.

"What do you want to do?"

"Well, I’d like to come up with really cool commercials on TV like the Taco Bell Chihuahua—drop the chalupa. You know that one?"

Amit nods.

"What do you want to do?"

"I don’t know. Someday own a liquor store."

"Really? Why a liquor store?"

"It’s good money. But I wouldn’t buy a liquor store. I’d get the license and then buy the liquor. It’s cheaper that way."

"And where would you like your liquor store? In Jersey City?"

"Yes, Jersey City."

"Well, I hope you get your liquor store in Jersey City, Amit."

The cab door slams, and Amit watches Linda pull her purple scarf across her face to block the cold wind.

*

That is the last he sees of the woman with the purple scarf.

One night after a few weeks has passed, he asks other cab drivers if they have seen her—Jaime, the oldest cab driver in Hoboken, who sits on a stool outside the train station, talking through his missing front teeth.

"No, never saw the girl," Jaime says, raising his hands in the air.

Neither has Jose nor Hasan.

When he gets a ride to the Heights, he drives by 215 Zabriskie Street to see if she is there but doesn’t see her. He thinks of stopping the cab in the middle of the street, running to her door with roses. She sees him from the window, runs out, and embraces him like in all the American movies.