I was late for swim aerobics. Let’s get that out of the way right now. So I was a little flustered when I was trying to hail a cab. I loved my swim aerobics class because it brought together three things I lived for - swimming, aerobics, and Steve, the instructor. Steve was wonderful. I loved him, really. He didn’t know it then but he did the week following when I told him in the locker room. He blushed but told me he was already taken by a set designer who worked off-Broadway doing irreverent shows about the Amish.

A cab pulled over, thankfully, and I quickly reached the passenger door and clamored in, just as a toupee-wearing, paint-splattered black man clamored in on the opposite side from the street. I didn’t see him before I got in the cab. He hadn’t seen me either so we were both in the back seat staring at one another.

“What the fuck are you looking at?”

“No, I mean, I didn’t know this was your cab,” I said.

“It isn’t. I just got in just like you.”

“Yeah, well, uh, you want to split it?” I honestly had no idea who he was.

“Cool,” he said, and he said it so cool that I figured I would never hear a word spoken cooler. I still haven’t.

We rode uptown in silence for awhile. “So, what do you do?”

“Mothafucka. Whaddaya’ think I do?”

“I don’t know…paint?” His clothes were splattered with paint - green, blue, yellow.

“Yeah, that’s me, Mr. Davis, a motherfuckin’ house painter.”

“Neat,” I said. “I think I saw you paint my building last summer. I thought you looked familiar.”

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