There's a good-looking black guy on the corner of Broadway and Burnside

On my way to another order, I pass him again. I take this one across the Morrison and come back downtown, and he's still standing there, so I stop.

I look him over, of course, but then I do that with everyone that gets in my cab after midnight. A lot of the ones that get in before midnight, too. Nope, first impressions were correct-now bolstered by the nice shoes, good watch and friendly face leaning in the window.

I ask him where he'd like to go; he names a hotel out by the airport. I say I'm sorry he had to wait so long for a cab, and he says, "I was wondering about that. Why would no one stop?" He's got a pretty strong accent.

"Honestly? Well, I hate to say it, but some drivers here in the States don't always pick up black passengers."

He is stunned. "Back home in New Zealand, you don't even think about that sort of thing."

"Yeah, well, that's one reason I've thought about moving there-well, that and the idiot we put in office."

He laughs, and we chat all the way to the airport. The fare's $25; he gives me $40 and tells me to keep it. "Why did you pick me up then?"

I just shrug. I wish I lived somewhere where I could not think about that sort of thing.