I don't think your halo will fit in the cab.

"I don't think your halo will fit in the cab." The woman approaching the car is wearing a furry halo atop her neon-pink wig, which practically glows in the twilight. Lack of headroom mandates its temporary removal. Her husband is in a tux; they both look great. I know already that I'm probably taking them to Northwest for PICA's TBA festival-closer, the Dada Ball, and indeed I am.

"You know what would be even cooler would be to wear a devil's tail with that halo." "You know, I thought of that," she says, "but it's difficult to manage." I think about it. "Perhaps just devil horns then, right under the halo." Her husband laughs, "A sort of Manichaean duality of good and evil going on there."

That is undoubtedly the first time the word "Manichaean" has been said in this cab by someone other than me. I'm delighted.

When we arrive, another woman in line is wearing the same wig. I wonder if there's a faux pas involved there, as in wearing the same dress as someone else. At midnight they call me for a ride home. They are now a bit giddy and tipsy and tired, and we must wait a long time for her husband to make his way out. I forgot to turn the meter on for this, and could have run an entire order in the time we spend waiting, but I shrug it off. On a boring night some fun, creative passengers mitigate the loss of few almighty dollars.