In all my years of New York cab riding I have yet to find the colorful, philosophical cabdriver that keeps popping up on the late movies.
Some men are Baptists, others Catholics; my father was an Oldsmobile man.
Manhattan cabs are born old.
A man today never feels so alive as when he is hurtling from one point to another on the azimuth.
Randy lay there like a slug. It was his only defense.
There are fewer things more thrilling in life than lumpy letters. That rattle.