But driving a taxi is about the worst job a loner like Ralphie could be saddled with. Every day you’re chatted up by dozens of yakkers. You get everyone, every idiot that God churned out on His off days; blind guys with dogs that reek like dead trout; aerobics instructors who chirp like manic birds even though they’ve Tae Bo-ed their way to obsession and tit-lessness; old men yammering on about leaky parts; and frazzled moms whining about the rising cost of broccoli while their little beasts grease down your upholstery with ice cream and snot.

The biggest pains-in-the-arse are the long-winded happy- hour drunks who lean forward between the seats and can grab your shoulder so they can pour poison in your earhole about the bar bitches they could have banged. They stink of booze and smoke and day’s end frustration. Their whole adult life they’ve been told to work from 9-5, to eat lunch from 12-1, to get two-for-one pissed from 5-7. Round-eyed salarymen. Ties undone, collars open, they sweat like bulls plowing in a field, (bursting to be released from a lifetime of double-breasted yokes and the clutch of their 2.7 children. A driver can’t get away from these guys; their eyes are right on top of you, dead embers in your rear-view mirror. Twin points of black and bloodshot hate.

"You’re blocking the mirror, pal," you grunt. "Slide it over." But it’s no use. They don’t listen. Their ears are still crammed with the drunken lies they’ve been bullhorning at women all night, wrongly believing that volume is all that’s needed to elevate themselves above the din of other macho braggarts. They talk sports like they’re your best high-school pal, telling you what our hockey team needs most is a big power forward like Cam Neely used to be for the Bruins, a guy who can throw the hip check and drop the gloves and pot 40 goals. No shit, you think, gritting your teeth, what team doesn’t need a horse like that?

"I used to play Junior A," they con you. "Played with Mario Lemieux for a year." Oh yeah? But when you ask them what year that would have been they pretend not to hear you. Slouch-ing back into the seat, they stare out the window and try to imagine what it would be like hopping over the boards with Mario, streaking up the ice with Mario, getting a pass from Mario, having Mario stick his face in yours after you score and say "Nice goal, Dave." Just parking themselves in front of the net and letting that big, beautiful bastard bank one off their stick past the goalie, bounce one off their ass. Lazy fucks even daydream lazy.

Half the time they’ll pass out in mid-ride. Like their bullshit has its limits and by the time they get in your car, they’ve already used all but 10 minutes of their daily quota. Their head fall back, mouths open, unvoiced dreams and aspirations spilling into your car, soundlessly igniting upon re-entry into this brutal atmosphere. Dreams they didn’t even know they had. You glide along to their place in silence, ghost-men in the street. Ghosts.