Steph Not Stephanie

I dislike cabs in Toronto. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve really enjoyed a cab ride, whereas I have no shortage of bad cab experiences — rude drivers, bad smells, actual arguments, and one almost cabnapping. However, it was rainy, cold, the streetcar had just passed me by, and it was midnight, so I begrudgingly hailed a cab.

Things actually got off to a pretty good start.

“You were with your friends? I think you had a good time.”

Hmm, a conversationalist. Well, he’s not wrong. “I did, thanks.”

“You’re a student?”

Isn’t that kind. And it is dark. “No, I work.”

“You’re not married?” I confirm this. “You should get married, you’re what, 26?” I correct him. “You need to get married and have babies.” Oh Jesus Rollerskating Christ.

Pardon me sir, but I rolled my eyes so hard I left them back there on the road. Could you turn around and retrieve them? “No babies for me.”

“You don’t like babies?”

I hate babies and puppies and world peace because I’m an evil baby hating monster. “No, I like other people’s babies, just none for me.” Are we goddamn there yet?

“What if your mother had said this, she liked other babies. Then you wouldn’t be here to give me a big tip and see your friends and live your life. She is a good woman.”

Yes, because I foresee a big tip after this conversation. Where’s that sign that says I have the right to a silent ride? “Yes, my mother is a good woman.” He’s been quiet for a minute, maybe I can put my headphones back in.

“My daughter, she is 34. She has three kids.”

“Good for her.” Whoops, that had a bit more edge than I intended. He’s being quiet for real now though. Next time I’ll take my chances on public transit.