Taxi Cab Confessions

It’s 1:45 a.m., and the bar at the Abu Dhabi Hilton has just closed.  I’m facing backwards, sitting in the front seat of a taxi driven by a sullen man named Mahook. I’m fighting a battle with the shoulder stap of my seatbelt as I converse in a high-pitched fervor with my new Irish friends (or mates as they’d say) Asling and Finn. 

Both are in Abu Dhabi to teach English as well.  Our drink-induced roar surely sounds abrasive to Mahook, the demure young Indian fellow at the wheel, but we have, in the spirit of the Irish, “ad uh few phoints uh beer,” and we just can’t help it.

“Seriously, you know cowboys!?” Asling beams.  It’s like I’ve told her I just landed backstage passes to a U2 concert the way she handles this information.  “I. LOVE. Cowboys!” Finn nods his head up and down vigorously to affirm that he too has an affinity for them. After sitting at the bar for a bit, these two learned that I wasn't just from America.  I was from "the country."

“Did they have boots and buckles?  Do you know Garth Brooks?  Can you play Thank God I’m a Country Boy on Guitar?”  She and Finn are as enamored with cowboy culture in America as we Americans are with erecting “Irish Pubs” and celebrating St. Patty’s day back in The States. 

And then it occurs to me that we always admire most what is furthest away.  I have a tendency to drift off into my own head when I’ve had a few pints, so I try to push this thick idea to the back of my mind and just stay in the moment…but it’s too late.  The concept has already linked itself to a matter I was considering on my connecting flight to Chicago just last week, and I'm lost in my thoughts...

We always admire most what is furthest away.  As you climb elevation on an airplane, the topography of the earth begins to smoothen out.  The higher you ascend, the more the land flattens and softens. The landscape’s assortment of crags, divots, chasms, bumps, and crooked lines begin to blend into something smoother.  What is probably a scummy green pond when seen from up close becomes a shimmering golden puddle returning the sun’s glow when seen from above. 

The further you ascend - the more distance you put between yourself and the land - the more it begins to resemble a soft colorful quilt.  All of those imperfections, the crags, divots, chasms, bumps, and crooked lines begin to fade away. 

Similarly, humans (myself included) look best when seen from a distance.  Because of my tendency to entertain a bit of narcissism, I like to keep people at arm’s length because I inherently understand that the closer an observer is, the more likely he/she is to see my imperfections -my vanity, my insecurities, my lack of faith.  The true lay of my land.  I recognize that, when only viewed from afar, those imperfections smooth out into a soft quilt.  I am the scummy ponds that looks like a golden pool if you’re far enough away. So I keep people at a distance.  People admire most what is furthest away.

“…And I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him diiieee…!”  Asling and Finn are screaming Johnny Cash songs in the back of the taxi; I suppose to show me just how ready they are to submerge themselves into the beautiful world of cowboys. Tall hats, horses, fences, the smell of leather and open fields. 

I was never really that much into the cowboy culture, but then it was so close to me, so available.  I was close enough to see the real cowboy culture.  Cowboys were no better or worse than any people.  Some cowboys are stoic, blade-of-wheat-chewing poets who ride horses, love the land, and love their families.  Some are mindlessly dull, closed minded, and addicted to chewing tobacco.  I suppose it was too close for me to properly admire it. “… When I hear that whistle blowing - I hang my head and cry!” The volume of their rendition of the song coupled with the Irish accents has Mahook tightening up his face.

By this point in my introspection, I’ve given up my fight against my seatbelt strap and I’m facing forward, watching the road ahead with Mahook, who looks over at me and wrinkles his brow. He’s probably seen me staring off into space and thinks I’m showing all of the symptoms of the-drunk-guy-who-is-going-to-vom-in-the-cab.  Blank stare, squinted eyes, slouched body.  My pondering countenance is being mistaken for pre-puke pontificating.  In the back Asling and Finn are sufficiently entertained without me, and I’m wondering if I’ll ever get better at “letting people in.”

The problem with this keep-people-at-arm’s-distance approach to life is that, like the landscapes on playground earth, people only LOOK best from afar; they are not EXPERIENCED best from afar.  Sure, I might look like a golden pool instead of a scummy pond when viewed from a remote observer…but eventually just looking at a golden pool becomes dull, and you’re ready to jump in and swim, or look for tadpoles, or fish, or DO SOMETHING in pond.  We always admire most what is furthest away, but how long can you just sit around and admire that pond before it gets boring?  I’ve heard of people admiring a painting for days on end, but I think that’s rare.  I can thoroughly examine an entire art museum in a few hours. 

So maybe I should be more inclusive.  I should let people in close to experience what is real about me, and not just what I’d like them to see.  But for now, the last verse of Folsom Prison blues is being delivered with gusto and an Irish accent in the back of the taxi, and I think Johnny Cash must have been dealing with the same thoughts as I am.  “…If that railroad train was mine, I bet I’d move it on a little farther down the line.”  It sure would look better if you did that, Mr. Cash, we always admire most what is furthest away, even if it's railroad trains.  But is the point of a railroad train to be looked at?