MANU IN AMERICA!

Shift #66

Friday, August 6 -- SFO to the city of Belmont -- $29.85

FARES LIKE THIS ONE come along only once or twice a year -- or, during many years, not at all.

He strolls out of the International Terminal wheeling one small suitcases behind him and carrying another. He looks like he's in his mid-twenties, handsome, with skin the color of cinnamon, and thick black hair recently cut to about an inch and a half in length. He’s wearing a fresh cardinal-red polo shirt, and designer blue jeans -- he’s the whole package, well and very meticulously assembled.

Me: “Good afternoon.”

He: “Yes, good afternoon.” He has an Indian accent. “Do you know the Summerfeld Suites (http://belmont.summerfieldsuites.hyatt.com/hyatt/hotels/summerfield/index.jsp?src=agn_smg_hss_ppc_google_ss_trademark_sfoxs_hyattbelmont&k_clickid=17478bb9-5104-47a9-9b45-00004067bf53) in Belmont?”

Me: “Right across from the Oracle campus?”

He: “Yes -- that’s it. And may I pay with an American Express Card?”

Me: “Absolutely.” (Most San Francisco taxi drivers, including me, now accept most credit cards.)

He settles into the backseat and, slowly, tentatively, breathes, “Toy-o-tah Pree-uss, yes?”

The way he draws it out, I think maybe he’s recalling the bad publicity from earlier this year. I say: “Yes. It’s a great car. I love it.”

He: “Is it electric?”

Me: “It’s a gas-electric hybrid.”

He: “I wrote a paper on the Toyota Prius.”

Me: “When did you write it?”

He: “In 2004.”

Long before the scandal. I ask: “Have you ridden in a Prius before?”

He: “No. This is my first time. Actually, this is the first one I’ve seen.”

This strikes me as odd -- he's seemed so self-assured, worldly. I ask: “You are from India?”

He: “Yes. India.”

Me: “What part of India?”

He: “New Delhi.”

Me: “Are you coming from India just now?”

He: “Yes.”

Me: “Is this your first time to San Francisco?”

He: “Yes.”

Me: “First time to America?”

He: “Yes.”

I look back at him and extend my hand across the back seat: “Welcome to America!” I absolutely love these rides where I’m the first American a foreigner meets

He shakes my hand, and allows a slight smile: “Thank you. What is your good name?”

“Brad. And yours?”

“Brad…” He rolls my name around in his mouth a bit. “Brad... Mine is Manu.”

Manu says he is a software engineer, employed by Oracle for four years now. He’s come to the States for some specialized training, will stay at the Summerfeld Suites for five weeks, and will then go back to Delhi. This is the first time any member of his family has ever set foot outside of India. At home he has a younger brother and sister. His father works as a “civil servant.” When I ask about his mother, Manu says, “I lost my mother… Twenty years ago… She got sick and died… Yes, thank you.”

Had Manu been nervous about coming to America?

“Not at all,” he says. “Is there something I should be nervous about?”

Me: “No -- just the ‘normal’ nervousness about leaving behind everything that is familiar. I was twenty-two when I first left America. I was very nervous -- I had no job and no money, but you don’t have to worry about those things.”

Manu: “No.”

Me: “I imagine that your family might be a little worried. The oldest son, the big brother, has gone off to America.”

Manu, soberly: “Yes. They will be worried.”

Me: “I have traveled to India twice, and I was very nervous before I went -- especially the first time.”

Manu: “When were you there?”

Me: “In 1982 and 1988 -- a long time ago.”

Manu: “What parts did you see?”

Me: “Delhi, Calcutta, Darjeeling, Kashmir, Rajasthan, Bombay, Goa… Oh, and Varanasi -- my favorite.”

Manu: “There have been so many changes. Things are better now.””

Me: “People often tell me that, but I’m not sure what they mean. Better in what way? Newer?”

Manu: “Yes, newer -- buildings, cars. There are many more cars all the time now.”

I do not see how more cars can possibly be a good thing for India, or for any place. I say: “I would like to go back and see for myself. If I do, will I still see cows in the streets and millions of poor people everywhere?”

Manu: “Oh, yes. We still have those…”

Me: “Have you ever seen the ocean?”

“No.”

Me: “It’s right over that hill.”

“Really?” Manu studies the green coastal range, off to our right, for a few moments. Today’s sky is the famous California blue, but a low, almost unnoticeable, bright white layer of fog hovers at the ridgetop. I doubt that Manu’s ever seen fog before, but I find myself hoping he doesn’t ask about it. How do you explain fog?

Manu: “I may need a taxi later in my stay. Might you be available?”

I tell him that I’m only licensed to pick up passengers at the airport or in the city of San Francisco, which is about 20 miles away now, but one of the taxi drivers from the city of Belmont will be happy to help him. Does he drive a car?

Manu: “Yes, but everything is on the other side. I think I will probably not try it very soon here.”

Me: “I’m 58. May I ask how old you are?”

Manu: “Less than half. Twenty-seven.” Hahff.

A couple of blocks from the Summerfeld we stop behind a gleaming, silver gasoline tanker whose entire backside is an enormous oval mirror, convex, so that our reflection is enlarged and distorted as in a fun house mirror. As I make a slow turn to our left, I see the image of our cab in a long side view, from the very front all the way to the very back. The cab looks huge, as though it’s been blown up and we’re now seeing ourselves on a big, garish roadside billboard.

Me: “Look -- there’s Manu in America!”

It cannot be denied. The Prius’ front seat area is in shadowy darkness so that my own image is obscured, but at the right rear passenger window, in full sunlight and in full color, life-sized plus a bit, it’s easy to see Manu. And easy to see that he is smiling broadly.

He laughs: “Aghh -- yes!”

IN FRONT OF THE SOMMERFELD, as he is sliding his American Express card from his wallet, I place Manu’s suitcases on the ground at his feet.

Manu: “How much…?”

But I cut him off: “Welcome to America, Manu -- this is a free ride.”

I reach out my hand toward him, he takes it, and we shake, but I know he is not yet understanding. Of course not. He's looking at my face, expectantly, awaiting the total.

Me: “This is a free ride, Manu. I don’t want any money. Welcome to America -- it has been my pleasure to meet you.”

Now he comprehends, and a shot of panic shows on his face. “No, please…” This isn’t how it was supposed to go -- Manu had imagined his arrival in America: the long flight, the customs agents, the cab ride to the hotel, but not this free ride business. “No please,” he says, holding out his card. “Please take the money…”

I step back. “Many people in India were very kind to me, Manu. This is my way of saying thank you.”

The panic recedes from his face, but it’s not okay yet. “You should have the money… Please.”

“It’s more fun this way,” I tell him. “No one will ever believe it…”

His eyebrows lift. His mouth falls open and freezes that way. He sees the truth in this -- no one ever will believe this, it will sound like he’s telling tall tales -- and it scares him a bit. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what.

Me: “No one will believe it, but you and I will know it is true.”

I wish for a camera. The photo would show Manu standing in his red polo shirt in the sunshine in front of the entrance to the Summerfeld Suites lobby. His hands are extended out to his sides, palms up -- in one hand is his credit card, in the other his wallet. His knees are slightly bent and his feet seem to be groping the ground in search of something solid. There is no danger that he’s going to buckle, but he does look dumbstruck. His mouth is still open, but no noise is coming out -- yet. And now he's smiling.

Me: “If you were to pay me for this ride, Manu, I would never remember it, and you probably wouldn’t either. But this way, I think we’ll both remember it forever.”

He straightens. His arms drop toward the ground, and now he starts to laugh. His head tips back so that he’s looking up at the California sky, then rocks forward so that he’s looking down at the asphalt. His laugh is all the payment I could ever hope for, and now he rewards me richly and tips me handsomely on top of it. I can’t restrain myself either, and now we're both roaring at each other, just like when former San Francisco mayor Willie Brown was in my cab. There is something universal, something compelling and very touching about the free ride.

I leave Manu standing there in the Summerfeld’s driveway, his bags at his feet, a huge holy-shit-I-can’t-believe-it smile on his face. Through my open window I call out once more, “Welcome to America, Manu!”

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Source: http://freerides-2010.blogspot.com/2010/08/manu-in-america.html

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