McNuggets: A Love Story (Part II)

See Part I here.

I approach and knock on the window. Cabbie rolls his window down, and I ask if I can get in. He asks where I'm going. I say, "I just want some nuggets, please," so he motions for me to get in. Well, let me tell you: the McDonalds drive-thru in Central Brooklyn after midnight on a Saturday night is quite a hot spot. Mr. Cabbie and I were stuck in the drive thru line for about 30 minutes during which time we chatted it up about Haiti and Duvalier and the many great misfortunes that have befallen the country and what was going to become of it all following the earthquake and whether or not that will have turned into a blessing in disguise and perhaps with international attention and investment, things may be on the up and up for Haiti. (Ed. note: Wrong.)

After an eternity, it was finally our turn to order. I ask for the 10-piece McNuggets (so hungry!). Mr. Cabbie asks me if I want anything else, but I shake my head. He orders a few more items, and we pull around to the window to collect our food, at which point Mr. Cabbie starts handing back first, my McNugget prize, then a drink, and a small fries, all of which he had ordered on my behalf. (So thoughtful!) When I try and pass cash up to the front, he tells me it's his treat. We pull away from the window, and he asks where I'm going. I gesture across the street and mention that my friends are waiting for me (at this point, I've been gone for close to 45 minutes and I'm sure they've pretty much given me up for dead.) He pulls into a parking spot and asks if he can perhaps have my number. You may not know this but FAB has a serious aversion to the phone in general and to giving out her number in particular. Now, cabbies love FAB. And FAB loves cabbies. But for some reason (I suspect alcohol) the only response we could come up with on our feet was "I don't have a cell phone." Yes. It's 2011, and I tell the guy, I don't have a phone. Really. So instead, he gives me his number. I thank him for dinner and scoot back across the street. As I walk up to our picnic table, my friends look up at me like they've seen a ghost and ask where in God's name I have been all that time. "I think I just had a date with a cab driver," I explain. They continue to look at me like I'm nuts. "But LOOK!" I say, holding up and shaking my 10-piece nugget box (which now contains more like 4 pieces) fries, and medium drink. "He even bought me dinner!"

Ladies, if you'd like to meet a really very sweet Haitian gentleman* in his early 50s, just drop me a line. I'll give you his number.

*Not pictured. The gentleman cabbie pictured is another story entirely.