“Anything interesting happen today?” We were walking around the cemetary like we always do. It is the closest park.

“Actually, yes. I was standing in front of this mental health services place, and this girl walked up to me. She looked like she was in her early teens. Younger than Morgan.”

“Uh-huh.” We stopped because Frannie had stopped and was lobbing gravel at a large oak next to the cemetary path.

“She had all of this bright red lipstick on and no bra and a really low-cut shirt. She looked kind of goofy, too, like her teeth were all fucked up and it looked like one arm was shorter than the other.”

“Did she want a ride?”

He laughed. “No, she walked up and said, ‘Can I kiss you?”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘NO.”

“Jesus!”

“I know, all that lipstick, too. She started to walk away and turned around and said, ‘Are you gay?’ and I said, ‘No, I’m married!’ That seemed to satisfy her.”

“Like if you weren’t married you would have done it? Would you?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” He thought for a minute. “No, I guess not.”

“I bet she found someone to kiss later,” I said.

“I’ll bet she’s found lots of people to kiss.”

Mr. Husband lumped himself around in bed.

Mr. Husband was getting his drunk on while we were watching The Matrix last night. I had never seen it, and I have to say, not a big loss. I don’t see how a movie can be a mind fuck and have plot holes the size of Courtney Love’s No-No Place at the same time.

Was the set up on that one worth it? I’m not sure.

Anyhow, we paused it when Bill is at the point of his Excellent Adventure where he talks to the Oracle. And she points to a sign above Keanu’s head that says “know yourself.” We started to talk about the whole Athenian market thing, and how it actually meant “know your caste,” not some big trippy metaphysical jive.

Mr. Husband changed directions, in a way.

“I’m trying to talk to other cabbies from other companies. I have this feeling that North End might go under,” Mr. Husband said, after we were done arguing about the correct Latin pronunciation of “know yourself,” a subject that neither of us should feel qualified to argue about.

“Yeah?” I said. “What did you find out?”

“Well, remember that shoot-out that happened at Far West a few months ago?” He was referring to two cabbies from Far West who had shot each other. “This guy who worked there said that the whole company has been ‘taken over’ by Sikhs. The guy who got killed in the gunfight was a Sikh of a lower caste, and he was making more money that the shooter, who was higher.”

“Do you think that’s true?” I said.

“I don’t know. All I know is, that shit won’t fly in this country for very long.”

I always love to hear Mr. Husband’s version of America as this classless wonderland. Mr. Husband is so enduring in his optimism, even after two years driving cab. It’s impressive, really, and kind of sweet.

That’s not as condescending as it sounds, I promise.