November 29, 2002. Today was the day that I got the license; I headed down to the City of Chicago's Department of Consumer Services facility at 2350 Ogden to get it.

2350 Ogden is a few short blocks from the apartment in the Douglas Park neighborhood where my father and his family lived; their place was on California, just south of Roosevelt. Once upon a time, everyone in the area was Jewish, Italian, Armenian, Syrian or a member of some similar group. Mount Sinai and Saint Anthony's hospitals linger. The near west side of the City was, and is, pretty rough.

[Later, when I was working at night, if I caught a fare to this neighborhood I spent as much time looking backward as forward.]

I started talking to an older gentleman while I waited in the lobby of 2350 Ogden. "They call me 'Nick the Persian' and I've been driving a taxi in the City for 30 years." Business had been cut by 50% after the events of last September 11, he told me. I couldn't have picked a worse time to start driving; but I didn't really pick the time. Nick seemed like a sharp guy, and he was supposed to have received a BA in Political Science from the University of Illinois at Chicago.

Nick left Persia in 1967 [the year that I was born] and headed for Vienna; he studied law there. If I remember the story correctly, he came to the States less than a year later. Nick told me that he was friendly with Abbey Hoffman, and that he exchanged political ideas with him. Nick said that he was in the streets outside the Hilton in 1968, and that he was struck in the head during the protests.

Nick the Persian was an interesting guy, and he had a few wise words about leasing terms and cab companies that he was kind enough to pass along. He promised to buy me a cup of coffee at the Golden Apple on Lincoln, near Saint Alphonsus, if I took a break there at night. It was a good encounter.

I've always wondered a bit about "what" I look like: coming from a family of mixed ethnicity it can be a bit hard to develop an identity. When I told Nick that grandpa Germanos came from an old Syriac Christian community, he nodded; Nick said that he took me for an Italian. "You have a very Mediterranean look about you," he said.

Nick warned me against driving a taxi, and told me to seek other employment: he said that I should become an actor. He asked what I did before going through the chauffeur's training - and he knew that I didn't give him the whole story. He was a sharp guy.

December 16, 2004. I let my last taxi license expire on November 30, my birthday. I never did get one that looked like me. I drove for two years: from the age of 35, to the age of 37. "The best of times, the worst of times, the times that try men's souls..." It fits. I paid my debts; I lived the street; I got out. I saw Nick working, several times. I never saw a free cup of coffee. With his full beard, he looked a bit like Santa Claus. But he smoked like a chimney, and was too round to fit down one. Sigh.