From the Editor's Desk

"Rush Street and Oak," Rutt instructs the cabbie as we pull away from the restaurant in downtown Chicago. "And let's be quick about it; we're busy men," he adds in a playful tone designed to establish the atmosphere and fuck with our driver, if only just a little bit.

"Yes, sir!" the cabbie responds with a little extra enthusiasm to match Rutt's jibe, in a voice unmistakably Indian and with only the slightest hint of confusion at Rutt's declarative.

"Sir, are you from India?" Rutt queries, and I flash back to our time in Australia where he had made a sport out of antagonizing our hired transport.

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"Hindi or Sindhi?" Rutt replies.

"No. Muslim."

"Ah, Muslim. I see. I see," Rutt processes this response, contemplating his next move. "So how do you feel about the situation in Kashmir? Nothing a car bomb into an elementary school wouldn't fix, huh?"

"Kashmir is a bad place. If I were in Kashmir, I would be dead now."

"Understood. But let's be honest now, if we could wipe out those bothersome Hindis and get Kashmir back in the hands of the Muslims, we'd all be better off, wouldn't we?" Rutt goads.

"No. I don't know. I came to America to escape Kashmir. I do not care about Kashmir or conflict, you know? That's why I come here," our taxi driver is steadfast in his earnestness. "Why do you care about Kashmir?"

"Me? Why do I care about Kashmir?" Rutt tries to deflect the question before answering: "I think all Americans should be more concerned with world affairs, don't you?"

"Sure, sure," the cabbie replies. "Is good, you know. Is good to be concerned with world affairs. Did you vote? Who did you vote for yesterday?"

"Oh, don't you worry about that, sir," Rutt evades, this time successfully, employing a reversal. "How about you? Did you vote? Who did you want to win?"

"No, no ,I cannot vote." The cabbie pauses to reflect. "I think Kerry. Yes, definitely Kerry, I wanted to win."

"So you hate George Bush?" Rutt probes further.

"No, no. Not really. I just like Kerry better. Kerry more like a real man."

"Real man? Please describe. How is he more like a real man? Because he nailed some super models? Is that how? Did you like him because he was good with the ladies?"

The cabbie chuckles almost to himself. "Well, I think that's good that he gets women. That's what a man should do. That's what normal men do, you know? That's why I like him."

"Oh, so you like women?" Rutt sees a new line of questioning developing.

"I love women. With my taxi license I get free admission at Scarlett's, you know the, uh."

"Strip club?" Rutt finishes for him. "You like strip clubs?"

"Oh, sure. Sure."

"That doesn't seem very Muslim of you. What types of girls do you like?"

"Oh, all types. All types."

"No, c'mon. What do you like? You must have a favorite."

The cabbie is giggling like a school boy now. "Hee, hee, hee. I don't know. I like the, uh." He makes the universal symbol for breast with one hand in front of his chest as he steers with the other hand.

"Boobs? You like boobs? C'mon sir. With all due respect, we all like boobs. I was asking what kind of women you like? Do you only like Muslim women? Do you like white women? What do you like?"

The cabbie pauses, thinks about the question with some seriousness. "I think Asian women," he finally responds. "I like them. They're small and cute, the Asians. I like them. But I like all women. Black women. white women. I like them. But the Asians, yes I definitely like them."

And somehow this response is enough. We have a minute or so left in the ride, but Rutt has no further questions. How do you question a guy in the heart of Middle America -- even a Muslim guy -- who prefers naked Asian women to geo-political conflict?

If only the rest of the world was so easy.

R A Miller

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