The cab drivers are talking to each other. All night, every night, all through the night, driving around with their earpieces on, talking in Ebo, Igbo, Yoruba, Spanish, Creyol, Gujarati, Bengali. Sometimes I get in the cab and I feel like lecturing the driver on the dangerousness of talking and driving–they say it’s worse than being drunk–and point to the Rider’s Bill of Rights that says you can ask the guy to hang up the phone and turn the radio off. But it’s so haunting to me that all the cab drivers are driving around all night, talking to all the other cab drivers. If I get in a cab and it’s just a guy driving, no virtual buddy to converse with, he’ll be such a sad and mysterious figure to me.