May 27, 2008
Richmond, Virginia

No one wants to be awake at 4:30am. Dragging my suitcase out of a dark house while Corey, Tod, and the baby sleep inside, I am greeted by the cab driver with a “Good morning to ya.” A middle-aged, middle-thick black man, he’s waiting with the trunk open and takes my suitcase from me while I get settled in the back.
He asks where I’m flying today, and I say Seattle. His girlfriend is from Seattle, he says: she flew here to Richmond for work and he was her first cab driver, right from the airport. “‘Course, this is 19 years ago,” he explains. “I looked in that mirror and saw her face, I said, ‘That’s my woman.’”
He asks after my trip, I say it was my first time in Virginia. What did I think of Richmond? It’s nice, I tell him.
“I’ll say one thing. You know how to lay out some respect…you’ll get it back in Richmond.”
Over the twenty-minute drive, he tells me about the police chief resigning; about his three daughters by three different women that he’s put through college; about all his favorite shortcuts and how the highways are laid out; how he’s been driving for 22 years and figures he’s the best cab driver in Virginia, and in the top ten in all the world. He hands me his card, for next time I’m in town.
“I’m WJ Bey, the one and only. You find another one, he’s a phony.”