Why did I get into a lively discussion with the driver of this cab last night? Look at that odometer and know this: it was a 2005 Ford Crown Victoria running like butter. The car runs almost 24 hrs/day; he shares it with a neighbor who also does 12-hr shifts. Oil changed every two weeks, other fluids slightly less often. Ford’s next commercial should be about these cars.
After a few minutes of silence, he says, “Can I ask you a question, sir? Have you lived here all your life?”
“In New York? No.”
“No, in the United States.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Who was the 13th President.”
Embarrassed stammering. Realization that we’re now playing the “your-system-of-awarding-citizenship-sucks” game (cf. jus soli vs. USCIS Naturalization Test). I look to the back, “Hey guys, who was the 13 President?” Nothing. I try remembering RRR’s 44 Presidents song but can’t find a starting rhyme to get me going. Finally he lets us off the hook with the correct answer.
Next question. “OK, who was the 21st?”, he asks. I start with Lincoln and recite the song in my head, counting on my fingers. “Harrison!” Wrong; in my inebriated state I pegged Lincoln incorrectly as the 14th President. “Chester Arthur” he replies. Just in time for us to climb out of the cab.
I have some listening to do.
