Newyork, Newyork

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Travel  |  House: Booksie Classic
How newyork changed with people and the times.

Submitted: February 01, 2012

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Submitted: February 01, 2012

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Day in and out, I sit here and observe the people. Their body language; lovers, friends, business associates even rivalry you see it all. What is it, that makes life so damn special anyway? If your alone, what is there to live for? Yet this is the city that never sleeps, so your hardly ever alone. Physically at least. I experience it for what it really is, rude foreigners that think they know it all from one pamphlet, who are too rude to tip and to polite to correct you on taking the odd wrong turn. It is the big apple after all. I have my regulars that, tip each time, and give me bonuses at Christmas. I like them. I have had guns pointed to the back of my head, knifes too. Anything for a free fare. The usual topic of conversation, that evolves round them, their all take take take. They take my precious time, they take my petrol, the take my sanity. \" isn't the weather nice today?\",\"where you going?\", \"you in town long?\" The same numbing questions, this job takes to much. My wife, house and kids. Gone. Moved on, away, onwards and upwards. But hey that's life, nothing stays permanent for to long.

My favourite place to park up, central park, eight hundred and forty three acres of magnificat beauty. In summer, the shades of green unreal. Used to feed the birds with the kids. Memories, precious. Winter, like an ice queen's heaven. Sore bums. Numb noses. Children asking to be taken to james peach? Wrong fruit, naive. Frustrates me, when people get in and ask for \"central perk\", what's so good about a coffee shop? Artificial , fake. Can't complain these comics bring my trade. My livelihood. The hood. The Bronx, Harlem. Known for their basketball achievements and failures. Madison square gardens. Ballet, box, bounce. Theatre of dreams. It's we're aspiring young entrepreneurs come to make it. 4% success rate, we only take the best. You'll find them in time square, on an evening job, selling hot dogs. Minimal job, hypocrite? Maybe I am. Jealous? Not one bit. It's the cross road of the world, if you can make it here, you'll make it anywhere. Someone sang that once. Were the empire state.

New York. Tourist,business and fashion capital of the world. Fact. Not a lot of them these days. The Chrysler, the Empire, Rockefeller stand like guardians, giants of the city. Protecting its people, however even great leaders can fall. The twin towers. A taboo? More like a crying shame. Hundreds dead, hundreds mourning. I worked that day, 4am start. Tried life. Hard life. There was nothing especially special about the day? It wasn't to hot, to cloudy. Nice start. Airport runs, business men complaining the current stocks. You hear and see it all. Nothing stood out. 8.40am pick up a young couple, they want to go out of the city. Romantic mid-week break or something. \"I love you\",\"I love you more\". Back and forth the same sickening comments. Hate them kind of customers. Young love. love hah! 8.46am first plane crashes into the north tower. The mood of the streets change. The mood of my customers change. Hysteria. Destruction. Something similar to war of the worlds. Thick fog cast upon the city. Death cloud. I thought I was dead. The woman in the back screamed the man kissed her. Typical. I open my window and offer a pregnant lady and her young son a seat. They take it. Good dead done. We sit in this fog, grit, smoke. In silence. Away from the outside world. Reliving the sound of the explosion over and over again. It fell like a domino. 3 blocks away, we could see the skyline and absence of the north twin. A second plane. Sickening. BOOM. The south towers been attacked to. The first wasn't an accident. Terror. War on terror. He'd said that Some believed, now all do. The mood inside the cab changes, all eyes on me. I was born here , asia is ancestor, not my motherland. I have rights too. Brave face. Don't make eye contact.

So much death. People appear like ghosts out the fog, walking by. Grocery bags in hand. Tear staining there faces. Safe inside the taxi. I turn the radio on. News of what just happened on every station. Two of our soldiers defeated. Beyond repair. My passengers calling parents, friends. Loved ones. I have no one. I turn off my meter. Traffic is wall the wall. Should I go help? The fogs thicker. Hands white with dust from the cement residue, slam into my window. Zombies. It's like I have walked onto a Hollywood set. Lock my doors. Selfish. Maybe. Smart. Definitely. The city that was once full of life colour and offered a buzz, crumbling both with the people and the twins. Car horns. Loud. Where can I go? Silly small minded folk. News just in brooklyn bridge, closed off. Isolation. New York changed after that. People went everywhere with a rush, the buildings didn't seem as grand, as though they themselves were scared? They didn't dare shine in the sun. Everyone pulled together. To help commemorate the fallen, the wounded the hero's. Brave men and women. I didn't charge for a while. People went through to much. Lost to much. A lot more love sat in my taxi. Disaster brings you to extremes. The city was dead but more alive than ever.


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