First Time

Hey, it's Sunday Morning.

I remember landing at LaGuardia just past midnight in the early '90s, returning from one of my many work trips to Chicago. The terminal buzzed with that half-asleep New York energy: dimmed lights, mumbled instructions, a carousel of strangers with carry-ons.

I got into the back of a yellow cab, slid across the cracked vinyl seat, and gave the address I'd given dozens of times before:

"34–17, 30th Street, please."

The driver turned, smiled wide—one of those big, toothy, unmistakably warm smiles—and raised a finger, like he was about to share a secret.

"*First time," he said.

I was too tired to correct him. Too curious to interrupt whatever story he was about to tell.

Because maybe it was the first time.

The first time I noticed what I was returning to.

The first time I heard those numbers and saw a home, not just a habit.

The first time I let the moment linger, without rushing through it like another transaction in another late-night cab.

Funny how strangers catch us in the act of arriving before we do. One raised hand can pull you out of autopilot.

We pulled out of the airport. The city began to take shape around us—billboards, highway signs, that deep blue night you only see from the backseat of a cab.

And I realized something simple but true: He didn't know where we were going. Not really.

So I leaned forward and said,

"Take Grand Central towards the Triborough. Exit at Hoyt Avenue, before the bridge. Make the first left under the train tracks. I'll guide you the rest of the way."

There was a pause, a look in the rearview mirror, a nod. And a low, "Okay, boss."

You only get that particular kind of agreement in New York—equal parts trust and surrender.

We drove in silence, the engine humming, the meter clicking. Two immigrants making our way through the city. But this time, I had power—small as it was.

I was the one who knew the way.

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The phrase "first time" came from a story shared with me by a dear friend. Everything else—including the vinyl seat, the address, the guiding, the power, is mine. And now yours too.
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