Originally published in the S.F. Examiner
on September 26, 2019.
I rise with The City.
Atop a hill, behind the wheel of my taxi, I watch bleary-eyed through the windshield as darkness begins to succumb to the amber clouds on the eastern horizon. The neighborhood spread out below is completely still.
I admire the view for a few minutes, then rub the sleep from my eyes and drive to Philz.
Despite the allure of a San Francisco morning, this isn’t how I expected to begin my day. The night before, after getting a fare to Los Gatos from SFO around 11 p.m., I drove back on 280, since there was construction on 101 north.
During the long journey through the mountains in pitch-black night, overwhelming fatigue set in. I blasted the Beastie Boys to help me stay alert, but once the taillights in front of me began twirling like luminescent dervishes, I knew it was time to take a break before making the final stretch to Oakland, just to rest my eyes a little. I got off the freeway at San Jose and found a quiet corner to park…
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