Posted 2/14/01 Caught between Planes, Trains, and Automobiles and The Out of Towners Minneapolis - itís a big city. There are hundreds of cab drivers moving about in various and assorted-colored cars. This is the story of one, just one who made my Friday night adventure more than bearable, but memorable. It started about a mile before the University Ave. exit off 35W when suddenly I lost my power steering and the temperature soared to the end of the dial. I knew then I was going to be late for the evening party at the Minnesota Newspaper Convention in downtown Minneapolis. ìGet some place and stop the car,î were harsh words coming from an irritated husband in the passenger seat who admonished me for not getting a belt fixed. It wasnít the belt at all, it turned out. Tugging at the wheel I turned one corner then another and came to a stop in a dark neighborhood across the street from a business whose signage was in an entirely foreign language. It was extremely cold Friday night also, which didnít add to my hubbyís pleasure as he peered under the hood to see what was up. After extracting a part, the actual culprit in this breakdown, he suggested I move ahead a block or so to the Holiday station where we expected to park the car until the next morning. The plan was to take a cab to the hotel. The station had no room for spare vehicles, but the White Castle next door did and they agreed my car could stay there. Hubby called for a cab. One hour would be the wait. Then as he walked about outside and I began to shake from the cold inside my car, we both saw the yellow cab pull into the Holiday station to gas up. It was in my thoughts to accost this driver and beg him to take us to the hotel. Hubby must have got the thought wave first for I saw him dashing toward the cab. Cold breath came from my husband, cold breath came from the cabbie, next thing I know, weíve got a cab. The first thing I noticed about the situation was the condition of the cabís interior. Go ahead, slide into the back seat. With arms full of packages, luggage, purse, camera case and all, I squeezed in because the driverís seat was broken and lay back into my territory. On the seat beside the cabbie was a pile of papers, etc. in an open well-worn bag. I looked up at the cabbie and suddenly got the feeling I was in a John Candy film. No kidding, he was the spitting image of Candy, one of my favorite actors, but was I dreaming? He began to talk about the ìstoryî we would have to tell his boss because he was late and shouldnít have accepted us as fares. His boss? He was in the car behind us and followed us to the back parking lot of a dark apartment building somewhere off Hennepin and S.E. 4th St. We sensed there was tension in the air as the cab driver figured his daily revenue and kept reminding us of what we were to tell the other driver, who, as it happened, was the owner of the cab company. Donít worry, our driver assured us, everything will be okay, just stick to the story. As he exited the car he handed the new driver some money. We were dead, I was sure. Ah, but this new driver - what a fellow. His country of origin is Afghanistan. Heís been in America 15 years, has five children, owns the cab company and lives in Somerset, Wisc. Oh, but thereís more . . . We were nervous as we sped into the night, sailing down busy city streets toward the hotel. We didnít even look at each other, we just sat tense clutching our belongings wondering what fate had in store for us next. He began to speak in his Afghanistani accent, asking what part was broken on the car. My husband, knowing much about the mechanics of vehicles, told him what it was and immediately the driver pulled out a cell phone and with the fingers of one hand dialed up an all-night parts store and had it secured. Do you want to put it in tonight? he asked. It was nigh on to 9 p.m. He said he could get his mechanic to fix the car tonight or come back tomorrow, but then weíd have to get another cab to get back to our car and . . . Husband and I looked at each other, if it could really happen,why not? We neared the hotel where I would exit the cab toting all of our belongings and take leave of my husband who would accompany this self-confident, wheeler-dealer of a man to the parts store. ìSee you laterî was more of a question than a farewell statement, but what else could I say? Grabbing the handle of the luggage, and all that other stuff I brought along, I trudged into the front doors of this metro hotel looking more like Sandy Dennis in the Out of Towners than a capable editor of a small town paper. The cab was off in a cloud of exhaust taking my beloved with it. Would I ever see him again or my car? Notice, I put my husband first. I dragged the luggage behind me, clop, clopping it down the steps to the registration desk, bag and baggage slipping from my shaking arms. Do you want to register? Meanwhile, in the taxi, things were shaking. The part was retrieved from the St. Louis Park store, the mechanic was secured from his Lake Street home. Around corners, through yellow and red lights, the yellow beast sped to the back lot of the White Castle, with my husband in awe of what was transpiring. In five minutes my car was fixed. Money was exchanged, the mechanic was happy, the cab driver was happy, and my husband was ecstatic. You wouldnít believe how much money and time this wonderful cab driver saved us with this middle-of-the-night, on-the-spot auto repair job. The cabbie agreed to return the mechanic to his home, hubby got into my car and arrived at the company party just after the prize drawings. But he was there. Seeing him walking toward the Regency Room in one piece was a sight to behold. The whole evening was nearly unbelievable. They say you canít find caring people anywhere but in small town USA, they are wrong. Perhaps when we told the driver we were from a town of 1,200 he took pity on us. But I truly believe his compassion for a couple in trouble came deep-seated and his reaction to our dilemma was sincere. I should have known there was something special about this olive-skinned man from the first encounter in that dark parking lot behind the old apartment building. In spite of the fact that the John Candy look-alike driver felt he was in trouble with his boss for being late, his boss, this man with the foreign accent, who we thought would be admonishing his employer for being late, asked for his keys. And why did he want his keys? So he could start his (cabbie no. 1) car and get it warmed up before he ended his shift. There was something there, I should have known the rest of the night, although more adventurous than most Friday nights in East Central Minnesota, would turn out alright. If youíre ever in Minneapolis hailing a cab for a ride, be on the lookout for a rather dilapidated yellow cab with a broken driverís seat. If John Candy is not at the wheel, it might be our new friend, Bari Niaz. And if thatís the case, get in. ©Post Review