Gilbert knew me; he knew that a demonstration would teach me more than hours of instruction ever would.

I had no idea then just how much my life was to change as a result of my continued relationship with Gilbert, nor the manner in which my ‘mind’ would become fulfilled through my association with him. I'm a poet, not a mathematician.

Aug. 15, 2018 09:00
I remember looking at the antique cuckoo clock on my wall, when I heard the knock at the door. It read 9:03, the sun sign was barely up and the moon sign almost gone from view. It was a rare experience for me to pay that much attention to a timepiece, and I remember it as such. I reflexively suspected the clock to be fast rather than the person at my door to be slow for two reasons: Gilbert can be almost fanatically specific when he gives orders. (But then, he always paid well for the services rendered.) And for my part, the very reason I owned the clock was because I knew it would never keep good time. (I don’t think much of the concept of time so I never bought one of the commercial electron precision clocks.)

I opened my door to find a middle-aged man wearing an old fashioned cabby's cap and uniform. The few hairs I could see, at his temples, were dark and short cropped. His cap was tipped back away from his forehead. He had a sturdy frame, and his face was lined by years of experience. His dark eyes took me in with a measuring and comparing manner, apparently matching me to his expectations. Then he made direct eye-to-eye contact. In his hand was an envelope which he promptly held out to me.

I lifted my left eyebrow in a questioning manner. In turn, he shrugged his shoulder and gestured with the letter in his hand, as if to suggest it would be explanation enough.

I read it.

Carlos,
I wish to remind you that I have given the same specific behavioral instructions to all those whom I have contracted to serve you today.
Gilbert G. Shasta

Again, hand written on that same parchment paper; I remembered thinking, "I guess that’s important, hemmmm... what kind of game are you up to Gilbert?"

"Can you tell me what your instructions are?" I asked the cabby.

He looked at me with an oddly hurt, yet blank expression.

"Are you allowed to talk?" I asked the gentleman.

He thought for a moment, and then spoke for the first time. "Oh yeah," he shrugged. "I love to talk. I'm a people person, you know. And this is such a thrill for me. I never got a chance to drive one a these old rigs," he said gesturing towards the vehicle waiting at the curb.

I looked up and was stunned by the beauty of a popular icon. It was one of the old-style Yellow Cabs - gas powered! (You need a Social Protection Board - regionally approved permit to drive a petroleum-base powered vehicle these days! Back then a gas powered vehicle was just becoming a rare sight.) It looked brand new yet an “ethereal” ancient appearance defied explanation. Its radiant character evinced a feeling in me that it had just been time-warped straight out of the nineteen-fifties New York metropolitan area. It invoked the queer effect that I was out of my time period, not it.

Inadequately I said. "It's beautiful."

"Isn't it? Mr. Shasta gave it to me delivered on a covered trailer, like it was a trophy, or somethin such. When I asked him, all he said was he got it from a friend of the family. And when I told him that I was very interested to know its history, he said he'd get me the information as soon as he could. I mean look at it, it's seen plenty of service, and plenty of care. At first I thought it was a modified New York Cab, but I happen to know you just can’t get that musky aroma out of any cab that’s seen extended service! It's a real oddity, this one, that's for sure. But it's the most beautiful oddity I ever saw. I spent all yesterday waxing, cleaning, and shining it up. Not that it needed it. I just wanted an excuse to show it off and be around it. You know, just like a kid with a new toy. I have to say it was one of the best days of my retired life... since my kids moved out that is."

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