Every time the car went over a damned bump or pothole, it went seesawing, and the glove compartment latch creaked. Suddenly it opened and everything flew out before my eyes: a yellow screwdriver, some folded paper, an insurance document, a Bic pen, and a handful of rusty bolts and screws.

He reached out his hand, ready to keep the latch from opening. Without looking at me, as if I needed an explanation, he mumbled, “The latch is broken. I should get it fixed.”

Then he turned his head towards me.

“If you want to open the window, I can give you the handle. It is so hot, son,” he said.

I put my head down and checked the door. The handle was not in its place. 

He was in his 70’s and wearing a clean white shirt as full of wrinkles as his brown neck. His shirt was not tucked in, and a couple of its buttons were left open. It was hot. His big forehead shone with perspiration. 

It was too hot. I looked at the window on my right. He had put a green screwdriver into the gusset to keep it open. I could barely get a hot airflow from it. I did not want to bother him.

“No Haj-Agha*. It's fine. Thanks. I was getting out in two blocks anyways. 

When I first got in the car, he greeted and welcomed me with a smile. When I noticed his age, I wished I could give him some money, but it was not wise. What could I say, after all? Give him charity? No, he was a decent man. But what was he doing here moving passengers? I wished he could let me drive and he himself went home to rest. But I had to get out.

“I get out on next block, Haj-Agha,” I said, turning my head towards him. 

He smiled in approval. He was patient. He seemed to be right-minded. He did not talk about politics. He was not nosy. No unnecessary word. He did not curse the world. He drove slowly and looked ahead, careless of his car about to break apart. 

Then the penny dropped. I thought, Aha, I am going to give him more for the carfare and I won’t get the change back. It was a good idea. I was happy about my idea and my generosity. 

The streetlight was yellow when we passed the cross. I took the carfare out of my pocket. I was looking at the greenback with one eye and checking out the driver with the other. I was waiting to get to the destination so that I could put the money in his hand and jump out of the car like Robin Hood to get lost in the crowd.

We passed the light. He gradually reduced speed and pulled over. I showed him the paper money. He did not move his head, but he could see the money in my hand.

“Go, son. I don’t move passengers. I was just on my way and thought to offer you a ride!” he said with a smile.

spring 2018

*A respectful title given to old men in Iran.