Before Tisko came into my life, I hadn’t had much luck with cab drivers.

I grew up in a small town and never had to rely on public transportation. My mode of travel was either car or pink flamingo bike. If you were running late, you either drove faster or peddled more viciously.

So the first time I ever tried to catch a bus in Syracuse, I missed it. Because everything works in “Sarah” time until proven otherwise. To me, 1:05 meant “Ehhh, 1:06, 1:07 when I get there. The bus driver must know I’m coming. He’ll wait.”

He didn’t. In this thing called the real world, 1:05 means 1:05, and the bus driver wasn’t personally concerned about where I needed to go that day.

When, from a distance, I saw the bus doors starting to close, I immediately started to run. Panting, I stopped at the bus stop, watching my ride slowly fade into the horizon.

The cloudless sky instantly turned to rain, mascara streamed down my face. I cursed the heavens, then a car ran over a deep puddle, splashing me and ruining my red suede shoes as Patrick Swayze sang, “She’s Like the Wind.”

“Do you need a ride, miss?” said a friendly voice, jarring me out of my 80s movie fantasy. It was a man sitting in a cab with a big smile. The side of the car read: Tisko Taxi.

Realizing this was the only way I was going to get to my destination in time, I got into his cab.

But previous cab rides told me to be wary of the drivers.

I’ve sat helpless as a cab driver screamed derogatory words at the man who cut him off. Maybe he thought English wasn’t my first language, or perhaps there was some newly discovered scientific principle that stated sound moves only forward, not backward.

Another time, a cab driver and I got into an argument about the “morality” of homosexuality. To be fair, one of us had consumed a few drinks. (Obviously, not me. That would be illegal.)

This cab driver was different.

Accepting I would never make a bus, Tisko became my primary set of wheels. There are two drivers I get almost exclusively: Mr. Tisko and Mr. Tisko’s Friend.

You may think the relationship between Tisko Taxi and myself started too seriously. I can tell you confidently that both of us don’t care.

The first time Mr. Tisko told me he loved me was the second time I rode in his cab. On my ex-Brownie’s honor, I swear on a box of Samoas, thatas I exited the cab he said, “I love you, Sarah!” Before I could stop myself, I answered, “I love you too!”

I was a having platonic love affair with Tisko and his drivers, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

Once, Mr. Tisko’s Friend asked where I was from.

“Connecticut,” I told him, wincing. I’m not ashamed of my home state, but I’m sure every time I tell people, their first thought is: “Well, that explains a lot.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Mr. Tisko’s Friend said. “When I visit you in Connecticut, you can drive me around!” he said.

I promised I would. Fair seemed fair.

Things started getting heated around Christmas time. When Mr. Tisko’s Friend dropped me off at the bus stop before Christmas break, he called after me, “You are my beautiful Christmas angel!”

No one has ever called me a Christmas angel before. I almost started crying because it was the nicest thing anyone had said to me all week.

Now, whenever I call, they know my number and not my name. But it doesn’t bother me. I figure if I keep calling and keep tipping well, they’ll think of me more as a best friend and less of a best customer.

Published on February 20, 2013 at 10:33 pm

Contact Sarah: seschust@syr.edu