We should have noticed something was up when a call to Yellow Cab from my friend Tracy's apartment brought a Checker cab to her doorstep. Since when are the Yellow and Checker guys even on speaking terms? But, then, headed out for a night on the town with the girls -- Tracy, Kelly, Kerry, and me -- who pays attention to details?
The front seat was broken, so we were told by the handsome, young, black cab driver; all four of us would have to squeeze into the back. We happily piled in, noisy, jostling, and giggling. As the cab pulled away, I noticed that the interior was awash in bright fluorescent lights radiating from above the front window.
"So what's with the crazy bright lights?" I asked.
"Oh, just my own security system, I don't want someone sneaking up on me in the dark," said the cabbie, who was quick to prompt a conversation. "Out for a big night on the town?" he prodded.
"Of course," we responded.
Before long the questions started getting more personal: "are you all single?"
"Not this one," Tracy declared as she pointed to me.
"How long have you been married?" he asked.
"One year," I said.
"Happy?" he asked.
"Very," I said.
"She eloped," Kelly volunteered on my behalf.
"You eloped!" he exclaimed. "That's so cool."
" Tell him the story," Tracy chimed in.
"No no, it's such a long story," I protested.
"Who cares, I love good stories," said the cabbie.
It is a good story, I have to admit, and friends are always pumping me to retell it. And truth be told, I do love retelling it. I described how my husband's and my romantic adventure began when we crossed paths with each other at Dulles airport. You see, we had been engaged for a while, and then briefly disengaged. So over a late-day airport drink, Eric proposed that we forget about engagements and just elope instead. Europe seemed like a romantic spot and so we were off. We were too late for a transatlantic flight from Dulles so we cabbed to National, flew to JFK, cabbed to La Guardia, and just barely caught the last plane to London. Of course, we knew nothing of "posting banns, " the English version of a two-week waiting period, which did complicate matters. So we ended up returning after a lovely, hectic weekend to the courthouse in Leesburg, Va. -- about ten minutes away from our starting point at Dulles -- where the only thing we had to do to get married was swear that we weren't brother and sister.
At every point in the story, the curious cabbie plied me with questions. "What did he say to you in the airport?" "How did you feel when that happened? . . ." Caught up in telling all, I didn't realize we were driving all over Washington in a very roundabout route to our destination. Tracy did question the cab driver's rather erratic navigational skills.
"It won't cost you any more," he reassured us.
Just as I had gotten through the grand finale, we arrived. Purses were opening when our friendly cabbie turned around and calmly started reciting a prepared script: He was working with HBO on a "documentary" series called Taxicab Confessions. He was certain they would love to use my story. In fact, we could all be on TV if I would just sign this release. Collectively, we'd get $ 500, and the cab ride was free!
We all laughed nervously. Could this guy be a kook? Then Kelly pointed to the front window. "Hey, there's the hidden camera," cleverly concealed by a cheesy flower decal. It all clicked -- the " security lights," the "broken front seat." This was for real, and I had been duped.
For a split second, as I looked at my starry-eyed friends, I thought that maybe this wasn't so bad. Maybe we would be discovered! But wait. Who said I ever wanted to be discovered telling all on HBO?
While I was struggling with the temptations of fleeting fame, out of nowhere (actually, out of a car that had been tailing us all the way) came Amber, HBO's producer. She popped up in the window and began to plead with me. "It is such a romantic story," she sighed dramatically. "Don't you want 5 million people hear it?"
Yes, the story may be romantic, but on reflection I found that I really did not want to join the undignified ranks of the talk-show freaks haunting the sets of Sally, Oprah, Maury, and all the rest. They finally let me go when I promised to consider the offer overnight. Sure enough, Sunday afternoon Amber called. By then my husband was manning the phones, and her powers of persuasion got her nowhere.
So the alleged 5 million viewers will miss out on at least one honest story dishonestly obtained. These days we talk so much about the invasion of privacy visited on the rich and famous. But what about the rest of us?
JENNIFER L. FELTEN