A man steps out onto the street and catches a taxi just as it’s going by. He gets in, and the cabbie says, “Perfect timing. You’re just like Frank.”
“Who?” the passenger asks.
“Frank Feldman,” the cabbie says. “He was a guy who did everything right, all the time. Like me coming along just when you needed a cab. Things like that always happened to Frank Feldman.”
“Well, nobody’s perfect,” the passenger says.
“Not Frank Feldman,” the cabbie replies. “He was a terrific athlete. He could’ve won a Grand Slam in tennis. He could golf with the pros. He sang like an opera baritone and danced like a Broadway star. And you should’ve heard him play piano. He was amazing.”
“Sounds like he was something special,” the passenger says.
“There’s more,” the cabbie continues. “He had a memory like a computer. He remembered everyone’s birthday. He knew all about wine — what to order, which fork to use. He could fix anything. Not like me. I change a fuse, and the whole street goes dark. But Frank Feldman could do everything right.”
“Wow,” says the passenger, “what a guy.”
“And he always knew the fastest route through traffic,” the cabbie adds. “Not like me. I’m always getting stuck. But Frank never made a mistake. And he knew how to treat a woman. He’d never talk back, even if she was wrong. His clothes were always spotless, his shoes polished. The perfect man. Nobody could measure up to Frank Feldman.”
The passenger pauses, then asks, “So how did you meet him?”
The cabbie says, “I never did. He died… and I married his wife.”
