There are so many elements of individuality. So many little things that make you different from I, and vice versa. And such differences in our tastes and perceptions and needs and wants.
Individuality in Humanity.
A few years ago, I hailed a cab, like I often do. I said ‘Hello’, as I always do. I went to my email to figure out where I was going, which I usually must do.
My cab driver asked me if I was going to work, and I said yes.
“If you are going to work, how do you not know where you are going?” he asked.
“I am an actor, and I am going to record a voice thingy and I’ve never been to the studio. I am always running around to places I’ve never been before. It’s kinda part of my job.” I responded.
“Funny thing,”he quipped. “Thats kinda part of my job too.”
He asked me about voice work, and said he liked my voice. I thought the conversation had ended there, but he began to tell me a story.
This is one of my favorite stories. I will quote it to the best of my memory.
“I like voices,” he said. “I have a real ear for them and it is a very sensitive thing for me. I picked up a woman at Yonge and Queen. Years ago, this was, 18, 19 years ago. She was with two friends. Neither of them were particularly attractive, although they weren’t unattractive. And her girlfriends were very chatty. After a few minutes, she spoke. She had the most beautiful voice I had ever heard. Low, clear, and strong… even the words she chose and the tone. She was so direct. It was the sexiest sound. I fell in love with her. I fell in love with her because of her voice and I dropped them off and I never heard her again. And I think about her almost every day.”
I didn’t quite know how to react. We pulled up at my stop but I stayed in the cab for a minute or two, and the cabbie and I discussed his Love. I was almost creeped out by his admission, intimidated by his honesty, but I think a little part of me fell in love with him. I fell in love with him because of his honesty but I got out of the cab and I never saw him again. And I think about his story almost every day.
That woman will never know the effect that she had on that man. The stamp she left. I wonder if her husband or partner or lover could fathom that there is a man who thinks of her voice with such passion and esteem. Maybe her lover doesn’t really care too much for voices, and loves instead the smell of her hair or her delicate wrists.
If we all knew how many people thought so strongly of us, maybe it would stifle that beauty. Maybe that would be the apex of being human.