I was at rock bottom: homeless, broke, living on gas station coffee and whatever tips I could scrape together. Then this well-dressed stranger got into my cab, looked at me in the rearview mirror, and went pale. «My God,» he whispered, «you look exactly like my brother. But he’s been missing for 25 years.»
Six months ago, I had a life that looked good on paper. A house in the suburbs, a wife who smiled in photos, two kids who called me «Dad,» and a job managing a small construction company that paid the bills and then some. I wasn’t rich, but I was stable. I was somebody.
Then it all fell apart in the space of two weeks. First, the company went under. Our biggest client defaulted on payments, and we couldn’t cover payroll. I had to lay off twelve good men who’d worked for me for years, then lock the doors and hand the keys to the bank. Twenty years of building something, gone.
My wife, Jessica, took the news about as well as you’d expect. «How could you not see this coming?» she demanded, pacing our kitchen like a caged animal. «How could you be so careless with our future?» I tried to explain about the client, about the economy, about how these things happen in construction, but Jessica had already made up her mind.
Within a week, she’d filed for divorce and moved back to her mother’s with our kids, Ella, 8, and Ricky, 6. «I can’t do this anymore, Ezra,» she said as she packed their clothes. «I can’t live with the uncertainty. The kids need stability.»
«I’ll find another job,» I promised. «I’ll figure this out.»
«When? How? You’re 42 years old with no college degree and a failed business. Who’s going to hire you?» The words hit like physical blows, but the worst part was that she wasn’t wrong. I’d built my entire career on one company, one skillset, one network that had just evaporated. I was starting over at an age when most people were thinking about retirement planning.
The house went into foreclosure two months later. I moved into a studio apartment that smelled of cigarettes and broken dreams, but even that became too expensive when the unemployment benefits ran out and my job search kept hitting dead ends. That’s how I ended up driving a taxi.
I’d bought an old Crown Victoria from a guy who was getting out of the business. The yellow paint had faded to the color of old mustard, with 200,000 miles on the odometer and a passenger seat held together with duct tape. It wasn’t much, but it was mine, and it could earn money.
The taxi company took 60% of my fares, which left me with barely enough to cover gas, food, and the weekly motel room I’d been renting. When even that became too expensive, I started sleeping in the car. Three months of that routine had worn me down to nothing. I’d shower at truck stops, brush my teeth in gas station bathrooms, and try to look presentable enough that passengers wouldn’t complain.
My clothes were wrinkled, my beard was getting scraggly, and I could see the judgment in people’s eyes when they got into my cab. I was invisible in the way that homeless people become invisible: a problem society would rather not acknowledge, a reminder of how quickly everything can fall apart.
The morning I picked up Logan, I’d been awake since 4 a.m., parked outside the airport waiting for the early flights to land. I’d made maybe $30 in fares, enough for gas and a cup of coffee, but not much else. My back ached from sleeping in the driver’s seat, and I was starting to wonder how much longer I could keep this up.
That’s when the call came in: «Pick up at the Marriott downtown, heading to the airport.» The Marriott was the kind of hotel I used to stay at when I traveled for business, back when I had business to travel for. Now I pulled up to the valet stand feeling like an intruder, my beat-up taxi looking shabby next to the luxury cars and town cars that usually serve this clientele.
The passenger was waiting by the curb, checking his phone. He was in his mid-40s, with an expensive suit, a leather briefcase, and the kind of confident posture that comes from never having to worry about where your next meal is coming from.
«Airport?» I asked as he slid into the back seat.
«Actually, change of plans. Take me to 1500 Market Street, please.»
I pulled away from the curb and glanced in the rearview mirror to check traffic. That’s when I saw him, staring at me with an expression I couldn’t read. Shock, maybe? Or recognition?
«Is everything okay?» I asked.
He didn’t answer immediately, just kept staring like he’d seen a ghost. Finally, he leaned forward. «I’m sorry, this is going to sound strange, but what’s your name?»
«Ezra,» I said, keeping my eyes on the road. «Ezra. Well, just Ezra.»
«Just Ezra, no last name?» I glanced in the mirror again; his face had gone pale.
«Look, if you’re uncomfortable, I can call another cab.»
«No, no, it’s not that. It’s just… you look exactly like someone I used to know. The resemblance is uncanny.»
I’d heard that before. People sometimes said I looked familiar, that I reminded them of someone. It happens when you have one of those faces: not particularly distinctive, but somehow universal. «Yeah, I get that a lot. One of those faces, I guess.»
«What’s your last name?»
«I don’t know.» The words came out before I could stop them. I usually avoided this conversation, but something about his intensity made me answer honestly.
«You don’t know your own last name?»
I pulled up to a red light and turned to face him. «I was in an accident 25 years ago. Head injury. Lost most of my memories before that day. The hospital called me John Doe, but I chose Ezra when I got out. Always liked the sound of it.»
«You were—» He was staring at me like I’d just told him I was from Mars. «Twenty-five years ago? How old were you?»
«Seventeen, according to the doctors. Why?»
The light turned green, but I didn’t move. Cars started honking behind us. «My brother,» he said quietly. «My younger brother disappeared 25 years ago. He was 17. And you—» He shook his head. «You look exactly like him, like he would look now.»
