I listened to the lazy sounding 1930s music as it rang out, carefree on the radio. You know, the one where the clarinet solos throughout, and the piano clunks the solid 4/4 rhythm with spurts of high, tinkling 64 th notes scaling chromatic riffs. The drums use brush sticks and you can still hear the static from the record needle. It’s the kind of music that would play if you were going to swing on a rope in slow motion, from a tree into the muddy, cool waters of the local creek. Only today, I wasn't giggling and drinking lemonade in the sunshine, I was clenching my knees with white knuckles, gasping with fear, and squeezing my eyes shut. As the taxi drove down Flatbush Avenue, I felt as though I was on a runaway roller coaster trying to dodge small children and large oak trees. The driver shot in and out of the two-lane street, honking at pedestrians, merging lanes, and running lights. He was strangely at ease as he drove however, unlike me who is used to somewhat driving the spe