Letters
Lunch with Imran
Imran picked me up right on time. Noon.
I was flying to Brazil for Fishbird – Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend. Our client had booked our flights, and we were leaving out of JFK, a 2 hour one-way trip in normal situations. I had no idea how long it would take on the back end of a holiday. So I’d given myself plenty of time. The flight wasn’t until 6:30pm.
I don’t usually chat on long rides. But I felt like playing it different on this ride. It felt more interesting to engage for 2 hours than throw on my headphones and listen to music.
Imran was from Pakistan. That was the answer to my first question. He’d been in the US for 3 years. He was here with his son, Wahab, who was also a driver for the car service I was using.
We got into sports. I don’t know much about Pakistan, other than they’re good at Cricket and the language is Urdu. Turns out Imran was a great cricket bowler in his day. Kids used to flip a coin to figure out which team Imran would play for when choosing sides. He was a good snooker player too. His favorite player was Ronnie O’Sullivan. I had read a fascinating piece on Ronnie in The New Yorker years ago, about how he was otherworldly on a snooker table. I’d watched his videos, his 147s. He truly was a magician. Imran was enamored by him. I was too.
He walked me through the rules of cricket. I walked him through the rules of baseball. He didn’t understand why baseball hitters sometimes let a ball go by, so I talked to him about strikes and balls.
Imran had worked in Saudi Arabia for 7 years. He owned a grocery store there, with 61 employees and 8000 items. The business had gone under. He had been in real estate in Pakistan after that. His wife and two other children were still there. In Islamabad. We talked about the weather, the mountains. I guess I’d forgotten K2 was in Pakistan. He said the weather in Islamabad was about 90% the same as NYC.
He lived in Queens. We talked food. He got a kick out of the fact that I enjoyed Indian food. That I knew the names of some dishes. Aloo saag, dal, masala chai. He told me there was a Sikh restaurant a couple of minutes away from JFK with a wonderful aloo saag if I wanted to try it before I got to JFK. “Next time,” I said.
We talked families. Multi-generational families living together in Pakistan. He had lived with his brother and his family before moving here. He spoke of the problems that sometimes showed up with mothers-in-law, and how women had very good memories. They would tell you about something you did 5 years ago that still bothered them.
I told him that families got into arguments in the US too. This surprised him. He said he had assumed that most people in the West don’t bother too much about the past. They always seem to be looking forward. Humans are the same everywhere, we agreed. We look back. We look forward. But we rarely look right here, right now.
We talked about his work. His first job in the US was in a bodega. Working the register. He quit after 2 weeks. “I had to stand for 10 hours straight, and my feet would start to burn and they wouldn’t let me sit. In Pakistan, if no one is in the store, you can sit on a chair and relax. It was too much for me.” He delivered lost airplane luggage after that. His favorite time to deliver was early morning, between 1-3am, when no one was on the roads. He’d drive to Jersey, to Pennsylvania. He called the forests “jungles”. The jungles of NJ and PA scared him: there were no people, only trees. And animals. He was worried most about snakes. He’d never seen a snake in the US, but he used to wear tracksuits and sandals when he delivered luggage, and he always worried a snake would bite his feet. I told him not to worry about the NJ snakes.
He was scared delivering luggage at night. One time, during Halloween season, a skeleton sitting on a front porch had made him run back to his car. Another time, the sound of in-ground sprinklers coming on had sounded like the hissing of evil at his back. Imran was a large man with a soft face. Black glasses. Jet black hair. Black beard. A man you would not think to ever mess with. And yet a gentle giant.
The Belt Parkway was bumper to bumper. I was glad I had left my house so early. I would still have hours to kill at the gate, but that was fine. “If you want to try that aloo saag, it’s only a couple of minutes away from where we are now.”
To date, I haven’t been the kind of person to complete side quests while in transit to the airport. But when Imran brought up the invitation again, it felt like yes was the natural answer.
He closed out my ride on his phone. For all intents and purposes, I was now rogue in a Chevy Suburban with a guy I met 2 hours ago. I’d be lying if I said there weren’t some bad thoughts careening around the back of my head. But there was a much stronger voice of trust. Of warmth. Of curiosity. Both about Imran and about myself. I was leaving my own map of experience. The world felt mysterious and wide.
It was a 6 minute drive to Sat Guru. Another chauffeur was standing beneath the awning, smoking a cigarette, his Suburban double parked. On the corner, a man was picking through the trash.
We walked in together. Pakistani music videos were playing on a TV in the corner. There were a lot of tables, mostly empty. Behind the counter, 2 young women. Imran greeted them and ordered aloo saag. “Do you want corn or wheat bread?” He asked me. “What would you suggest?” “The wheat is softer, let’s do that. How many pieces? 4? 5?” I said 4.
We sat down at a table and waited for our food. He took a call from Wahab. He was waiting at JFK for a client to land. Imran seemed happy to be sitting there with me, spending time across the table. When he got off the phone, I thanked him for bringing me. “Do you take some of your other clients here when you drive them?”
He laughed. “I have never taken any client to a restaurant before. You are the first!” It was an answer that was both unsurprising and also illuminating. Something about our conversation over the last 2 hours had made him want to share a part of his world with me, for a brief moment. I felt honored, and told him so. “You are my guest today, and having lunch with you is a gift from God.”
I don’t know how often you eat with strangers, but for me, it’s just about never. And in that space, waiting for our aloo saag to arrive, something spiritual was occurring for me. In front of me was a spiritual man, buying me lunch. Maybe I was spiritual to him.
The aloo saag came. I watched how he ate it, then did the same. I asked him what things were on the plate. He told me. He asked me if I wanted masala chai – sure. He got up and ordered 2 small chais.
I sat there, dipping my bread into the aloo saag and yogurt, feeling the wealth of a connection. One that I knew was meant just for this day, which made it all the more rich. He offered me his last piece of bread when he saw I had none left. It was on my plate. He looked very happy. I offered we split it, and ripped it in half. His smile widened. “Splitting bread is a form of love. If I did not know you were white, I would think you were Pakistani!”
More bread came. We split that too. We drank the hot masala chai. It was grey and raining outside. I felt relaxed. Like I was hanging with someone I’d known for awhile. I offered to pay, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “We are off the clock, and we are just spending some time together. Thank you for this time. I am happy to be here with you.”
We got back in the SUV. I asked him if I could tip him through the app, even though he’d closed out the ride. He said he did not want a tip from me. I asked him if I could request him again for future rides. He said no, the app didn’t work like that. I realized somewhere along the way, I’d become attached to Imran. I wanted the connection to continue. He was at peace letting it be.
I was trying to repay a man who didn’t want repayment, because he felt like he had been given the gift today, not me.
“Thank you for spending time with me. No one has time anymore. You gave me your time today. I will remember this for the rest of my life.”
It was a deep cut. I told him the same. Maybe that’s the thing about the best gift. Each person walks away believing they received the gift. There is no giver to point to.
We pulled up to Terminal 8. Cars were everywhere. I told him I could get out and walk from where we were. He said okay, put the SUV in park, and got out. I got out too. He came around the back of the car and offered his hand. “Thank you, Mark. Thank you for this day.” I shook his hand and gave him a hug he wasn’t expecting. And then I turned and he turned. And we were gone. But together forever.
Mark
Lunch with Imran
Imran picked me up right on time. Noon.
I was flying to Brazil for Fishbird – Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend. Our client had booked our flights, and we were leaving out of JFK, a 2 hour one-way trip in normal situations. I had no idea how long it would take on the back end of a holiday. So I’d given myself plenty of time. The flight wasn’t until 6:30pm.
I don’t usually chat on long rides. But I felt like playing it different on this ride. It felt more interesting to engage for 2 hours than throw on my headphones and listen to music.
Imran was from Pakistan. That was the answer to my first question. He’d been in the US for 3 years. He was here with his son, Wahab, who was also a driver for the car service I was using.
We got into sports. I don’t know much about Pakistan, other than they’re good at Cricket and the language is Urdu. Turns out Imran was a great cricket bowler in his day. Kids used to flip a coin to figure out which team Imran would play for when choosing sides. He was a good snooker player too. His favorite player was Ronnie O’Sullivan. I had read a fascinating piece on Ronnie in The New Yorker years ago, about how he was otherworldly on a snooker table. I’d watched his videos, his 147s. He truly was a magician. Imran was enamored by him. I was too.
He walked me through the rules of cricket. I walked him through the rules of baseball. He didn’t understand why baseball hitters sometimes let a ball go by, so I talked to him about strikes and balls.
Imran had worked in Saudi Arabia for 7 years. He owned a grocery store there, with 61 employees and 8000 items. The business had gone under. He had been in real estate in Pakistan after that. His wife and two other children were still there. In Islamabad. We talked about the weather, the mountains. I guess I’d forgotten K2 was in Pakistan. He said the weather in Islamabad was about 90% the same as NYC.
He lived in Queens. We talked food. He got a kick out of the fact that I enjoyed Indian food. That I knew the names of some dishes. Aloo saag, dal, masala chai. He told me there was a Sikh restaurant a couple of minutes away from JFK with a wonderful aloo saag if I wanted to try it before I got to JFK. “Next time,” I said.
We talked families. Multi-generational families living together in Pakistan. He had lived with his brother and his family before moving here. He spoke of the problems that sometimes showed up with mothers-in-law, and how women had very good memories. They would tell you about something you did 5 years ago that still bothered them.
I told him that families got into arguments in the US too. This surprised him. He said he had assumed that most people in the West don’t bother too much about the past. They always seem to be looking forward. Humans are the same everywhere, we agreed. We look back. We look forward. But we rarely look right here, right now.
We talked about his work. His first job in the US was in a bodega. Working the register. He quit after 2 weeks. “I had to stand for 10 hours straight, and my feet would start to burn and they wouldn’t let me sit. In Pakistan, if no one is in the store, you can sit on a chair and relax. It was too much for me.” He delivered lost airplane luggage after that. His favorite time to deliver was early morning, between 1-3am, when no one was on the roads. He’d drive to Jersey, to Pennsylvania. He called the forests “jungles”. The jungles of NJ and PA scared him: there were no people, only trees. And animals. He was worried most about snakes. He’d never seen a snake in the US, but he used to wear tracksuits and sandals when he delivered luggage, and he always worried a snake would bite his feet. I told him not to worry about the NJ snakes.
He was scared delivering luggage at night. One time, during Halloween season, a skeleton sitting on a front porch had made him run back to his car. Another time, the sound of in-ground sprinklers coming on had sounded like the hissing of evil at his back. Imran was a large man with a soft face. Black glasses. Jet black hair. Black beard. A man you would not think to ever mess with. And yet a gentle giant.
The Belt Parkway was bumper to bumper. I was glad I had left my house so early. I would still have hours to kill at the gate, but that was fine. “If you want to try that aloo saag, it’s only a couple of minutes away from where we are now.”
To date, I haven’t been the kind of person to complete side quests while in transit to the airport. But when Imran brought up the invitation again, it felt like yes was the natural answer.
He closed out my ride on his phone. For all intents and purposes, I was now rogue in a Chevy Suburban with a guy I met 2 hours ago. I’d be lying if I said there weren’t some bad thoughts careening around the back of my head. But there was a much stronger voice of trust. Of warmth. Of curiosity. Both about Imran and about myself. I was leaving my own map of experience. The world felt mysterious and wide.
It was a 6 minute drive to Sat Guru. Another chauffeur was standing beneath the awning, smoking a cigarette, his Suburban double parked. On the corner, a man was picking through the trash.
We walked in together. Pakistani music videos were playing on a TV in the corner. There were a lot of tables, mostly empty. Behind the counter, 2 young women. Imran greeted them and ordered aloo saag. “Do you want corn or wheat bread?” He asked me. “What would you suggest?” “The wheat is softer, let’s do that. How many pieces? 4? 5?” I said 4.
We sat down at a table and waited for our food. He took a call from Wahab. He was waiting at JFK for a client to land. Imran seemed happy to be sitting there with me, spending time across the table. When he got off the phone, I thanked him for bringing me. “Do you take some of your other clients here when you drive them?”
He laughed. “I have never taken any client to a restaurant before. You are the first!” It was an answer that was both unsurprising and also illuminating. Something about our conversation over the last 2 hours had made him want to share a part of his world with me, for a brief moment. I felt honored, and told him so. “You are my guest today, and having lunch with you is a gift from God.”
I don’t know how often you eat with strangers, but for me, it’s just about never. And in that space, waiting for our aloo saag to arrive, something spiritual was occurring for me. In front of me was a spiritual man, buying me lunch. Maybe I was spiritual to him.
The aloo saag came. I watched how he ate it, then did the same. I asked him what things were on the plate. He told me. He asked me if I wanted masala chai – sure. He got up and ordered 2 small chais.
I sat there, dipping my bread into the aloo saag and yogurt, feeling the wealth of a connection. One that I knew was meant just for this day, which made it all the more rich. He offered me his last piece of bread when he saw I had none left. It was on my plate. He looked very happy. I offered we split it, and ripped it in half. His smile widened. “Splitting bread is a form of love. If I did not know you were white, I would think you were Pakistani!”
More bread came. We split that too. We drank the hot masala chai. It was grey and raining outside. I felt relaxed. Like I was hanging with someone I’d known for awhile. I offered to pay, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “We are off the clock, and we are just spending some time together. Thank you for this time. I am happy to be here with you.”
We got back in the SUV. I asked him if I could tip him through the app, even though he’d closed out the ride. He said he did not want a tip from me. I asked him if I could request him again for future rides. He said no, the app didn’t work like that. I realized somewhere along the way, I’d become attached to Imran. I wanted the connection to continue. He was at peace letting it be.
I was trying to repay a man who didn’t want repayment, because he felt like he had been given the gift today, not me.
“Thank you for spending time with me. No one has time anymore. You gave me your time today. I will remember this for the rest of my life.”
It was a deep cut. I told him the same. Maybe that’s the thing about the best gift. Each person walks away believing they received the gift. There is no giver to point to.
We pulled up to Terminal 8. Cars were everywhere. I told him I could get out and walk from where we were. He said okay, put the SUV in park, and got out. I got out too. He came around the back of the car and offered his hand. “Thank you, Mark. Thank you for this day.” I shook his hand and gave him a hug he wasn’t expecting. And then I turned and he turned. And we were gone. But together forever.
Mark
December 22, 2025
December 22, 2025
December 22, 2025
It Happened
I think it really happened.
I’m not sure it happened but if it didn’t happen I wish it happened.
How do I know if it happened or if I imagined it happened?
So how have you been? It has been so long. I believe this happened. Did it happen?
It was the time when we went to that place, I can’t remember the name.
We had the best time. We sat at the bar. It was a full rectangle bar so we could see people across from us. We drank Budweiser in a bottle. Ate linguine and clam sauce and wild chicken with black onions.
Peggy was the “waitress.” She looked like Marilyn Monroe. She was the girlfriend of the owner. The “owner” but the place was not in his name because he had a criminal record for being a bookie.
The bartender was his son. His name was Mike. He liked to wind up the monkey with the tambourines and put it on the bar in front of us. You flirted. I watched.
Frank Sinatra was always playing on the jukebox. And Jimmy Roselli, a local singer who “made it.”
Mike the bartender was a wannabe mobster. He drove a Cadillac.
You went on a date. I didn’t go as the third wheel.You decided he wasn’t rich enough for you.
We went back often. We had linguine and clam sauce and wild chicken with black onions.
Did this happen? I can taste that linguine.
I love you.
P.S. It was DeMartino’s Lounge. Tell me this really happened.
Meg
It Happened
I think it really happened.
I’m not sure it happened but if it didn’t happen I wish it happened.
How do I know if it happened or if I imagined it happened?
So how have you been? It has been so long. I believe this happened. Did it happen?
It was the time when we went to that place, I can’t remember the name.
We had the best time. We sat at the bar. It was a full rectangle bar so we could see people across from us. We drank Budweiser in a bottle. Ate linguine and clam sauce and wild chicken with black onions.
Peggy was the “waitress.” She looked like Marilyn Monroe. She was the girlfriend of the owner. The “owner” but the place was not in his name because he had a criminal record for being a bookie.
The bartender was his son. His name was Mike. He liked to wind up the monkey with the tambourines and put it on the bar in front of us. You flirted. I watched.
Frank Sinatra was always playing on the jukebox. And Jimmy Roselli, a local singer who “made it.”
Mike the bartender was a wannabe mobster. He drove a Cadillac.
You went on a date. I didn’t go as the third wheel.You decided he wasn’t rich enough for you.
We went back often. We had linguine and clam sauce and wild chicken with black onions.
Did this happen? I can taste that linguine.
I love you.
P.S. It was DeMartino’s Lounge. Tell me this really happened.
Meg
April 24, 2025
April 24, 2025
April 24, 2025
Beautifully Lost
Mark asked Meg to write a letter for the site, but I intercepted the request. It’s funny because people ask Meg to do things, but what I know is Meg doesn’t do anything. At least, I don’t want her to.
That’s been my goal since the day I met her, March 10, 1998. I committed to her being free, without any obligation or job. And yet, it seems that every day I’m faced with someone who wants to give her something to do. Now, you might say that I took on this letter because I wanted to have mine be the first on the site. It’s true: there’s a part of me that feels that way. But what I said first about taking care of Meg, about making sure she doesn’t do anything, is the main reason I’m writing this.
This morning, as I do almost every morning for the last 27 years, I went to Meg’s house. I could express where she was emotionally – she was confronted. For most of her life, she’s been operating by controlling things and getting jobs done or making sure that people are getting jobs done. But now she’s in a new relationship, a beautiful relationship, where that doesn’t fly. She’s in a place she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know her schedule. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.
“I’m lost,” she said.
This is not an uncommon phrase for her when she’s in a bad place. In fact, we’re both in tough emotional places often. But it is common that we get to a great place every time we get together.
I told her she was “beautifully lost,” and as she usually does, she picked up her phone and wrote down what I’d just said.
Beautifully lost.
I went on to explain: in this day and age, we’re never lost. We have technology, GPS, texts, emails, social media, Life360. A connected world tracking us 24/7. The time of being a child, playing outside, biking around on great adventures, getting lost, was over.
Until now.
This beautiful relationship has you beautifully lost.
Let go and enjoy the ride.
Jason
Beautifully Lost
Mark asked Meg to write a letter for the site, but I intercepted the request. It’s funny because people ask Meg to do things, but what I know is Meg doesn’t do anything. At least, I don’t want her to.
That’s been my goal since the day I met her, March 10, 1998. I committed to her being free, without any obligation or job. And yet, it seems that every day I’m faced with someone who wants to give her something to do. Now, you might say that I took on this letter because I wanted to have mine be the first on the site. It’s true: there’s a part of me that feels that way. But what I said first about taking care of Meg, about making sure she doesn’t do anything, is the main reason I’m writing this.
This morning, as I do almost every morning for the last 27 years, I went to Meg’s house. I could express where she was emotionally – she was confronted. For most of her life, she’s been operating by controlling things and getting jobs done or making sure that people are getting jobs done. But now she’s in a new relationship, a beautiful relationship, where that doesn’t fly. She’s in a place she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know her schedule. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.
“I’m lost,” she said.
This is not an uncommon phrase for her when she’s in a bad place. In fact, we’re both in tough emotional places often. But it is common that we get to a great place every time we get together.
I told her she was “beautifully lost,” and as she usually does, she picked up her phone and wrote down what I’d just said.
Beautifully lost.
I went on to explain: in this day and age, we’re never lost. We have technology, GPS, texts, emails, social media, Life360. A connected world tracking us 24/7. The time of being a child, playing outside, biking around on great adventures, getting lost, was over.
Until now.
This beautiful relationship has you beautifully lost.
Let go and enjoy the ride.
Jason
April 22, 2025
April 22, 2025
April 22, 2025
