At different times, Jerry and Marshall both drove cabs in D.C., usually on the night shift.  Each cab had a shortwave radio to communicate with the dispatcher.  One driver couldn’t hear what another driver said, but all the cabs could hear the dispatcher.  Occasionally a driver would call in for a new assignment and the dispatcher would ask, “Where are you now?”  It seemed strange, driving at night, to suddenly hear the question, “Where are you now?” burst out of the radio, like something out of a Cocteau movie.  It seemed portentious, freighted with layers of existential meaning: in life?  It became part of our conversations, a kind of greeting, “Where are you now?”  (in life?)