Kathleen Turner once stole a cab from me.
This was in the nineties. It was a blustery afternoon and I was standing on the corner of Broadway and Seventy-Sixth Street. I’d snagged a cab—it was pulling up—when I heard a voice behind me say, “That’s mine.”
I turned and beheld.
She was already middle-aged and she was a stunning woman. I’d recognized her by her voice before I’d even turned around—it was that slightly slurred, somewhat Southern, honey-coated wondrousness, a half octave up from where it lives now.
“I’m c-o-o-o-ld!” Kathleen Turner said.
And to help me understand the concept of “cold,” she hugged herself and whinnied a little.
I had no problem with this. You can always find a taxi on Broadway in the seventies.
Besides, all Kathleen Turner got out of the deal was a cab; I had an anecdote.