Irv Leavitt

Sam the Salesman kept up to three mistresses at a time. But he had ethics.

If he only had one mistress, he told me, he was more likely to get attached, and that would be unfair to his wife, he said.

You may think his logic is less than perfect, and you may have a point. I told him that, but he just shrugged and looked out the window.

I wound up knowing Sam’s personal business when I was a young cabdriver, and he was a regular rider. I drove him to his assignations.

I tried hard to avoid meeting his wife. It was bad enough to be providing Sam with the convenient transportation that allowed him to cheat on her. But if we met, I would be actively involved in the betrayal of someone I knew, and taking money for it, to boot.

The day she ran out of the house with his forgotten briefcase would be the last day I picked him up. I didn’t have to tell him.

“It’s been nice knowing you,” he said as I pulled away from the curb.

Sam’s story came to mind recently when the eccentric but charming actor Jeff Goldblum got in big trouble for saying that if asked, he would do a movie with Woody Allen, who has been accused of various nefarious things, which have somehow never caused him much of a problem in court. Goldblum said he likes and admires Allen, and won’t likely change his mind unless somebody proves something.

Immediately, there were widespread promises to end Goldblum’s career. There were also some weak attempts to find some personal dirt on him to nail up his coffin.

Basically, many people are condemning Goldblum not because he’s bad, but because he’s willing to work with someone who’s bad. Or said to be bad, if you prefer.

If we think that attitude is reasonable, then maybe I should have had to turn in my chauffer’s license for the crime of taking Sam to see his paramours.

Some would agree. But if they do, then they might keep this in mind: Most of the people I picked up in the wee hours were doing things that their parents would not have approved of.

Not some. Most.

Many times, they were closemouthed, so I could only surmise what these customers’ business was about.

But you learn to see patterns. Who’s doing drug deals, meeting working girls, coming back from dice games. Who’s stealing her boyfriend’s stereo, hocking his parents’ silver, picking up a little weaponry. Who’s bailing out a guy who would be better off locked up, who hasn’t taken their medication for a week or so, and who’s selling something that doesn’t look like their property.

I took almost all of them, with the exception of pimps. If I accidentally picked one of those up, I enjoyed letting him off where he would be forced to take a long walk.

But if I refused everybody who was doing something illegal or unsavory, I would have spent most of my time on cab stands doing the New York Times crossword.

I never participated in my customers’ debauchery, if that’s what you want to call it. For instance, I always had an unsatisfactory answer to questions like “Can you find me some company?” or “Where can I get some blow?”

Sometimes I gave people unsolicited advice. But they often countered with somewhat reasonable-sounding explanations for what they were doing, and I really didn’t have the facts to debate them. So I usually left the social work to the social workers, and just tried to make my part of everybody’s night as safe as I could.

The next day, when the sun was high in the sky, I might once again see some of the people I had seen at night. They’re working or going about other daytime things. Their clothes are neat, their hair is washed, and their pupils are no longer dilated.

That made me think.

Just how many people do we see every day who have secret lives at night? Lives known only to bartenders, card dealers and drug peddlers?

Are they some of the same people who discounted or even shunned me because I spent my time serving the good-time crowd? But they actually were the good-time crowd, cleaned up for Sunday brunch?

I developed the world view that I could assume that almost everyone has something to hide. People cherry-pick the rules they break and the rules they complain about other people breaking. And that’s fine. I really don’t care.

If they’re seriously harming others, and I come to know that, I’ll try to do something about it. If their activities affect my family or friends, I’ll make sure I do.

But I don’t pick on people because of the company they keep.