Nurturing my annoyance, I work on my theory that it's the biggest trucks, those that carry building materials and other heavy loads, that display orange ribbons. The little trucks, those of the electricians and glaziers and other skilled craftworkers, seldom display ribbons of any color. The only vehicles that serve the public-at-large and also fly orange ribbons in Tel Aviv are a few delivery scooters and some taxis.

By the time I have finished my business at the post office, I am fantasizing about how to deal with the next orange ribbons I encounter. If it's a taxi, I will refuse to ride in it.

A taxi pulls up. It displays the sign of the cab station around the corner from my home, and I hop in. I have been riding with this cab company for more than 20 years. I don't know the driver, but he immediately engages me in conversation.

"Listen to them," he says. He motions toward the cab's intercom radio, over which two drivers are arguing about a place in line at a tourist hotel. "Like animals, they are."

"In my opinion," I venture, "the drivers at your cab stand have been spoiled by the tourist hotels. They aren't interested in ordinary business from people like me. All they want is to sit around and wait for a big fare to the airport. It's very insulting."

"All drivers are like that."

"Not true," I say and mention another cab company that is happy to have my business. "How long have you been driving a cab?"

"Thirty-two years, on and off."

"And you don't think it pays to cruise and look for a fare? The instant you turn on the meter, I owe you almost 10 shekels."

"I'll take in 50 shekels an hour riding around this way. The driver who sits at the curb and waits two hours for a fare to the airport gets 100 shekels. Who's better off?"

By now I have noticed the orange ribbon wrapped around his mirror. I didn't see it on getting into his cab. Encouraged by our open discussion about the economics of his job, I point at the orange ribbon and ask another technical question.

"What happened with the orange-ribbon people? They said they would block the roads every Monday and Wednesday afternoon, and they didn't do it."

"I'm for real disengagement," he says. "Everyone is. But this is a fake. When the Arabs need medical care, where are they going to go? Will the Egyptians let them in? When they need jobs, do you think the Egyptians will let them in? They'll come here, and take money from my pocket."

I remind him a couple of times that he is not answering the question which I asked. This does not faze him.

"I used to be a leftist," he says. "No more."

We come to a fork in the road. In his anger, this veteran of more than three decades of driving a cab makes a wrong turn on one of Tel Aviv's best-known avenues. Now we are heading north and must negotiate a u-turn to the south. He shuts off the meter. It says 16.30 shekels.

"It's my mistake," he says. "You don't have to pay for correcting my mistake."

"Peres, that idiot," he resumes. "He wants to give them the greenhouses, so they can compete with our agriculture."

"I'll tell you the disengagement I'll support," he says. "If we put Peres and Sarid and Beilin over there in Gaza, and close the border, I'll support that."

When we reach my destination, I give him a 20-shekel note and refuse his change. "We both will pay for your mistake," I say. As a person of principle, he agrees. We pay for each other's mistakes.

-- Joseph M. Hochstein