Debra Pickett

It used to be just a casual thing, just noticing the number of a cab when it drove by. Sometimes, I'd see an old street address of mine, or the year I was born.

And then, on an early date with R., when we were in the habit of taking very long walks around different neighborhoods, just because it was a way to spend time together and talk, we both happened to spot cab number 8. It seemed amazing, when there are over 6,000 cabs driving around, to see one still driving around with such a low number.

Then we started actively looking.

Shouting out low numbers when we spot them has become one of those weird Rain-Man-like affectations we share (possibly a manifestation of genius, but, still, a level of dorkiness we'd rather not pass on to our child), which mostly bemuses our friends.

Our obsession reached its peak, though, when we decided that we wanted to ride in cab number one on our wedding day.

We'd spotted it a couple of times -- it's a Yellow Cab, in case you were wondering -- before then, but never actually gotten a chance to hail it.

So I actually called Yellow Cab to make a special request. I talked to a bunch of different people there, most of whom clearly thought I was insane, but, eventually, my request made it all the way to the CEO's desk.

I got the phone number of the driver who usually manned cab number one (a really sweet guy named Mohammed) and made arrangements with him to pick us up from the wedding in Lincoln Park and drive us down to the River North restaurant where we were having dinner afterwards.

Unfortunately, in describing (with ridiculously precise -- and utterly bridal) detail where I wanted him to pick us up, I made a critical error. In explaining the exact location at the Conservatory Garden where we'd be, I happened to say something like, "You know, by the zoo."

So, naturally, he waited for us at the main entrance to the Lincoln Park Zoo.

And I'd been slightly off on the time we'd be ready, since I had no idea taking family pictures would require so much time. (I come from a very small family, but married into a big one.)

By the time we went to look for Mohammed, he was long gone.

And, though I had programmed his number into my cell phone, I did not carry my cell phone with me down the aisle. (I really hope people don't actually do that.) His number was locked in my parents' hotel room.

So, R. and I did what any other self-respecting city dwellers would do. We crossed the street and hailed another cab.

People did give us some strange looks, like, "Don't you people plan anything?" But it is remarkably easy to flag down a cab in your wedding dress.

And R., to his great credit, had the foresight to be carrying cash, which was applied to our fare and a very generous tip.

As it turned out, the ride downtown (and great photos of us emerging from the random cab as our somewhat confused wedding guests looked on) was one of many highlights of the day. The driver was a wonderful West African guy, whose name I have totally forgotten, but he was really kind and happy to have helped us out.

And the cab was number 5669.