Taxi!

[troubled sleep]

As always, if this turns out terrible, horrible, and fully and completely revolting, please <i>don't hesitate to tell me!!!</i>. Just say so and I shall whisk it back to my word processor. I'll fix it up there, and I'll bring it back here, and hopefully I'll be able to make it a bit more palatable.

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The first thing Paul Myers noticed was the heat. It caught him off guard, and he stood there for a minute, suspended halfway inside the cab, resisting the wall of hot air that threatened to knock him over. Behind him, business at the La Guardia International Air Port continued on as usual, with no one noticing the increasingly disturbed look on Paul’s face. Placing his foot back on the pavement, he regarded the cab critically, as though looking for some excuse other than the temperature to abandon it. But other than the seemingly random excess of heat, the cab was rather nondescript. It was your standard Yellow Cab, almost identical to the two dozen or so other Yellow Cabs that, to be poetic about it, stretched off into the distance like a dingy yellow sea. It had a few scratches here and there, but nothing too terrible. Paul was about to step back into the taxi cab, when suddenly the driver turned around and shot him a scowl.

“Hey mon! What do you think you’re doing? You’re letting all the air out! I’m not paying for the gas to air condition the whole city! Get in or go out!” the cabbie yelled angrily at him. The accent was pure Jamaica, but the man’s pale complexion and orange turban with purple fringe begged to differ. As he scowled in Paul’s direction, he also noticed that the driver was missing several teeth.

 

“Umm...Well...I...have to go. Sorry...” Paul mumbled, suddenly pulling his leg back onto the pavement and shutting the cab door. He instantly began to run down the line of cabs, dodging people walking around with suitcases and strollers, all the time chased by a string of curses in a language that Paul wasn’t familiar with.

 

Once he had put a significant distance between himself and the Yellow Cab, Paul resumed his search for a ride. It seemed that he’d inadvertently stepped across a boundary line, as the sea of dingy yellow taxis had given way to one of dingy red that is the trade-mark of Red-Top-Cabs. Tentatively, he approached a new cab and tried to peak in at the driver without being too conspicuous. This driver a woman with curly hair the same strained red as the outside of her taxi. The curls were currently bounding all over the place as the woman yelled into a large cellular phone in what Paul assumed was French. After all, French is the only language where you can be screaming at someone, but your speech can still sound flowery and well...pretty. Since it had been a long time since high school French, and Paul had forgotten just about everything except for how to ask where the water-fountain was, he decided to skip that one and continue looking. Walking down the row, he saw cab drivers of all sorts, but it wasn’t until he had almost entered Blue-top-Cab territory that he found someone that looked like he spoke plain English. Deciding to take his chances, Paul walked around to the drivers side of the cab.

 

“Hi...do you know how to get here?” he asked the driver, handing him a piece of stiff paper with an address written on it.

 

“Sure,” the cabbie said in the cliched New Yorker accent, “I can get you there in nothing flat.”

 

Relieved, Paul opened the side door and scrambled into the back of the cab, pulling his sizable green suitcase along after him and happy that this cab at least was a decent temperature.

 

“So, Manhattan?” the cab driver said. He was a middle aged man in an oversize I love New York T-Shirt and, to Paul’s continued relief, he had all of his teeth, but sadly not much hair. But you can’t have everything, and Paul was just happy for someone who spoke English. “Going to a Bar Mitzvah, eh? What at those things like?” the taxi driver continued.

 

Paul was starting to get a little afraid again, but then he remembered that the paper with the address on it had also had the occasion scrawled up at the top. “I don’t really know. I’ve never been to one myself. But it’s a Bat Mitzvah, since it’s for my niece, Charlotte. According to my brother in law, it’s only Bar Mitzvah when it’s a boy, and a Bat Mitzvah with a girl. Though I could be wrong...I’m a little clueless when it comes to Judaism.”

 

“Hey, me too. There’s a lot of Jews in Hollywood, but none of them really talk about it. Speaking of religion...you hear about that Mel Gibson movie, The Passion of the Christ?” the driver asked as he turned out of the airport and onto the highway.

 

“Of course, it was all over the news.”

 

“Well, I’m gonna let you in on a little Hollywood secret: My friend Mel, that’s Mel Gibson, originally wanted me for the part of Jesus. What do you think of that, huh?” To borrow a phrase from Douglas Adams, Paul thought it was a load of dingo’s kidneys. But instead of voicing this opinion, he just nodded weakly, wondering if he should have continued into the Blue Top cab territory after all.

 

“Yes, it’s true. One night Mel just comes over to my house, he used to do that all the time back before we had our fight, the kids loved him, you see, called him Uncle Mel. But anyway, so Mel comes to the door and he says ‘Wally, listen, I’m making a movie about the crucifixion of Jesus, and I want <i>you</i> for the part.’ Well you know I was floored, but...well...you know how he wanted everybody on the cast to convert to a fundamentalist Catholic or whatever the religion was? It was in the news, you must have heard about it.”

 

“Yeah...yes, I did.” Paul said, becoming more and more bothered by this situation by the second.

 

“Well, I’ve been a Methodist all my life, and I didn’t like the idea of changing all of a sudden. And Irma would have <i>killed</I> me if I tried converting. Plus, the whole movie was going to be in Aramaic or something. You wanna know the extent of my Aramaic? The only thing I can say in that crazy language is ‘Give me a beer and two apples’, that’s it. Well, I knew I was going to disappoint poor Mel, so I said to him really delicately “Mel, you know I love you like you were my own brother, and I’d do anything for you, you know I would. But I can’t be away from the wife and kids that long, they’re not used to it.’ I tried really hard to make him understand, but that’s the thing about Mel, not used to hearing no. Ever since that Braveheart movie. There’s something that happens to a guy when he goes prancing around in a kilt, something deep down, and afterwards, you’re never the same again.” the driver paused, reminiscing. Paul was deeply <i>deeply</I> afraid by this point, and was searching for a way out. They were coming up on a stoplight...so maybe if he opened the door really fast he could get away from this lunatic...his escape plans were interrupted, though, when the driver resumed.

 

“So I explained it all to him, but he still wouldn’t take no for an answer. Stayed there practically all night, working on me, saying I was the only guy he could ever see as playing the part of Jesus,” Paul begged to differ, but didn’t say anything, “and think of the money, he said...but finally I had to put my foot down. He stormed out of the house, and I haven’t seen him since. He says I’m dead to him now, and won’t answer my calls and pretends not to know me any more. I feel like I’ve lost a brother, I really do. You know, I remember once a few years ago when Mel and Toby, that’s Toby McGuire. You know, the Spider man guy? Well, we went out for drinks, and there was Cher, I’d met her a couple times before, so I said hey guys why don’t we-hey! What are you doing?”

Paul went rigid at the drivers words. They had stopped at the stoplight, just like he had planned, and Paul was about to open the door and get the heck out of the cab when the driver had turned to face him.

 

“I...uh...I changed my mind. I’ll just get off here. How much will the fare be?” Paul said nervously digging for his wallet.

 

“No, not in the middle of the road, here, let me pull over...” he said, doing so despite Paul’s protest. He pulled over into a side street and slid the car into park. “Now, it’ll be 15 dollars and 76 cents please.” the driver said, before facing forward again. A couple of kids ran across the street in front of them throwing a ball back and forth, the driver followed them with his eyes, then sighed.

 

“What is it?” Paul asked as he pulled out the money.

 

“Oh, nothing. Just looking at the kids running by. Remind me of my own. I’ve got fifteen of them, you know.” the driver said with another happy sort of sigh.

 

“15 kids??!!” Paul said in disbelief.

 

“Yep, well, four of them are mine, the others are all adopted. We’ve got another set of baby quintuplet coming in from Vietnam any day now, so it’ll be twenty kids then.”

 

“That must be a lot of hard work...” Paul said, pulling out a larger bill than he had originally intended to tip the man.

 

“Yes, it is. But I love every minute of it. But it’s a little pricey, so I don’t know if I’d recommend it. You know, with half of them in diapers, the other half heading off to college next year. That’s why I work seven jobs, just to make ends meet. So it’s hard, yeah, but I sure love those kids. Ever time I feel like giving up or giving in, I just look over at them; just seeing them smile...it just makes everything worth it.”

 

“Wow. I never would have-well, thank you for the ride.” Paul said, pulling out an extra ten and sliding it into the stack of paper money he handed to the driver. “Keep the change, and I, uh, hope that things with you and Mel work out.” he said, stepping out of the car. The driver smiled as he counted the bills, then quickly accelerated off.

 

At first Paul was relieved to be out of the cab. But the relief soon faded, however, when it dawned on him that he was alone in god-only-knows-where. New York City carting around an overly large suitcase. He stood there in shock and dismay for no more than three quarters of a second, as slightly after that revelation hit him, so did a cab. Or rather two cabs pulled up suddenly on either side of him. Paul stood blinking back and forth between the White City-Cab sporting an advertisement for the Broadway production of Wicked, and the Blue-Top-Taxi which ran and advert for Pepsi Edge on its side. Suddenly both cabbies rolled down their windows closest to Paul and shouted out at him.

 

“Hey! Hop in!” the yelled at exactly the same time, something that caused them to glare at each other. “Hey! What’s the big idea??” both drivers yelled at each other.

 

“I was so here first!” they both cried out.

 

“Were not, I was!” they said in unison.

 

“Do you want to take this out of the cab?”

 

“Well maybe I do!!” both said, continuing to speak in unison.

 

Both drivers stomped out of their respected taxis then slammed their doors shut at exactly the same time. But despite their knack for speaking and acting at the same time, they couldn’t have been more different. The one stepping out of the Blue-Top-Taxi was a pale, chubby kid who couldn’t have been older than 23. He had red hair grown out in what Paul could only guess was a failed attempt at an afro. He was wearing an overly large, green Celtics Jersey along with a thick silver necklace on which hung two large rhinestone encrusted dollar sign pendants.

 

“Me and my Air Force Ones are gonna TAKE YOU DOWN!!” the Blue Top Taxi kid yelled.

 

“Your what?” Paul asked, unsure of what the presidents private jet had to do with anything.

 

“The shoes, dawg! My ballen’ shoes! Check out my Air Force Ones!” he said, putting a foot forward out of his large jeans to reveal a large white basketball show. “And check the Larry Bird Jersey, Hard Court Classics, baby!”

 

“Your stupid shoes and jersey are no match for me!” the City Cab’s driver said in broken English. Five seconds ago he had been dressed in fairly nondescript clothing, but during the time that Blue-top had taken to explain his outfit, he had slipped into a ninja...outfit? Uniform? Whatever it was, it was jet black and had a sort of hood with eye holes that the man was pulling over his face. “Show me your best! But be prepared to go down like the other Blue-Top weaklings before you!”

 

“NEVER! I will never surrender! You will nothing more than a splotch on the bottom of my mighty Air Force Ones!!”

 

“Cabbie Fight!! Fight between a Blue Top and a City Cab!! Cabbie Fight!!” another cab driver who had recently pulled up yelled as he scrambled up on the top of his car to repeat his message.

 

“What?” Paul said to no one in particular as suddenly cab after cab began to pull up around the combating drivers.

 

“It’s a cab fight! You’d better get a seat quick, things’ll go fast!” the cabbie on top of his car said before jumping down and disappearing into the growing crowd.

 

The territory lines were clear, just like they had been at the air port. The red top cabs parked in one area, and the yellows and white city cabs in another. Paul watched in disbelief as cabbies began unloading lawn chairs and coolers and setting up tail gate parties around where the Blue-Top driver with the bling-bling and the City Cab Ninja were taunting each other.

 

“My money’s on the Ninja,” said a taxi driver who had set up his lawn chair and umbrella in front of Paul.

 

“No way,” another cabbie lounging next to him said, “I just put thirty bucks on the kid with the air force ones. I saw him take on one of ours, Bob Fredrickson, ‘member him? Poor Bob, he never even had a chance.”

 

“Yeah, but Bobby was always weak, and besides, that Ninja costume is too cool not to bet on.”the first speaker replied.

 

‘True, true. Hey, it looks like they’re ready to start!”

 

Paul turned away from the conversing yellow-top cabbies and back towards the ‘ring’. True enough, the two had stopped taunting each other and it looked like punches were about to fly. Not wanting to watch, Paul grabbed his suitcase and began pulling it out of the crowd, looking for a moving vehicle.

 

“Bets! Place your bets!” A man walking around with a small metal strong box said, “Hey, you look like a man with an opinion, who do you think will win? The kid with the shoes or the Ninja?”

 

“Judging by their past history, I think they’ll both pass out at exactly the same time and be airlifted to the hospital for minor leg injuries and a nasty abrasions to the esophagus. Luckily for them, there’s a pill for that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to find a cab.” Paul said, then felt stupid. There were cabs <i>everywhere</I>, but all of them were stationary and many were hosting tailgate parties. “Or rather, a moving cab,” he said, glancing around again at what seemed to be miles of parked cars and looking for motion. Sadly, there wasn’t much of it, as the parked cabs had blocked most of the roadway, and those who were sitting in neutral and honking their horns were joining the spectator and placing bets. Paul was about to give up and just start walking, when suddenly he saw movement. Knocking over the Bets man, Paul started running towards the moving vehicle, hoping he could bum a ride and disrupting camp sites in the wake of his suitcase.

 

“Popcorn! Peanuts! Soda!! Get it all over here people!” a female cab driver called from her spot in her car. She was selling refreshments, but more importantly she was driving around and doing so.

 

“Hey!!” Paul called out towards the cab, “I need to get the heck out of here...I’ve got to get to my nieces Bat Mitzvah! She’ll never forgive me if I miss it...and neither will my sister for that matter.” he said desperately to the driver.

 

“Sure! Just hop in and I’ll get you where you need to go...just let me sell one more bag of popcorn....” Paul nodded, and climbed into the cab. It smelled heavily of artificial butter and popcorn, probably due to the popcorn popper that the cabbie had plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter. Next to it on the passenger seat were boxes and boxes of candy and soda. Blinking, but not about to question anything that would get him out of here, he waited for that last bag of popcorn to sell. Thankfully for Paul, it didn’t take long and they were soon on their way.

 

“Now...where do you need to go?” Paul wordlessly handed her the piece of paper with the address on it, “Manhattan! I love Manhattan, come on let’s go.” she said jamming down on the accelerator, running over a couple of sets of lawn chairs and narrowly missing cabs and people on all sides. “It’s a good thing for you I was near the moving side of the street, yeah?” she said, pulling into a lane and speeding away from the cabbie fight. The driver looked around forty five, and was wearing a bright orange shirt with “Friends Don’t Let Friends Drink Coca-Cola” written on the front in cheerful yellow letters. She had long greying black hair, and an accent that was heavily Midwestern.

 

“So...did you get her a present?”

 

“Who? What??” Paul said.

 

“Your niece. It’s a Bat Mitzvah, right?”

 

“Yes....you’re supposed to bring presents for those?”

 

“Of course!! Now...let’s see what we’ve got for you...” she said, leaning down and digging underneath the passenger seat. Meanwhile, the car went up onto the side walk narrowly missing a few more pedestrians. “Oh, and while I’m down here can I get you anything to eat or drink? It’s candy, popcorn, and soda, like I was saying before. I used to sell beer but...well, you know how the NYPD can be.” she paused for a moment as she rummaged through a box of t-shirts “How about an ‘I love Prague shirt?” she asked, holding up the familiar white t-shirt with an I and a heart, though NYC had been crossed out and Prague had been written in above it. “No? Well, I’ve got some other stuff down here too, don’t you worry, we’ll get you the perfect Bat Mitzvah gift for your little niece no problem.” she said, leaning over to dig under the seat a bit more. It was around this time that the car suddenly lurched forward and then back then stopped, and then water began falling out of the sky.

“Umm....why aren’t we moving?” Paul asked, more than a little afraid.

 

“Well, I’ll be.” she said, sitting up and squinting out at the hood of the car. “It looks like we’ve hit a fire hydrant. How annoying. Now, what about this one?” she asked holding up a similar shirt to the last one, only instead of Prague, Cleveland had been written in over NYC. “No to this one too? Well, whatever you say. I <i>love</I> Cleveland, myself. But I suppose it takes all kinds, different strokes and all that, yes it takes all kinda...well, one more try then....” she said, diving back into the box, but this time Paul didn’t wait around for the next shirt. He grabbed his suitcase, and ran out of the car just as the police were arriving.

 

It took him a short bus ride, a couple of subway trips that included getting on the wrong train several times and having to dash out at the last minute to get on the right one, plus a walk of about 12 blocks, but eventually Paul made it safely to the his sister’s tiny New York ‘house’. Despite the fact that there was supposed to be a Bat Mitzvah after party(Paul was certain that he’d missed the actual ceremony by now) going on the house was dark. Tentatively, he walked up towards the door and found a note waiting for him. It had been taped from the inside to the front window and cheerfully explained that the Bat Mitzvah had been postponed, as the Rabbi had been double booked. Apparently he had also been scheduled to bless a local sandwich shoppe that wanted to be able to advertise Kosher Subs, but had forgotten about it until the last minute. So they’d had to postpone the Bat Mitzvah until tomorrow, and the whole family, being hungry, had gone out for a free round Kosher subs that the shoppe’s owner had offered to make it up to them. This news temporarily relieved Paul, but as he caught sight of the post script he sat down hard on the stoop and all color completely drained from his face. Apparently, the post script explained, a few extra relatives had forgotten to RSVP, but had shown up anyway, so now there wasn’t a sofa or sleeping bag or even any floor space left in the entire house to spare for Paul. But they had felt so bad about this that they had graciously rented him a room at a nearby hotel. This was all well and good, but then came the sentence that hit Paul like a hammer to the head. This awful, terrible last line of the post script said that since everyone would be out for some time, no one could give him a ride to the hotel, so (the note suggested in it’s cheerful tone) why not call a cab to drive him there instead?