Keep the Change
By Beverly Greene
By Beverly Greene
NOTE: This story is protected by international copyright laws and may NOT be reproduced in any form without the author's expressed written permission.
As I open the rear passenger door and slide onto the soft, dark gray leather seat of the red and white cab I say "708 Broadway, please" to the forty-ish Asian man in a blue Polo shirt "Ok. Sure." he replies as he leans over to press the hired button on the meter.
"So, how your day?" he asks as we pull away from the curb. "Fine" I lie. In addition to cramps and general bitchiness, the company that has hosted my website for five years has suddenly decided that I'm a child because I didn't specify a birth date when I signed up. I don't have a credit card, as demanded, to prove my adulthood and can't update my site until they are satisfied that I'm not a child. Then, just to make sure that my day continued on the same note, I stepped in ferret poop on the kitchen floor. That's been the general theme of my whole day - shitty, and right now, I don't feel like talking. Still, I don't want to be rude, so I ask "How about your day?"
"Oh, fine, fine." he says as I hope he's not going to talk about whatever is making his voice sound so weary. I'm sure cabdrivers must get bored driving strangers around all day and I usually don't mind the hollow chatter about the weather or other such inconsequential matters. I usually don't even mind the more in-depth conversations about this or that on the edge of personal life. I've sat through conversations about a cabdriver's kids or plans for Friday night on several occasions. Tonight, however, I'd really rather not.
Luckily for me, his cell-phone rings. I don't know which Chinese dialect he's speaking in, but I know enough about the dangers of driving while talking on a phone to be annoyed. Oh well, I think, at least he's not talking to me anymore and I'm happy to be able to sit back and stare out the window.
As I watch the identical houses with their lush, green hedges flow past, it suddenly occurs to me that I've never sat in the front seat of a cab. I wonder why exactly that is. I guess it could have something to do with the fact that I, like a lot of women, don't feel very comfortable sitting so close to a strange man in a closed setting. Of course, it could also be that I think that a cabdriver's place of business is his cab. The front seat is like his office, the driver's seat, his desk. It just seems rude to intrude upon their personal space like that, to invade their private territory when there really is no need to. Maybe they don't really mind - I see people sitting in the front seat all the time. Still, it somehow doesn't feel right to me.
After what must have been several moments of silence while I was lost in my own thoughts, I hear the cabdriver talking into that goddamn cell phone again. I may not understand what he's saying, but anger pretty much sounds the same in all languages. From the way he seems to start to say something only to stop before finishing his sentence, I'd say he's getting shit for something. I'd guess he's in major trouble with his wife over something he did - or forgot to do. Either way, I wouldn't want to be at his house tonight!
Looking at him I notice how the cell phone casts a yellowish-green light on his face and wonder what idiot decided that that ugly, unnatural color would be used in all electronic devices. Of course, the difference is that the other types of devices don't give you brain tumors. Well, I guess that everything causes at least one kind of cancer these days - and probably cures another in the process. So, why shouldn't he drive while talking on the phone with the cancer-carrying antenna resting on the side of his head? If the medical studies always mentioned on the evening news are right, we're all going to die of some horrific disease or another anyway. Besides, from the sound of his conversation, I don't think that he's too concerned about cancer right now and with the way my day's been going so far, we'll probably both die in a fiery car accident long before a golf ball-sized tumor can kill either of us. Thinking of that gruesome thought, I smile to myself. What a day this has been.
The cabdriver abruptly ends his conversation with a final shouted word that lingers in the air long after his mouth is silent. I know a cuss word when I hear one - no matter what language it's uttered in and that only makes the urge to giggle stronger.
He throws the phone onto the seat beside him with such force it bounces back up and hits him in the elbow, which he apparently doesn't find funny. Of course, I do. As I push my fist hard against my mouth, trying to stop the growing laughter from escaping, he looks back at me in the rearview mirror, his face a grab bag of emotions - anger, frustration, and amusement.
Struggling to the point of tears to contain the laughter building inside, I notice that the car is slowing down. As we come to a complete stop, I realize that I'm probably about to get ordered out of the cab and stranded in a strange neighborhood in the middle of the night. No matter how nice a neighborhood looks, no woman ever feels safe walking alone anymore - the gruesome daily newspaper headlines make sure of that.
Through my tear-drowned eyes, I fumble in my pocket, searching for my change purse, hoping that I'll be able to make out the numbers on the bills through my tears. Oh well, I think, if I over pay him, he probably deserves it for having to be in a car with me.
Laughter erupts from my throat. It's the kind of burning laughter that brings tears to your eyes and stinging pain to your sides. It's the kind of crazy laughter that begs to be restrained by a straightjacket - a thought that only makes me laugh all that much harder.
Through my laughter, I gasp for the breaths I had forgotten to take, fighting the feeling that I'm lost on a sea of temporary insanity - and all over one lousy bad day and a handful of rogue hormones. If I could breathe, I know that thought would certainly send me over the edge again.
I look up at the rearview mirror, sure that I'll see an angry face shouting words that my laughter has drowned out, probably something along the line of "Get the fuck out of my cab you crazy bitch!". Instead, I see the cabdriver hunched over the steering wheel, a quivering hand covering his eyes, his checks ablaze, shoulders bouncing. His screeching laughter, reminiscent of a horny alley cat serenading a prospective mate, sends another wave of laughter crashing down over me despite my lack of oxygen. So, here we sit, two complete strangers caught in an odd kind of intimacy by separately bad days, laughing beyond the point of pain at absolutely nothing.
After a few moments, we both regain composure and without a word, the cabdriver pulls away from the curb. The rest of the ride is spent in complete silence, broken only by the ringing of his unanswered cell phone.
As we pull up to the gray, stone building at 708 Broadway, I tug my change purse out of my front pants' pocket while checking the number on the meter - $17.50. I place a twenty-dollar bill in the cabdriver's hand and he looks at it as if he isn't sure if it's real. "Oh no. No take - meter running when laughing, not driving. Ten only enough." he says as I open the door and get out. I turn around, lean back into the open door and smile at him. "Nah. That's all right. Keep the change." As I walk away I think maybe today wasn't such a bad day after all.
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� 2001 Beverly Greene owns all rights to this original story.
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