A Wild Taxi Ride

Maggie Levine

Word Count 1193

I'm meeting an ex-boyfriend for lunch in Midtown. I don't text to say I'm running late. We broke up because I was a frazzled head case. I want him to think I've changed.

While getting dressed, I calculate my route from Brooklyn to Midtown.  The subway is usually faster than a taxi, but after factoring in a seven-block walk in heels from Grand Central to the restaurant, plus my hair's reaction to the August humidity, I opt for a cab. 

On the FDR, I realize I've left my wallet at home. I've got Way2Ride, but the taxi takes a different app. My battery's at 2%. Frantic, I start downloading RideLinQ. I try every variation of my fickle Apple password, then fail to recover it because I've also forgotten my favorite children's book and who my best friend is. 

By the time we pass the United Nations, the password change link still hasn't come through. "Come on!" I command my phone. Through the plexiglass partition, it's hard to tell if my driver has picked up on my agitation. I consider telling him that I can't pay, but if he makes me get out, I'll have to walk. 

We turn on to 49th, and my email pings.

I don't breathe as a sliver emerges in the empty ring, morphs into a pie slice, then a half-moon. Finally, the circle’s entirely grey. I exhale, and my phone goes out like a candle flame.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

The driver pulls into a red zone and shuts off the meter. 

“Sir, I am so sorry.” I try to catch his eye in the rearview mirror as I proceed to explain my situation.

He doesn't even turn around. "You ride. You pay." 

Fishing a book and a pen from my bag, I copy his name from his license. It has more letters than the alphabet. "If you give me your address, I promise I'll send you a check."

He hits the side of the meter as if that will make me cough up the non-existent cash. "You pay."

Fine. I'll track him down some other way.

The door doesn't budge. My chest seizes. Just as I'm about to open the window to call for help, I spot the lock switch. The latch clicks. I'm free.

I'm scribbling down the medallion number when the driver gets out of the car, slams the door and rushes towards me. He's older than I realized, with a white stubbled chin that quivers uncontrollably. 

I show him the inside cover of Beloved with his name and the cab number. "See? I'm going to send you a check." Trying to convince him that he can trust me is a waste of time. Nothing I say penetrates his rage.

I have no choice.

"Stop!"

I keep walking, staring straight ahead, trying to keep my cool. What can he do? He's not going to abandon his cab in the middle of Midtown to chase me down.

Waiting for the light, I shove my book and useless phone in my bag.  

"I'm calling 911!"

Holy shit. 

I turn around to find him shaking his phone at me like a fist. "I'm calling 911!" His red-veined eyes radiate fury.

There's a glassy office building on the corner, the kind where you have to show your ID before you can head to a bank of elevators. I push through the revolving door. "Excuse me," I say to a blue-blazered guard with acne. "I know this is odd, but I've left my wallet at home and need to pay for a cab. Is there any chance you could lend me twenty-five dollars? I promise I can pay you back tomorrow."

"What floor do you work on?" 

If I throw out a number, it seems like he'll loan me the money. But what if he calls whatever company occupies that floor? "No. No. I don't work here." So, I start all over, but this time I keep pointing towards the lobby window so he can see the driver on his phone, gesticulating like a madman. 

"I'm sorry, M'am. Guards aren't allowed to carry cash." 

The moment I'm outside, I make a run for it. "Lose him!" pounds in my head as I weave between cars like I'm being pursued by Tom Cruise. Lurching into an overpriced deli, bags of chips fly off a rack as I tear past the lunch crowd before darting out another door. Clearly, I have no career as a bad guy. The driver's still on my tail, yelling my constantly changing coordinates to the police as I zigzag through Third Avenue traffic.

Breathless, I burst into LensCrafters and beg the first saleswoman I see to help me. The cab driver is right there, updating my location. "After I am finished helping the next customer," she says with a condescending tone. What the fuck? Do I look like I'm here for glasses? I appeal to another salesperson, this time offering my dead phone as security. "I'm sorry, I can't help you," he says with the exaggerated calmness of someone trying to defuse a bomb. 

I barrel into a sedate lunch hour at the steakhouse Smith and Wollensky. The driver flies through the door shouting, "Stop her!" as if I'm going to disappear through a steak-lined escape hatch. Then, out of nowhere, a well-groomed maître d’ intercepts the driver and promptly leads him out by the elbow -- a maneuver so seamless that it looks choreographed. Another man, also smartly dressed, instantly appears. Panting and on the verge of crying, I explain my predicament. He produces a roll of cash from his pocket without missing a beat and peels off three tens. I can't tell if he believes me or wants to get rid of me. Either way, these front-of-house magicians have effectively deprived the gawking carnivores of a good New York story. 

The driver is pacing outside the entrance. The stains under his arm are yellow with faint brown outlines.

"Here!" I say, expecting him to grab the money from my hand. 

"How do I know it's enough?"

Does he think I'd go through all this and then underpay him? I shove the money in his shirt pocket. "It's more than enough!" 

My senses kick in as the adrenaline wears off. The tops of my feet are raw from the leather straps of my new sandals. My blouse feels plastered to my skin. When I catch my reflection in a window, I look like the "before" shot in a shampoo commercial.

My ex is one drink in. I apologize profusely, tacking on complaints about the brutal New York traffic and how the cab had no AC. He's got a lot more forehead than he used to, so that helps. While we eat and catch up, my phone charges at the bar.

Back at Smith and Wollensky, I get the name of the man who lent me the money from the maitre d'. He admits that he thought the driver and I were a team. That the whole thing was a scam. No way. What self-respecting New York hustlers would go through that much trouble to split 25 bucks

Maggie has an MFA in fiction and remembers every book she read in Vivian Gornick's memoir class at the University of Arizona. Her newsletter, ArtWrite, explores the common ground between writers and artists through a blend of personal narrative and interviews.