Having just arrived by commercial flight
from the East Coast, the one a.m.
local time in San Francisco felt more like four a.m
to the traveling couple.
They were in the back seat of a taxicab that had just
passed the 100-mile per hour barrier as it continued its race from the
airport to their hotel downtown. The husband lay slouched in that
crook where the seat meets the window, his eyes closed and his torso
at a forty-five degree angle to the seat bottom.
The wife sat upright, leaning slightly forward,
acutely aware of the present
danger and sure in her belief that the cab had to
be slowed, but unsure in how to accomplish that feat. A few subtle
bumps to her husband's leg when the odometer had hit 90 had been unsuccessful.
Now, she felt like a prisoner with no control over her destiny. Unless
immediate action was taken, death would fulfil that destiny, and worse
yet, her casket would be a tangled mess of yellow metal with a tacky cigarette
advertisement on top. She shook her husband and nodded urgently in
the driver's direction. The husband briefly opened his eyes, raised
his head slightly, glanced forward vaguely aware of their incumbent danger
and then resumed his previous position finding security in his desire for
sleep. She cursed her husband for his impatience in refusing to wait in
line at the taxi stand outside their terminal at the airport. Instead,
he opted for a ride from their driver who had whistled to them from a no
stopping zone and who she was now certain was the proprietor of a gypsy
cab. Even if he didn't kill them all on the highway, God knows where
he was taking them. This time she shook her husband furiously to break
him from his state of false security. The husband sat up almost upright
this time and as
quickly as he could in his tired state assessed the
situation weighing the
following factors: the gravity of their danger (the
driver was going awful fast, but he had to know these roads as well as
anyone and hopefully he wouldn't do anything to endanger his own life);
his own willingness to offend the
driver (rationally he realized he had every right
in the world to politely, or
impolitely, ask the driver to slow down but he was
inexplicably hesitant
for a reason he could not recognize as class guilt);
his own superego that was
enjoying the thrill of high speeds he knew he would
never attempt on his
own (not to mention the resulting emasculation that
was sure to follow from
asking another male to slow down); and, finally, his
desire to appease his
wife. As he watched the odometer sneak up on 110 and
other cars became near stationary obstacles in their isolated odyssey,
he realized his primary
loyalty was to his wife. In fact, he had a duty
to protect his wife.
A polite request borne in chivalry would satisfy all
of his concerns.
"Excuse me, sir" the husband started.
"Am I going to fast for you?" the driver asked sensing
their apprehension.
"Well, my wife is getting a little nervous, so if
you wouldn't mind
slowing down a bit."
"Is this okay?" the driver asked as he slowed the
car to around 80 miles
per hour.
"Sure," the husband answered as he rubbed his wife's
leg.
The husband felt a surge of accomplishment,
and with newfound adrenaline
fancied himself both conqueror and mediator.
He was a statesman now whose
job it was to keep the driver in control and to assure
his wife that they
were no longer in peril. Having succeeded in
slowing the car substantially, the husband turned his attentions toward
his wife. He held her hand gently in his and gave her a reassuring
look that was more smug than reassuring. She was relieved that they
had slowed down. However, she was still so preoccupied with their
current speed that she was not yet annoyed with her husband's latest stunt.
Recognizing his delicate standing right now and noticing the inching of
the odometer to over 85, the husband turned his attention back to the driver.
Since 85 did not quite warrant an admonition, the husband tried a
different tact. He would engage the driver in
small talk so he would not be so
singularly focused on his desire to speed. And,
if his speed did increase,
the husband would have established a rapport that
would make it easier to
demand the driver slow down. The husband arbitrarily
established 90 as his
limit. If the odometer hit 90 mph, then he would
insist that the driver
slow down. If need be, he would threaten to
call the police from his cell
phone.
"So how's the weather been?" the husband asked.
"It's been hot. This is our summer," the driver
answered. "Although, I don't know what today was like. I slept
most of the day since I've been working nights lately."
"Do you prefer to work nights?"
This question allowed the driver
to segue into his customary monologue.
The driver told them how he has a thirteen-year-old
son he looks after during
the day and he doesn't go to work until he's asleep.
He told them how he was
helping him tonight with his English homework.
He told them how tough it
is to be a single father but that he wouldn't trade
his life for anything.
The car was going over 90 now and the driver was now
very animated and more focused on them in the backseat than on the road
in front of them.
The husband sat frozen, unsure
of what to do. In his mind, he raised his
arbitrary limit to 100. The driver told them
about The Wild Bunch, which
was a group of taxi drivers like him from diverse
ethnic backgrounds that
protected each other like brothers. How The
Wild Bunch would cruise the
highways in an inverted "V" formation with each member
taking turns taking
the lead. He let them know what a defensive
driver he was and how he had
never been in an accident. He told them how
he had lived in San Francisco
all of his life. He told them about the race
riots of the sixties and the
Internet revolution of the nineties. He was
now driving over 100 and was
looking straight at the husband. He sensed the
husband's fear and slowed
down. They exited the highway and their speed
slowed dramatically. He
drove them by the new ballpark. He took them
through the SoMa district south of Market and explained how the neighborhood
was a hot bed of new technology companies and upscale urban housing.
How he had lived there when it was in total blight when he first moved
to San Francisco as a teenager. He told them how much he loves his
son, but that he never gets to see him since he moved to Sacramento with
his mother. All this time, he kept his speed under 75.
Upon reaching their destination,
the couple shared a level of equilibrium.
They were both emotionally spent and relieved to be
at their hotel. The
husband felt conflicted as to how much to give for
a tip. As they got their
bags from the trunk, the driver confided in both of
them. "Between us, I
haven't been to bed in over 48 hours. I've been
working straight through."
As they entered the hotel, the husband and wife did
not know what to make
of their driver but they both knew that the wife's
focus would soon be
centered on her husband.
David Apostolico is the author of Fried Calamari
(published under the pseudonym D.M. Roman) which is an all-dialogue novella
that takes place over a first encounter date.