Down to the river.
"Here."
I pull over.
"Right, thanks."
"That'll be twenty-seven fifty."
"What?"
It takes courage to open my mouth. This guy looks like he wants to kill me. "I said, that's twenty-seven dollars fifty."
"I'm not paying."
I believe him.
I believe him because he simply sits there and lets his eyes grow round and black in the middle of all that yellow. This man is not paying. There's no discussion. There's no argument--although I try.
"Why not?" I say.
"I don't have it."
"I'll take your jacket, then."
He edges closer, bordering on friendly for the first time. "They were right--you are a stubborn son of a bitch, aren't you?"
"Who told you?"
But I don't get the answer.
His eyes go wild, and he opens the door and leaps from the cab.
Pause.
I feel trapped in the moment, then jump my own cab and go after him. Toward the river.
Wet grass and words.
"Get back here!"
Strange thoughts.
Thoughts of, Get back here, Ed? "Get back here" is so common. It's what every cabdriver yells in this situation. You need to come up with some new material. It's a wonder you didn't add "punk" onto the end....
My legs tighten.
Air brushes past my mouth but doesn't seem to get in.
I run.
I run and realize that I've felt this feeling before--this sick feeling in my stomach.
It was when I was a kid, chasing my younger brother, Tommy. The one in the city with better prospects and better taste in coffee tables than me. He was faster, of course, even back then. Better. He always was, and it was embarrassing. It was shameful to have a younger brother who was faster, stronger, smarter, and better. At everything. But he was. It was that simple.
We used to fish at the river, upstream, and we'd race to see who could get there first. Not once did I win. Of course, I told myself, I could have if only I really tried.
So just once.