taxi.”
“I have car. Much better. You are going where?”
“Um, the East Village, I think, but I was just going to take a cab.”
He shook his head vigorously. “Car is nicer. I take you. Very fast. Very safe.” He put a hand at the small of my back, and I tried to shrink away, but he kept it firmly in place, steering me out the doors of the terminal.
Where a cold blast of arctic air nearly sent me running back into that hot, noisy terminal. BeBe had been right. The temperatures must have been in the teens, and the air was raw and damp and howling. Something cold and wet touched my cheek. A snowflake.
“Wait,” I said, struggling to don my heavy coat. He stood, shifting impatiently from one foot to another. When I’d barely managed to get my arms into the sleeves, he was tugging at my arm again. “This way to car.”
He led me past a long line of yellow cabs, across two strips of tarmac, to a parking area. I had to trot to keep up with him. Finally, we came to a row of parked black sedans. Still pulling at the sleeve of my coat, he led me to a black Buick that had seen better days.
He opened the back door with a flourish. “Car.”
* * *
I gazed out the grime-smeared window, eager for my first glimpse of the big city. It soon struck me that I wasn’t actually in New York. Yet. My first impression was of a world etched in charcoal. Gray highway, gray sky, black cars, twisted leafless gray trees, the only real color was from the yellow taxis packed in on the road ahead and beside and behind us. The snow was falling softly, wiped away by the sedan’s screeching windshield wipers. A lifelong Southerner and native Savannahian, I’d seen snow, of course, mostly while I was living in Atlanta during my first marriage. But only once or twice. That snow was innocuous, fluffy, and white, a thin covering barely enough to coat streets and yards before it vanished in the next day’s sunshine.
Traffic was the thickest I’d ever seen, a solid unmoving mass of cars. The driver muttered to himself, laid on his horn, and swung the car sharply to the right, directly in the path of a long black limousine beside us. I closed my eyes, already feeling the inevitable collision. The limo honked back, but somehow the driver forced his way into the lane.
The sedan’s radio was tuned to a sports talk station, and the discussion, mounted at top volume, seemed to be a heated debate about the prospects for the Rangers, which left my driver in a fury. He was screaming obscenities and pounding the steering wheel. “Fuck the Rangers. Nobody care about Rangers.” He jabbed at the radio’s push-button controls, changing stations, tuning now to an ear-splittingly loud rap music station with a thumping bass that made the whole backseat vibrate. My temples began to throb.
“Could you please turn that down a little?” I asked timidly. No response. Finally, emboldened by the driver’s bad manners, I tapped his shoulder.
“Hey! Turn it down, please. Okay?”
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, and I could see his scowl, but he did finally turn the volume down.
The Buick’s thermostat was turned up to the blast-furnace setting, and I could feel perspiration beading up on my face and neck, and sweat trickling down my back. My driver was sweating too, but he seemed oblivious to the thick garlic-scented fumes wafting through the car’s interior. I tried rolling my window down for a breath of fresh air, but the crank window handle was broken. Out of desperation, I shed the heavy coat, laying it gingerly across my lap.
We paid some tolls, and eventually we merged onto an elevated highway that seemed to cut directly through a gritty gray morass of industrial buildings and tenement houses shoved right up against the highway’s edge. At one point, as we inched along, I looked over to the right and found myself staring directly into an apartment window, eyeball to eyeball with a fat man in a greasy undershirt who appeared
“I have car. Much better. You are going where?”
“Um, the East Village, I think, but I was just going to take a cab.”
He shook his head vigorously. “Car is nicer. I take you. Very fast. Very safe.” He put a hand at the small of my back, and I tried to shrink away, but he kept it firmly in place, steering me out the doors of the terminal.
Where a cold blast of arctic air nearly sent me running back into that hot, noisy terminal. BeBe had been right. The temperatures must have been in the teens, and the air was raw and damp and howling. Something cold and wet touched my cheek. A snowflake.
“Wait,” I said, struggling to don my heavy coat. He stood, shifting impatiently from one foot to another. When I’d barely managed to get my arms into the sleeves, he was tugging at my arm again. “This way to car.”
He led me past a long line of yellow cabs, across two strips of tarmac, to a parking area. I had to trot to keep up with him. Finally, we came to a row of parked black sedans. Still pulling at the sleeve of my coat, he led me to a black Buick that had seen better days.
He opened the back door with a flourish. “Car.”
* * *
I gazed out the grime-smeared window, eager for my first glimpse of the big city. It soon struck me that I wasn’t actually in New York. Yet. My first impression was of a world etched in charcoal. Gray highway, gray sky, black cars, twisted leafless gray trees, the only real color was from the yellow taxis packed in on the road ahead and beside and behind us. The snow was falling softly, wiped away by the sedan’s screeching windshield wipers. A lifelong Southerner and native Savannahian, I’d seen snow, of course, mostly while I was living in Atlanta during my first marriage. But only once or twice. That snow was innocuous, fluffy, and white, a thin covering barely enough to coat streets and yards before it vanished in the next day’s sunshine.
Traffic was the thickest I’d ever seen, a solid unmoving mass of cars. The driver muttered to himself, laid on his horn, and swung the car sharply to the right, directly in the path of a long black limousine beside us. I closed my eyes, already feeling the inevitable collision. The limo honked back, but somehow the driver forced his way into the lane.
The sedan’s radio was tuned to a sports talk station, and the discussion, mounted at top volume, seemed to be a heated debate about the prospects for the Rangers, which left my driver in a fury. He was screaming obscenities and pounding the steering wheel. “Fuck the Rangers. Nobody care about Rangers.” He jabbed at the radio’s push-button controls, changing stations, tuning now to an ear-splittingly loud rap music station with a thumping bass that made the whole backseat vibrate. My temples began to throb.
“Could you please turn that down a little?” I asked timidly. No response. Finally, emboldened by the driver’s bad manners, I tapped his shoulder.
“Hey! Turn it down, please. Okay?”
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, and I could see his scowl, but he did finally turn the volume down.
The Buick’s thermostat was turned up to the blast-furnace setting, and I could feel perspiration beading up on my face and neck, and sweat trickling down my back. My driver was sweating too, but he seemed oblivious to the thick garlic-scented fumes wafting through the car’s interior. I tried rolling my window down for a breath of fresh air, but the crank window handle was broken. Out of desperation, I shed the heavy coat, laying it gingerly across my lap.
We paid some tolls, and eventually we merged onto an elevated highway that seemed to cut directly through a gritty gray morass of industrial buildings and tenement houses shoved right up against the highway’s edge. At one point, as we inched along, I looked over to the right and found myself staring directly into an apartment window, eyeball to eyeball with a fat man in a greasy undershirt who appeared
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