on the floor.
I leaned forward, ready to tell him to get going, when he fell back into his seat and sped around the offending taxi into oncoming traffic, then back into the proper lane.
"The nerve on some people!" he said, looking at me in the rear-view mirror far longer than was safe, "The nerve! Right, miss?"
It took my heart a little while to force itself back down my throat. I knew that I'd be thinking about the look on the face of the elderly Chinese man who we'd almost gotten into a head-on collision with in my future quiet moments.
I don't think such an accident could have been any worse than what had already happened to me today.
I bit back the first thing that came to my mind about hypocrisy, choosing instead to nod. Then I launched into my own little bit of self defense.
"I'm not going to the club to see the show, okay? I'm going to see my... a guy. I think he's in trouble."
What did I call Drake? Friend? Acquaintance?
Boyfriend?
Definitely not the last one. Even though I'm pretty sure that's what I was originally going to describe him as.
"Oh, oh! Caught your man with another lady, yeah? Don't you worry; I'll get you there real soon, got it?"
I started to defend myself again, but by the cabbie's big grin (probably delighting in fantasies of helping a young lady go harangue her man) I knew it would get me nowhere.
So I breathed a, "Yeah," and relaxed back against the seat. I debated whether or not closing my eyes during this ride would help at all, but the sudden jerks of stops and starts would likely be even more terrifying if I couldn't see them.
I'm not sure how much longer it took to get to Club 54. I spent the remaining time in the cab going over all the possibilities of what might have happened to Drake, and, more importantly, why I got the call to come in and help him.
These ranged from mild things like some sort of trick to get me to see his band all the way to identifying his body. As usual, my mind was a jumble when it came to that guy.
As we pulled up to the curb, I decided that I would in fact stay if this really was just a ruse to get me to see his band in action. And I even promised myself to try hard to not become a groupie.
"That'll be twelve bucks even," he said, looking back over his shoulder at me. He still wore a big grin.
I shoved $15 into the cash drawer, told him to keep the change (regretting it right away since I knew how constricted money was about to become) and climbed out onto the sidewalk.
Right as I closed the door, he sped away. I found myself in an older looking neighborhood. Low buildings no bigger than ten floors or so, the ground level often being some sort of store or bar, dominated both sides of the street.
Despite the noise of the pedestrians sharing the sidewalk with me and the cars clogging the street, I had no trouble locating Club 54. The reverberation of the rock music spewing from it vibrated in my chest.
With the gridlock the way it was, I crossed the street scurrying between cars. A big sign above a bank of new glass doors spelled out CLUB 54 in huge block letters, with the silhouette of some vocalist screaming into the mic. At the center of the doors was a ticket window. And inside that sat a young guy in a leather jacket, his lank, black hair falling past his ears.
The little speaker set into the window meant he wouldn't have to yell for customers to hear him.
He looked up at me when my shadow fell across him. From this position, I saw his thumbs tapping out a message on his phone, partially hidden in his lap.
"Look, I don't really want to buy a ticket. I just got this message to come and see Drake... He's the singer with The Icons. Think I could just go in?"
"Cover's $20 before six," he said, pointing up at the little sign in the corner of his booth outlining the prices.
I glanced over at the doors again. Squinting against the sheen of reflected street, I could see some sort of big foyer. Lights flashed from somewhere deeper within.
I could
I leaned forward, ready to tell him to get going, when he fell back into his seat and sped around the offending taxi into oncoming traffic, then back into the proper lane.
"The nerve on some people!" he said, looking at me in the rear-view mirror far longer than was safe, "The nerve! Right, miss?"
It took my heart a little while to force itself back down my throat. I knew that I'd be thinking about the look on the face of the elderly Chinese man who we'd almost gotten into a head-on collision with in my future quiet moments.
I don't think such an accident could have been any worse than what had already happened to me today.
I bit back the first thing that came to my mind about hypocrisy, choosing instead to nod. Then I launched into my own little bit of self defense.
"I'm not going to the club to see the show, okay? I'm going to see my... a guy. I think he's in trouble."
What did I call Drake? Friend? Acquaintance?
Boyfriend?
Definitely not the last one. Even though I'm pretty sure that's what I was originally going to describe him as.
"Oh, oh! Caught your man with another lady, yeah? Don't you worry; I'll get you there real soon, got it?"
I started to defend myself again, but by the cabbie's big grin (probably delighting in fantasies of helping a young lady go harangue her man) I knew it would get me nowhere.
So I breathed a, "Yeah," and relaxed back against the seat. I debated whether or not closing my eyes during this ride would help at all, but the sudden jerks of stops and starts would likely be even more terrifying if I couldn't see them.
I'm not sure how much longer it took to get to Club 54. I spent the remaining time in the cab going over all the possibilities of what might have happened to Drake, and, more importantly, why I got the call to come in and help him.
These ranged from mild things like some sort of trick to get me to see his band all the way to identifying his body. As usual, my mind was a jumble when it came to that guy.
As we pulled up to the curb, I decided that I would in fact stay if this really was just a ruse to get me to see his band in action. And I even promised myself to try hard to not become a groupie.
"That'll be twelve bucks even," he said, looking back over his shoulder at me. He still wore a big grin.
I shoved $15 into the cash drawer, told him to keep the change (regretting it right away since I knew how constricted money was about to become) and climbed out onto the sidewalk.
Right as I closed the door, he sped away. I found myself in an older looking neighborhood. Low buildings no bigger than ten floors or so, the ground level often being some sort of store or bar, dominated both sides of the street.
Despite the noise of the pedestrians sharing the sidewalk with me and the cars clogging the street, I had no trouble locating Club 54. The reverberation of the rock music spewing from it vibrated in my chest.
With the gridlock the way it was, I crossed the street scurrying between cars. A big sign above a bank of new glass doors spelled out CLUB 54 in huge block letters, with the silhouette of some vocalist screaming into the mic. At the center of the doors was a ticket window. And inside that sat a young guy in a leather jacket, his lank, black hair falling past his ears.
The little speaker set into the window meant he wouldn't have to yell for customers to hear him.
He looked up at me when my shadow fell across him. From this position, I saw his thumbs tapping out a message on his phone, partially hidden in his lap.
"Look, I don't really want to buy a ticket. I just got this message to come and see Drake... He's the singer with The Icons. Think I could just go in?"
"Cover's $20 before six," he said, pointing up at the little sign in the corner of his booth outlining the prices.
I glanced over at the doors again. Squinting against the sheen of reflected street, I could see some sort of big foyer. Lights flashed from somewhere deeper within.
I could
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