the last man waiting for his taxi. When it was my turn, there was only one cab left. A good omen, I thought. He’d be glad to have me as a customer now.
“Where you heading to, sir?” The driver was black, and he had a soft Caribbean accent. Jamaican, maybe.
I made a writing motion. He looked at me with confusion until he finally got the message. He took out a pen and tore a sheet out of a notebook he had lying on his front seat. He watched me as I wrote on the paper. Thatslightly entertained look, what an interesting twist this is, a man who must write me a message, what will happen next? The whole scene I usually hated so much, but on this night I just wanted the man to understand me as quickly as possible.
I need to go to the city
, I wrote.
I know it will be expensive.
I handed him back the pen and paper, and then I showed him the twenties in my hand.
“You want me to take you all that way?” That singsong lilt in his voice. “I’d have to charge you for the round-trip.”
I nodded my head. Good enough, kind sir. Let’s get rolling.
He didn’t move yet. He looked me up and down.
“Are you okay, young man? You don’t seem good to me.”
I put my hands up. I’m perfectly good, no problem here. Thanks for your concern.
“You’re wet and cold. Please, get in the cab.”
Glad to, I thought. I got in and counted the seconds until he finally put the cab in gear and left the station. My ears were still ringing from the blast of the shotgun. I could still smell the blood. I wasn’t sure if the driver could smell it, or if it was just me. Something I’d be smelling for the rest of my life.
The driver picked up the radio. This is it, I told myself. The dispatcher will know about the search for the fifth man, the one who got away. The driver will turn and look at me, and he’ll know in an instant. If I’m lucky he won’t run the cab right off the road, will simply tell me to sit back and not to try anything funny, because he has to turn around and take me to the police station.
Somehow, though, the dispatcher hadn’t gotten the word. Thank God for bad communication between law enforcement agencies and public transportation. The driver kept driving. I didn’t relax even then, because every time a voice would break through the static on the radio, I’d figure it would be the bulletin finally coming through. Maybe a special code that I wouldn’t recognize but the driver would know. Code 99 or whatever the hell it would be, meaning watch out for a fugitive on the run. Respond with the appropriate code if the fugitive is in your cab. The police will set up the roadblock for you.
The code never came. The driver took me all the way into the city, softly humming a tune the whole way. I took the paper back from him and wrote down an address a few blocks away from the restaurant. Don’t let him know exactly where you’re going. One more precaution, just in case.
The fare ended up being $150, including tip. The man thanked me andtold me to get inside because it was too cold to be running around like a fool with no coat. He seemed to want to tell me a few other things, but I tipped an imaginary hat to him and walked away.
When he was gone, I went down the street, turned the corner, and saw the restaurant. The lights were glowing in the dark. Customers were lined up at the counter, even this late at night. I went through the side door, up the stairs, and into my little room.
There, in the shoebox, the white pager was beeping.
Michigan
June 1999
----
Last day of school. I had one more year left, of course, but it still felt like a big day to me. Griffin would be going to art school in Wisconsin. Not far enough away from home to suit him, but he apparently didn’t have many other options. I wasn’t sure how well I’d do without him, but Mr. Martie took me aside that day and told me that a couple of the art schools were asking about me. They had seen some of my stuff at a district-wide portfolio day,
“Where you heading to, sir?” The driver was black, and he had a soft Caribbean accent. Jamaican, maybe.
I made a writing motion. He looked at me with confusion until he finally got the message. He took out a pen and tore a sheet out of a notebook he had lying on his front seat. He watched me as I wrote on the paper. Thatslightly entertained look, what an interesting twist this is, a man who must write me a message, what will happen next? The whole scene I usually hated so much, but on this night I just wanted the man to understand me as quickly as possible.
I need to go to the city
, I wrote.
I know it will be expensive.
I handed him back the pen and paper, and then I showed him the twenties in my hand.
“You want me to take you all that way?” That singsong lilt in his voice. “I’d have to charge you for the round-trip.”
I nodded my head. Good enough, kind sir. Let’s get rolling.
He didn’t move yet. He looked me up and down.
“Are you okay, young man? You don’t seem good to me.”
I put my hands up. I’m perfectly good, no problem here. Thanks for your concern.
“You’re wet and cold. Please, get in the cab.”
Glad to, I thought. I got in and counted the seconds until he finally put the cab in gear and left the station. My ears were still ringing from the blast of the shotgun. I could still smell the blood. I wasn’t sure if the driver could smell it, or if it was just me. Something I’d be smelling for the rest of my life.
The driver picked up the radio. This is it, I told myself. The dispatcher will know about the search for the fifth man, the one who got away. The driver will turn and look at me, and he’ll know in an instant. If I’m lucky he won’t run the cab right off the road, will simply tell me to sit back and not to try anything funny, because he has to turn around and take me to the police station.
Somehow, though, the dispatcher hadn’t gotten the word. Thank God for bad communication between law enforcement agencies and public transportation. The driver kept driving. I didn’t relax even then, because every time a voice would break through the static on the radio, I’d figure it would be the bulletin finally coming through. Maybe a special code that I wouldn’t recognize but the driver would know. Code 99 or whatever the hell it would be, meaning watch out for a fugitive on the run. Respond with the appropriate code if the fugitive is in your cab. The police will set up the roadblock for you.
The code never came. The driver took me all the way into the city, softly humming a tune the whole way. I took the paper back from him and wrote down an address a few blocks away from the restaurant. Don’t let him know exactly where you’re going. One more precaution, just in case.
The fare ended up being $150, including tip. The man thanked me andtold me to get inside because it was too cold to be running around like a fool with no coat. He seemed to want to tell me a few other things, but I tipped an imaginary hat to him and walked away.
When he was gone, I went down the street, turned the corner, and saw the restaurant. The lights were glowing in the dark. Customers were lined up at the counter, even this late at night. I went through the side door, up the stairs, and into my little room.
There, in the shoebox, the white pager was beeping.
Michigan
June 1999
----
Last day of school. I had one more year left, of course, but it still felt like a big day to me. Griffin would be going to art school in Wisconsin. Not far enough away from home to suit him, but he apparently didn’t have many other options. I wasn’t sure how well I’d do without him, but Mr. Martie took me aside that day and told me that a couple of the art schools were asking about me. They had seen some of my stuff at a district-wide portfolio day,
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