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Getting
into the taxi felt good, sinking down into that back seat and
letting someone else take over, abdicating responsibility for
the immediate so he could concentrate more clearly on establishing
the proper mood, you know, really get into character. He hadn't
ridden in many cabs in his life, so the novelty was still there.
To him it was really quite romantic--he felt like he was in
a Hollywood movie. He wearily called out the address of his
destination feeling so much like a character in a pulp detective
story that he had to refrain from adding "and make it snappy,
bub". Ah, but he didn't really want to arrive anywhere
in a hurry. What he wanted was a cigarette in his mouth. At
that moment he sincerely wished he had taken up smoking at some
point in his life, but he never had and you can't smoke in cabs
anymore anyway, can you? Maybe if the cabbie does? Anyway, no
matter.
He was planning on taking a good long break from what those
around him enjoyed referring to as "reality". He was
writing his own movie now, making it up as he went along. He
had an outline. And it started with this cab ride over to Debbie's
apartment. Her real name was… well, that's not important.
In his movie and from now on she was just Debbie. A suitable
name for a blonde floozy such as she, he thought, though not
entirely sure why he thought this, he must have picked up the
idea somewhere. Anyway this was his movie and he made up the
characters, gave them their names and motivations and if he
said it was suitable, then damn it, that was good enough.
His internal bickering was interrupted by the cab driver, this
slightly overweight foreign looking fellow was apparently attempting
to engage him in conversation about some recent sporting event,
the nature and specificity of which he was unsure. Goddamn it!
He had started his movie here in this cab in order to establish
the proper mood--one of dark foreboding, this was the calm before
the storm--it was supposed to have a quiet but ominous brooding
quality and this cornball's goofy banter was wrecking everything.
He ignored the cabbie's questions and stared intently out the
window. He noticed that a light rain had started to fall. Well,
at least that fit, he sighed.
He could see the vague outline of his reflection in the cab's
window. He looked good. It had been a few days since he had
slept or shaved, so he looked suitably disheveled but still
rather dignified and cool in his second hand suit. Not at all
like a bum. He looked a real character. Man, if he only had
that cigarette, something French, maybe a Gauloise or Gitane,
he'd look just like Belmondo for Christ sake! To console himself
he rubbed his lips with his thumb and narrowed his eyes. He
could feel the cold steel of that beautiful black .38 on his
waist.
The painkillers he had taken had given everything just the right
dreamy feel and they were really coming on strong now. The cabbie’s
banter was just a distant buzz way in the back of his brain,
easy to ignore. Mmm, his mouth was dry but he felt good. He'd
have Debbie fix him a drink when he arrived. Something nice
and cool, gin, a gimlet maybe. And music, man he hoped he could
find some suitable music for the hi-fi, he couldn't remember
if he had left any records over at her place last time. God,
Debbie's taste in music was so awful, it would never do for
this flick, that's for damn sure.
Hmmm, he was pretty confident he had left a couple of Miles
records at her place. She was always gibbering away about wanting
to learn more about "his music", he had to keep from
laughing right in her face when she'd come out with this corn:
you either feel it or you don't baby, he'd say. And that's all
he would say about that, then he'd tell her to come here, bend
her over the bed, hike her skirt up, pull her panties to one
side and mount her roughly from behind. Sometimes, if feeling
particularly inspired, he'd rip her panties clean off. She liked
that. A whore just like the rest he thought, just like the rest.
He held all women in just the right amount of thinly veiled
contempt to ensure that he was inevitably successful with the
majority of them. It seemed to turn them on. They always wanted
to prove themselves to him. This of course only made him feel
more contemptuous, which made them cling even more pathetically,
and him in turn even more abusive. It was a vicious cycle, one
that he thoroughly enjoyed.
Miles Ahead or Ascenseur Pour L'Echafaud, that's
what he wanted to hear. He leaned back from the window and put
his thin wrap-around shades on, it was overcast but the pain
killers made him sensitive to even this muted light, anyway
he liked the way he looked in those glasses. This was his movie.
The streets were slick now with the light rainfall and as the
streetlights came on they twinkled off the pavement, the colors
sparkled, everything looked candy coated like a carnival. He
wet his lips. Traffic had also slowed down due to the rain,
much to his drivers displeasure who was now preoccupied with
cursing the overly cautious motorists around him. He didn't
mind though, he had all night, the view of the outside world
through his reflection in the window was so lovely and here
inside this taxi he was warm and dry.
After a series of ill advised and ultimately fruitless attempts
at shortcuts, the driver pulled up in front of Debbie's building.
He was by this point so lost in his rainy day reverie that the
driver had to repeat the price of the ride several times with
increasing volume before getting his attention. He reluctantly
left his slowed down thoughts, cleared his throat and thanked
the driver. After sliding slowly out of the cab he pulled out
his money clip and leisurely removed the fare along with what
he considered a rather generous tip, "keep the change"
he muttered while looking up the street and away from the driver.
The cabbie pulled off shaking his head.
It was still drizzling and he was getting damp standing still
but it felt good, at this point all the sensations around him
felt good, from the splash of wheels through puddles, to the
light patter of the rain and the low woosh of the wind which
was kicking up. He took his hand and brushed back his hair,
glanced up at the big black clouds forming and headed towards
the stairs of Debbie's building. A group of small children ran
in front of him splashing in the puddles on the street. He paused
for a second to watch them and thought about how much he enjoyed
playing in the rain as a child, how his mother had always made
him come in for fear of lightning or pneumonia or something.
He wondered where these children's parents were and how dangerous
playing in the rain really was. As these thoughts very slowly
turned round in his brain he realized he had once again stopped
moving all together, the painkillers had really done a number
on him, big slow down. He shook his head to try to regain focus
and started forward with increased deliberateness.
He entered the covered stairwell of the apartment. It smelled
like old books, moist old books. Not really an unpleasant smell--just
old with a hint of mold. It actually fit nicely. He decided
that if he was gonna have a drink and still remain conscious
to finish his movie in the required fashion, he was gonna need
a little pick me up. So he ducked behind the stairwell and fished
around in his pockets for the little piece of tin foil. Very
slowly and with severe concentration he dipped his key into
the white powder and lifted it to his nose. He felt an extreme
sense of accomplishment at completing this action without spilling
any powder. He repeated for the other nostril. Once again he
felt triumphant at having successfully completed the task, this
was enhanced by the warm glow of reassurance and confidence
as the powder entered and circulated through his brain. He decided
to give each nostril a couple more bumps, he needed to be sharper,
couldn't be so sluggish and dreamy if he was gonna carry this
off and look good doing it. Couldn't afford any retakes, none
of that nonsense, this was all gonna be done in real time.
| William
Crain, January 2003 |
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