Chapter 2
After I drop off Amaya, I drive around Brooklyn, past my familiar corners, noticing that everyone in the bustling streets seems to be staring at their phones—the glare giving their faces an eerie zombie-like glow.
I guess I’m predisposed to see them in a negative light, as they are probably waiting for their Ubers to arrive.
I want to yell, “No surge pricing with yellow cabs!” from my open window, but I’m still on a high from meeting Amaya and am now less stressed about the lack of fares this evening than I normally would be.
The fog and exhaustion that seem to constantly bathe my brain are temporarily lifted.
I am buoyed by the idea of a new friendship.
Had she seen my tangled curls and unibrow that Ammi tries to brazenly pick at with her tweezers while I watch TV on the couch, she’d probably think twice about inviting me to dinner.
After seeing Amaya, a small part of me thinks that maybe I could put a little more effort into my life.
I should be living my life intentionally instead of just going through the motions.
I pull up to a bodega, a hallmark of New York City. I make a beeline toward the drink section, seeing every snack I can think of crammed onto shelves as I go. Tell me you’re having a bad day after you’ve had some Takis, I think to myself as I grab a bag.
I feel something at my feet and look down and see a black cat staring at me.
Most bodegas have a resident cat that can be seen making itself at home among the boxes, bags of chips, and toilet paper.
Corporate stores certainly wouldn’t allow for these delightful surprises.
Instead, they’d probably replace my diet Dr. Brown’s cream soda with some green juice that both tasted awful and I couldn’t afford.
I reach down to scratch its head, and it purrs in satisfaction.
Black cats are seen as bad omens, harbingers of bad luck, but I can’t understand why as I peer into the cat’s face and take in its tiny fuzzy ears and little paws.
I pay for the Takis and soda and consume both while leaning against my cab door studying the tarot card reader sign across the street.
Come Learn Your Future Now, the sign promises.
I think I already know what my future looks like, though I try to remind myself it isn’t as bad as some people have it.
For now, I have a roof over my head and food in my stomach.
I take a moment to wipe down my cab. I hate the dirt and grime that build up when people think it’s appropriate to eat—say, an entire steak dinner—in the back seat.
I carefully wipe down the handles, the seats, and the credit card machine.
I get back into my taxi when I get a ping from the Curb app.
Someone needs to be picked up. For yellow cabs to be competitive with other rideshares, the Taxi and Limousine Commission made it so you can also call one from an app.
I drive five minutes to pick up my passenger.
And I wait. We’re only supposed to wait for two minutes, but I linger.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a man carrying an odd oblong case with holes along the sides and top.
I wonder what could be in there, but I don’t stare long.
Staring at the wrong person in New York City could merit a punch in the face.
Besides, if I took in everything that was truly strange in this city, I’d never get any work done.
I wait for a few minutes longer. I need this fare.
I’m contemplating calling Alex to return his numerous missed calls over the past few days when the Curb app pings.
We never go more than a few days without talking, and I’m about to reach the point where he’ll send a search party after me if I don’t respond soon.
The Curb notification shows a cancellation.
I curse a little under my breath. I’m about to drive off when a man dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants with thick-rimmed glasses approaches my window.
It’s the man who had the odd oblong case. Now that’s gone.
“Are you working?” the man demands. He’s shouting through gritted teeth. Yelling and still expecting good service is typical entitled male behavior. Upon reflection I figure he is probably in a hurry. It is late at night, cold, and unsurprisingly, the man isn’t dressed properly for the weather.
“Yes.” I unlock the door, and when the man slides in, I ask, “Where are you going?” I lock the door again.
“JFK Airport.”
“Which terminal?”
“Uh, Air France. Wherever Air France is at.”
“Terminal one.” I memorized all the airlines and their corresponding terminals long ago. Schlepping bags between terminals is a nightmare that I’d like to spare my passengers from. It’s very considerate of me, I know.
I glance back at the man, realizing I didn’t pop the trunk. “Any bags?” I ask.
“Nope,” he responds, patting the small orange-and-black backpack with a logo and initials emblazoned on it next to him.
I ponder for a second where that other case he had with him could have gone.
As usual I’m overthinking, assuming that everything is a puzzle to be solved like the murders in my podcast. I really should be better at minding my own business.
I immediately ignore my own mandate and ask, “How are you doing?” I can’t help myself, though I’m pretty sure he won’t answer.
“I just need to make it on my flight,” the man huffs.
So I was right. He is worried about missing his flight. I am two for two on reading people tonight. He is rude enough that I contemplate driving extra slowly, but that’s a little too petty even for me.
“When is your flight?”
“Five a.m.”
I look at the time. Only half past one.
“I think you’ll have plenty of time,” I reply.
Maybe he has access to one of those fancy airport lounges and is trying to take advantage of all that free food.
Free food always tastes better. One time Alex took me to a work party where waiters in tuxedos passed around all sorts of delicious foods in miniature format.
I ate as much as I could and—to Alex’s extreme embarrassment—even packed a few to-go snacks in my purse.
Trying to transport shrimp cocktail without a lidded container wasn’t my best idea.
The man rolls down the window despite the chilly outdoor temperatures, and the smack of cold air brings me back to the present.
It’s a little annoying at first, but it does sort of wake me up.
Besides, the customer is always right, even when he’s wrong.
A lesson I’ve had to learn the hard way.
Arguing isn’t going to get you a better tip, Siriwathi, Ammi’s voice annoyingly rings in my head.
Sadly, I’ve never had the easy charm of my big brother.
After a few seconds of silence, I think I can hear the consistent, rhythmic breathing of someone who has passed out cold, so I turn one of my true crime podcasts, realizing I left this one off at a very dramatic point.
It blares louder than I anticipate, and I quickly turn the volume down a little bit.
Luckily, the man appears to still be sleeping, so it plays loud enough to drown out the city sounds.
Was the podcaster finally about to uncover that it was the tourist’s friend all along?
My hands clench the steering wheel in anticipation as if I’m somehow personally invested in this drama.
I’m certain my passenger can’t hear it over the din of the taxi television blaring in the back, which he makes no effort to turn off.
I cruise through Brooklyn. The main roads are crowded as usual with late-night revelers and cars.
Some bros stumble out of bars as they begin to make their last calls.
I eye several people wobbling like toddlers who just learned to walk, and I’m pretty sure they are about to puke.
I mentally send thoughts of camaraderie and strength to whichever rideshare service picks those people up. It might be me tomorrow.
I hear a ping and look down. It’s a text from Alex. Let’s catch up.
My guilt gnaws at me. He’s been checking on me consistently since the worst day of my life, and I can’t even return his calls in a timely manner.
Alex and I couldn’t be more different, and if we met today, I’m positive we’d hate each other.
Good thing we met almost twenty years ago, when merciless bullying drove us together, and now we’re trauma bonded for life.
It’s also given me plenty of time to get used to his inability to make proper plans and his insistence that women love receiving shirtless photos of him.
I slow at a red light, and a group of dangerously drunk people begin to moon and flash us. I look back at my customer, who doesn’t stir. I look back in time to see one man even boldly reach through the open window of the taxi and grab at my passenger in the back.
“Stop!” I yell, preparing to get out. I’ve practiced an authoritative voice that’s one octave lower than my normal speaking voice for just these instances.
The drunk man simply runs away. This is why I like my windows up, I think to myself with a smug satisfaction.
Customer’s always right, my ass. I look through the murky divider.
“Are you okay?”
The man doesn’t respond, and I’m grateful that he’s a deep sleeper.