Chapter 12
“What are you going to do with the snake?” I ask as we walk out of the animal hospital, python in tow. It is larger than I imagined, and heavier, too, so we each take a handle of the cage and carry it together. The python, judging by its hissing, doesn’t seem particularly happy with us either.
“I guess I can hold on to it for safekeeping for now.” Amaya groans, holding the snake’s cage as far away from her as physically possible. “Then hopefully find a good home for him. I certainly don’t want him.”
I’m surprised she’s keeping the snake, despite her real disgust, and half expected her to get animal control to deal with it.
Though she tries hard to hide it, Amaya is clearly a compassionate person.
After all, she’s taken me on as a client, and it’s not like I’m even paying her.
She presents a steely exterior—a toughness that’s probably necessary in the world of lawyering as much as it is in the taxicab-driving business.
Yet underneath that hardness is a very good person.
I turn back toward the snake. It doesn’t look so bad…
if scaly, slithering, boneless reptiles are your thing.
I shudder. I would have offered to take the snake home to my parents’ house, only Ammi is deathly afraid of them.
She can’t even look at them from a distance.
Ammi was once surprised by a snake on television and screamed so loudly the neighbors assumed we were victims of a home invasion and called the police.
At least we found the dead man’s name. It is a starting point for a real investigation, even though it isn’t the big break I was hoping for.
True crime rule number four: An investigation is sometimes a series of unrelated clues that only come together later.
At the beginning, there’s sometimes only breadcrumbs.
Eventually we’ll find the entire loaf of bread… I hope.
“I need to take this snake home,” Amaya says glumly.
“Should I come with you?” I know Amaya is looking for any reason for me to not come along.
She’s made it clear she doesn’t need my assistance.
Maybe now is the time to make myself helpful, and for real this time, not just dramatically fainting at a twenty-four-hour animal hospital. “I can help you with the snake.”
I can see Amaya thinking my offer over. On the one hand, I’m a virtual stranger accused of murder. On the other hand, there’s a snake I could help her deal with.
“I do need help with the snake because he’s heavy, but you really should go home after that. Your parents are going to be worried.”
I nod, grateful I’m still a part of the investigation even for just a little bit longer.
“Should we wave down a taxi?”
Amaya looks at the snake. “Yes, I think bringing this thing on the subway is probably a recipe for disaster.” The snake coils in on itself tightly, as if in agreement.
—
In the taxi, Amaya sets the snake in between us.
“I’ll keep the snake around in case I need to throw him at my shitty ex,” she says, patting the top of the cage gently.
We both laugh. The tension we’ve been holding in dissipates, and I’m reminded how good it feels to laugh with someone who seems to really get me. Alex and I joke around, but he’ll never understand what it’s like to date an emotionally unavailable dude who loves to talk about Bitcoin ad nauseam.
I look at the cabdriver to see how he feels about a reptile in his back seat. He’s chatting on the phone and barely notices us.
“So tell me,” Amaya says, “about some of your most interesting taxicab passengers.”
The taxicab driver is still chatting away, so I feel a little less like an asshole divulging details.
It’s not like there is a code of ethics preventing us cabdrivers from talking about what happens in our taxis, and frankly, it’s not like I have my own crew of drivers to swap stories with.
Most people never ask about my job beyond those clichéd questions mostly relating to me being a female cabdriver.
Do you ever feel unsafe? Rarely, thanks to the bat I keep in my front seat that I’ve never had to use.
Do guys hit on you? Also rare, especially these days.
Don’t you get bored just driving around all day?
Don’t you get bored just sitting at your computer all day?
! I know most people mean well, but their questions feel like they’re just satisfying some lurid fascination, like my job is somehow beneath them.
However, Amaya’s question is one I get way less.
“Well, every passenger is different, but they usually fit into broad categories. The best passengers are people who make interesting conversation, or people who are quiet and polite.”
“Oh that’s boring, who are the worst? Give me something juicy! Have you ever refused service to someone?” Amaya says in a conspiratorial whisper. Obviously, Amaya has a life outside of work, but even so, it’s surprising to see this side. People could think we’re just friends hanging out.
I talk a big game about threatening to refuse service to people I deem assholes, but the truth is that I can’t remember the last time I ever did.
I’ve thought about not picking up the puking drunk or the openly rude business guy, but I realize my cab can be a lifeline for people who want to get home when other modes of transportation are unsafe or unavailable.
“The worst are the actively drunk people. You never know when they’re going to be sick…and the people trying to get it on…”
“Oh god, I hope no one has ever…”
It feels strange to be privy to the private lives of others who forget I am driving them or, more often, don’t care. I know by now it is more than the plastic barrier that separates me from them.
“Not all the way, but most everything else. Alex calls me the ultimate cockblock, which is a title I’m happy to have in my taxi.
It’s gross, and you’d think people wouldn’t want to, because I’m there, but people just tend to carry on—maybe spurred on by my screen being so murky and probably alcohol and drugs.
I’ve cleaned all sorts of things out of the back of my taxi.
I’m still human, though my passengers seem to forget it.
” The mere thought of what has touched my back seats means I clean them with antibacterial wipes every single day, incident or not. I’ve finally trained myself not to gag.
In truth, these anecdotes of the worst passengers don’t really encapsulate my experience, although they do make for an interesting story.
Asking about my passengers is like asking what makes a New Yorker—we’re many things.
On one ride, a man recommended some stocks, which I would have considered investing in had I had the money.
The stocks rose sharply the next few days, and I briefly had visions of me popping open bottles of champagne and taking caviar bumps like those completely unrelatable nepo baby Instagram influencers whom I mostly hate but also secretly envy just a smidge.
An obstetrician gave me tips about delivering a baby in a taxicab, should the occasion ever arise.
Her vivid descriptions of what happens to a woman’s body in the throes of childbirth were the ultimate birth control.
A dude detailing his weightlifting and protein goals briefly made me reconsider if I ever wanted to have a taxi conversation again.
People want the dramatic story, but my days are usually these simple interactions.
Even though some of these conversations are strange and almost all of them take me out of my comfort zone, in some weird way they connect me with this city I love so much.
Driving a cab can be such a solitary experience, and sometimes it can just feel nice to be part of the conversation.
As Amaya and I travel along the streets in our own taxi, I try to get comfortable in my seat.
I find it impossible given the cage takes up almost half of the car.
Amaya’s hair isn’t frizzy, her suit is neatly pressed, and from afar she looks pretty close to perfect.
This would normally be the time I’d compare myself to her, counting the numerous ways I fall short.
Yet, up close, I notice a small scar above her lip twisting away from her mouth, almost reaching her nose, like the curling tendril of a plant, faded over the years.
I notice her slightly pockmarked skin, likely from angry teenage acne, and her eyelashes that are long and thick.
It’s a reminder that we’re both just imperfect people.
—
The taxi rolls up cautiously to Amaya’s apartment.
I can see the confusion on the driver’s face, and I know he thinks he’s got the wrong address.
However, when she confidently gets out after paying, the taxi speeds away.
I usually make sure my passengers make it safely to the front door before driving off just in case they have gotten the wrong address.
I had—before that terrible night—always gotten my passengers where they were going unharmed.
I have blown my perfect record in the most awful way.
I look up at the building. I can discern much more detail in the daylight than I could when I dropped her off in the dark a few days ago.
The building is an ivy-covered brownstone, both charming and in clear disrepair.
Ivy looks like it has loosened the brick, the paint is chipped, and the gate is rusted—home improvement projects I am all too familiar with.
Somehow, though, unlike my home, the weathering of this house makes it look all the more cozy and welcoming, like a refuge on a cold fall day.
I assumed that Amaya, a lawyer, would occupy some updated space, some fancy new high-rise that replaced older homes, invaded the neighborhood, and was the death blow to local bodegas.