South Orange, New Jersey (1996)
Leon had woken in strange places before. Floors of hotel rooms, homeless shelters, dark pub corners, even churches. But never before had he found himself sprawled across the pavement in a Jersey suburb. Why would he be in Jersey anyway? He hated Jersey.
He had sat on the curb for a good fifteen minutes attempting to get his bearings before he finally pushed himself up and began walking down the streets with their tidy rows of White Flight houses. He was unsure of which way to go, and so chose randomly, figuring that he could only get so far before he ran into something else. The something else turned out to be a police car, stopping him for having the audacity to walk the suburban streets at four AM and be black. After a long and garbled explanation as to what he was doing there, the cop, being not completely heartless, gave Leon a lift to the closest convenience store and dropped him there with fifty cents for the pay phone.
Leon, for his part, was aware of the fact that the cop thought he was nuts. He was giving no indication of being drunk or on drugs, yet he was claiming that he didn't know how he had gotten to Jersey and that he must have been abducted. He was lucky to have gotten what he did from the cop, all things considered, as Leon didn't know any more about how to deal with the police than anyone else, in spite of the lucky badge he kept in the glovebox of his cab.
It was almost six AM when Leon's brother, Leroy, showed to pick the wayward cabbie up from the Wawa store and drive him back to the city. Leroy was cranky and complained the entire way about having to make the trip, not believing Leon's claims that he didn't know how he had gotten to Jersey or where his cab was. Leroy was even less enthused when, upon returning to NYC, they discovered Leon's cab in front of the drugstore where he had left it.
Aliens. That had to be the only explanation. Leon stood at the back of the cab, staring down at the neat hole left in his trunk lid. Some sort of probe, surely. He stuck his index finger through the hole and wiggled it experimentally. Yes. There was no other explanation. The inside of the cab offered no further evidence, although there was a blue t-shirt balled up in the backseat.
My name is Andrew, I am not a turtle? Is that some kind of joke? Needless to say, Leon didn't get it, and the shirt was tossed in the nearest waste bin without another thought. Leon had found way weirder stuff in his cab before, after all.
Sliding back into his familiar front seat, Leon was surprised to find his keys still dangling idly from the ignition. Somehow, he thought the aliens would have taken the rabbit's foot. The biggest surprise came, however, when he turned the key and every possible accessory turned on with the engine: The windsheild wipers, headlights, right-hand blinker, radio, disco ball, all of it.
"This means something," Leon murmurred to himself. Next stop, the National Enquirer.
He had sat on the curb for a good fifteen minutes attempting to get his bearings before he finally pushed himself up and began walking down the streets with their tidy rows of White Flight houses. He was unsure of which way to go, and so chose randomly, figuring that he could only get so far before he ran into something else. The something else turned out to be a police car, stopping him for having the audacity to walk the suburban streets at four AM and be black. After a long and garbled explanation as to what he was doing there, the cop, being not completely heartless, gave Leon a lift to the closest convenience store and dropped him there with fifty cents for the pay phone.
Leon, for his part, was aware of the fact that the cop thought he was nuts. He was giving no indication of being drunk or on drugs, yet he was claiming that he didn't know how he had gotten to Jersey and that he must have been abducted. He was lucky to have gotten what he did from the cop, all things considered, as Leon didn't know any more about how to deal with the police than anyone else, in spite of the lucky badge he kept in the glovebox of his cab.
It was almost six AM when Leon's brother, Leroy, showed to pick the wayward cabbie up from the Wawa store and drive him back to the city. Leroy was cranky and complained the entire way about having to make the trip, not believing Leon's claims that he didn't know how he had gotten to Jersey or where his cab was. Leroy was even less enthused when, upon returning to NYC, they discovered Leon's cab in front of the drugstore where he had left it.
Aliens. That had to be the only explanation. Leon stood at the back of the cab, staring down at the neat hole left in his trunk lid. Some sort of probe, surely. He stuck his index finger through the hole and wiggled it experimentally. Yes. There was no other explanation. The inside of the cab offered no further evidence, although there was a blue t-shirt balled up in the backseat.
My name is Andrew, I am not a turtle? Is that some kind of joke? Needless to say, Leon didn't get it, and the shirt was tossed in the nearest waste bin without another thought. Leon had found way weirder stuff in his cab before, after all.
Sliding back into his familiar front seat, Leon was surprised to find his keys still dangling idly from the ignition. Somehow, he thought the aliens would have taken the rabbit's foot. The biggest surprise came, however, when he turned the key and every possible accessory turned on with the engine: The windsheild wipers, headlights, right-hand blinker, radio, disco ball, all of it.
"This means something," Leon murmurred to himself. Next stop, the National Enquirer.