Some things don't wash out.
Who: Red, Chip (NPC)
What: A cab ride and a hospital stay
When: 17th, immediately after being shot.
Where: Taxi -- > hospital
Rating: PG
Status: Complete
Here's the thing about Chip: he was, really, just an average cab driver.
There was a tendency to forget cab drivers were people. It became easy to think of them in terms of thick accents, backs of heads or occasionally the glimpse of a profile when you were in the backseat. Occasionally a glance at the displayed license would grant you privy to a name (easily mispronounced and just as easily forgotten) or the dim statistics of an unfamiliar life.
(His name wasn't really "Chip" by the way, but it was much harder to pronounce "Chipputra Shanmugasundaram.")
For the sake of simplicity: Chip lived in an apartment complex just on the edge of town. A small place, but his wife seemed to like it, always tittering about as she made dinner and filled the place with a warm aroma of saffron and curry.
"We must get the wallpaper up. You know my mother disapproves of you as it is. The fit she will throw when she comes to town!"
"Darling, I think she'll throw a fit for other reasons."
Living on the sidelines, Chip and his wife (let's call her Rita) had in the past year experienced the oddest things.
Firstly, Chip found it strange that there was a taxi company in Canada -- especially in such a small town. He'd asked when he first started if this was a training position because Toronto wasn't hiring. The man behind the desk had frowned then, though it was quite possible he couldn't understand the accent.
West-Indian. He'd gotten better over the years, honest!
Chip was then reassured that he would have as steady a workload as any of other cabbies in the big city. That this small town reported a surprisingly low population of people with cars. What Chip hadn't counted on was the rest of the fairy-tale. He wished he'd paid more attention to the strange wording in the contract about earthquakes and a waiver for cases of any possible psychological damage. Even more, he wished he'd paid more attention to the rumors.
The earthquake came as a surprise, especially when he and Rita discovered the shockwaves had stopped on the city limits and there was no report of it on the major news. And when his wife awoke one morning to discover him a child, Chip almost decided to leave. Oddly enough, Rita didn't seem bothered, finding a casual humor in the situation. "I hear these things! They always happen! You shouldn't worry -- your job is still well, yes?" The strange thing, Chip found, it really was. Sitting at the station, he'd get calls at strange hours but never complained, always arriving in "Ten-Minutes-Or-Less" (was the motto) and looking sleepily into the rearview mirror.
"Where to?"
~
The phone rang and Chip snapped awake. Brian had gone home, anticipating a slow night, and this left Chip to lofty management. Dutifully, the man plucked up the receiver. "Thank you for calling Aterna-- "
"Chip, please."
The woman on the other end sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place the sound of her voice. She sounded strained and out-of-breath and Chip suddenly felt a horrible wrenching in his stomach. "Speaking. How may I help you?"
"Chip, I need you to -- " There was a sound like the mobile suddenly clattering to the ground and a pained groan ("Fucking slippery...") before her voice became clear again, reading him the address. Chip scarcely had a pen and scrambled to write down the digits.
The rich part of town. He thought everyone had their own Bentley.
~
Ten-Minutes-or-Less.
~
He helped her into the car, the puzzle of why her voice was so familiar made clear the moment he saw her hair. Barney seemed to like her. Well, Chip couldn't speak for the man because he seemed to like just about every girl that Chip drove to the hotel. In any case -- Chip rather liked Barney. He always made conversation and tipped generously.
Part of why he worried so much about the girl in his backseat, bleeding profusely over his upholstery. Chip didn't need to ask where to take her and drove on screeching tires to the hospital. Thank the gods the police had given up on patrolling.
He'd wait for the paramedics and helped them move her onto a stretcher, heavy brows knitted together in worry and confusion as they wheeled her off and brought him some papers to sign, which he graciously obliged. What else could he do? Chip was a sweet man, at heart, and once the whirlwind of panic and shouting paramedics subsided, he was left alone, staring at an open, yellow door and a wet streak of red across gray seat.
"They're going to dock my pay for this."
What: A cab ride and a hospital stay
When: 17th, immediately after being shot.
Where: Taxi -- > hospital
Rating: PG
Status: Complete
Here's the thing about Chip: he was, really, just an average cab driver.
There was a tendency to forget cab drivers were people. It became easy to think of them in terms of thick accents, backs of heads or occasionally the glimpse of a profile when you were in the backseat. Occasionally a glance at the displayed license would grant you privy to a name (easily mispronounced and just as easily forgotten) or the dim statistics of an unfamiliar life.
(His name wasn't really "Chip" by the way, but it was much harder to pronounce "Chipputra Shanmugasundaram.")
For the sake of simplicity: Chip lived in an apartment complex just on the edge of town. A small place, but his wife seemed to like it, always tittering about as she made dinner and filled the place with a warm aroma of saffron and curry.
"We must get the wallpaper up. You know my mother disapproves of you as it is. The fit she will throw when she comes to town!"
"Darling, I think she'll throw a fit for other reasons."
Living on the sidelines, Chip and his wife (let's call her Rita) had in the past year experienced the oddest things.
Firstly, Chip found it strange that there was a taxi company in Canada -- especially in such a small town. He'd asked when he first started if this was a training position because Toronto wasn't hiring. The man behind the desk had frowned then, though it was quite possible he couldn't understand the accent.
West-Indian. He'd gotten better over the years, honest!
Chip was then reassured that he would have as steady a workload as any of other cabbies in the big city. That this small town reported a surprisingly low population of people with cars. What Chip hadn't counted on was the rest of the fairy-tale. He wished he'd paid more attention to the strange wording in the contract about earthquakes and a waiver for cases of any possible psychological damage. Even more, he wished he'd paid more attention to the rumors.
The earthquake came as a surprise, especially when he and Rita discovered the shockwaves had stopped on the city limits and there was no report of it on the major news. And when his wife awoke one morning to discover him a child, Chip almost decided to leave. Oddly enough, Rita didn't seem bothered, finding a casual humor in the situation. "I hear these things! They always happen! You shouldn't worry -- your job is still well, yes?" The strange thing, Chip found, it really was. Sitting at the station, he'd get calls at strange hours but never complained, always arriving in "Ten-Minutes-Or-Less" (was the motto) and looking sleepily into the rearview mirror.
"Where to?"
~
The phone rang and Chip snapped awake. Brian had gone home, anticipating a slow night, and this left Chip to lofty management. Dutifully, the man plucked up the receiver. "Thank you for calling Aterna-- "
"Chip, please."
The woman on the other end sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place the sound of her voice. She sounded strained and out-of-breath and Chip suddenly felt a horrible wrenching in his stomach. "Speaking. How may I help you?"
"Chip, I need you to -- " There was a sound like the mobile suddenly clattering to the ground and a pained groan ("Fucking slippery...") before her voice became clear again, reading him the address. Chip scarcely had a pen and scrambled to write down the digits.
The rich part of town. He thought everyone had their own Bentley.
~
Ten-Minutes-or-Less.
~
He helped her into the car, the puzzle of why her voice was so familiar made clear the moment he saw her hair. Barney seemed to like her. Well, Chip couldn't speak for the man because he seemed to like just about every girl that Chip drove to the hotel. In any case -- Chip rather liked Barney. He always made conversation and tipped generously.
Part of why he worried so much about the girl in his backseat, bleeding profusely over his upholstery. Chip didn't need to ask where to take her and drove on screeching tires to the hospital. Thank the gods the police had given up on patrolling.
He'd wait for the paramedics and helped them move her onto a stretcher, heavy brows knitted together in worry and confusion as they wheeled her off and brought him some papers to sign, which he graciously obliged. What else could he do? Chip was a sweet man, at heart, and once the whirlwind of panic and shouting paramedics subsided, he was left alone, staring at an open, yellow door and a wet streak of red across gray seat.
"They're going to dock my pay for this."