The Language of a Taxi Man.
An edited, reviewed piece of fiction. With a title! Ooh, I think I'm on a roll here.
Umm, I think you may have to read my Freewrite #2 to get the ending. Maybe. It can be found here: http://cikka.livejournal.com/1941.html#cutid1
Well here you go:
Being a taxi driver isn’t nearly as mundane a job as some make it out to be. Neither is it as exciting a one as some make it out to be. There aren’t really any high-speed car chases; no man, yet, has jumped into my car yelling ‘Step on it! Step on it!’ or ‘After that car.’ Being a taxi driver is, in fact, exactly what you think it is: picking people up, dropping people off.
- - -
“…ddon road,” I hear a man, as he steps into the backseat and slams the door behind him.
I jolt awake and turn back to his expectant face and poorly-ironed suit.
“Sir, this taxi isn’t in service.” The “Not in service sign should have given it away.
“I’m getting late.”
There’s a slight pause.
“Sir, this taxi isn-”
“I heard you.”
I stare at him.
“Then you know I can’t drive you,” I say slowly, making sure he understands me.
“I’m getting late,” he repeats.
I can only blink at him.
“Where to?” I ask, starting the engine.
Waddon road.”
“Where?”
The man grumbles incoherently to himself before answering.
“Croydon.”
I pull the key out of the ignition.
“Now what?”
“That’s four hours away!” I turn back to him, “I can’t drive you there!”
The man is annoyed. He is breathing rapid breaths through his nose and his jaw is set in a hard, edgy line.
“Wad-don road,” he whispers, glaring. “I’m get-ting late.”
I stare back at him for a few disbelieving seconds. Then I glance at my watch; ‘six-thirty in the morning,’ it says. It’s only been two hours since my shift ended.
I let out a deep breath and start the engine. As I pull out of the deserted mall parking lot, I wonder why I always sleep in cars and never in beds.
- - -
“It’s a funeral,” he says sometime later, his voice monotonous.
It’s an apology, I suppose. Explain the suit, anyway.
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry.”
“Family. Gotta be there.”
“Mhm-hm.”
“Important stuff.” I can’t help but note the sarcasm in his voice.
“Yes sir, it is.”
- - -
The man falls asleep for 15 minutes before jolting awake when I deliberately drive over a pothole. I grin at my revenge and forgive him.
- - -
“How old are you?” he asks, some ten minutes later.
“21, sir,” I answer smiling.
“21? Bit young for a taxi driver.” I was expecting that.
“Yes sir, it is.”
He frowns, “Didn’t you go to college?”
I did. Spent two years living in a place I didn’t care about, going to parties I didn’t like, impressing people that didn’t need impressing.
“No sir, I didn’t.”
- - -
“Where’s the funeral?” I ask him when I hit Croydon’s exit.
“Waddon road. I’ve said it before.”
“Yes, but where is that?”
“You’re a taxi driver, aren’t you?” You should know this.”
“I’m a Sandle’s driver. I don’t know a thing about Croydon.”
He sighs at my obvious failure.
“Well you have-” he checks his watch, “-ten minutes to get there.”
“We’ll just ask someone.”
- - -
The problem with Croydon, though, is that no one exists here. Those that do all seem to like working in the middle of giant fields with cows. None of the shops are open and there isn’t even a city centre. There are, however, long, unnamed roads that probably lead to nowhere, and red houses dotting the fields.
- - -
A dozen wrong turns and a hundred insults later, we’re still in the middle of nowhere.
“You’re an incompetent idiot,” the man tells me yet again.
“I don’t know this place!”
“You’re still an incompetent idiot.” My hands tighten around the steering wheel. “You shouldn’t even be driving a taxi.”
“Look-“
“I’m not paying to be driven around by an illiterate idiot who couldn’t even get into colle-“
I screech to an immediate halt.
“Get out of my taxi,” I tell him through the rearview mirror.
“We-we’re not there yet.”
“I’m not driving you anymore.”
“I’m not going to pay you.”
“You don’t have to,” I turn back to him. “Just get out.”
There is quiet that I expected. All I hear is the hard, angry breaths that both the man and I are taking.
“I need to get there,’ he tells me, his voice small. “It’s a funeral, and I need to get there.”
I stare at him for a minute before breathing a great sigh and turning back to the steering wheel.
“I need you to be quiet,” I tell him, “I will get you there but you need to be quiet.
He doesn’t answer; instead, he settles back onto his seat and glares at the back of my head. Silent.
- - -
Silence does miracles, and five minutes later we find Waddon road. There aren’t any houses, though, as I’d expected there to be, and so I don’t really know where I’m going.
“It’s at the end of the road,” he says, staring blankly at his hands.
At the end of the road, I find a cemetery.
When I slow to a stop in front of the entrance, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even look up from his hands. The funeral service is probably over, I think.
“S-sir?” I begin after a slight hesitation.
“I think it may take a while.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You can go for a drive.”
“Okay.”
He pulls a bright red yellow box of Honey Comb cereal from under the seat and steps out.
It’s an odd sight: a silent, suited man holding a cereal box. I frown at him before driving off. From the side mirror, I watch him watch me. The morning sun shines above him and the tombstones behind him become smaller and smaller.
- - -
Half an hour later, when I return, the man is sitting on the curb, waiting. The cereal box is no where to be seen.
When I stop in front of him, he gets into the backseat wordlessly, and I start driving.
- - -
The drive back is unsurprisingly silent. The man falls asleep. I am careful to avoid potholes.
- - -
He tells me where he lives, and when I find it, it’s dusk. I’m surprised to find a modest, but not quite, two story house. It’s old and the brinks are red, red, red, and the garden is green, green, green with no other colour. It’s beautiful.
“How much will that be?” he asks.
Both he and I glance at the electronic screen beside me. $604.75.
“Geez 600 bucks,” he sighs, “you sure like robbing people.”
“You don’t have to pay.”
“Why?” he pulls out his wallet, “600 dollars is no joke.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You spent the entire day driving. Badly, I might add, but driving nonetheless.”
“It’s okay. 95 per cent of it is labour anyway.”
He looks at me through the mirror, and shakes his head.
“Do you usually spend nights sleeping in your car?” he asks.
“No, I usually sleep in a bed.” A lie.
“Do you need a new bed?”
“Are you going to buy me a bed?” I turn around.
“No,” the man looks down at his hands, “I’m offering you a place to stay.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll give you three months free for your driving today.”
“Oh.”
“That’s all I can offer.”
“Do you live alone?”
“No, I live with two other people. One is a university student and the other’s a middle aged woman who… actually I don’t know what she does.”
I look at the house. The red, red bricks and the green, green garden.
“Okay.” I nod.
“Okay?
“Yep.”
“Don’t you want to see the house?”
“No.” I’m sure.
“Okay.”
“I’m Roy, by the way.” He might as well know my name.
“I’m the Landlord.”
“The Landlord?”
“Yes.”
“Just the Landlord?”
“Just the Landlord.”
“Okay.”
“Come back tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll set a lease,” he says, getting out of the car.
“Okay.”
He’s already at the porch when I suddenly remember.
“Wait!” I call, “How much is the rent usually?”
“What?”
“The rent!”
“Oh. 200 per month!” he replies.
“That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“Why so cheap?”
He grins. “You’ll see.”
- - - end.
Feedback and criticism, as always, is greatly appreciated.
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