Experiment 5

36. NUMBER NINETEEN

“Ger.on.i.mo!” The meter was running; the cab caged like a prison cell. My jailor stabbed a cassette into the dashboard slot, “I’m on a highway to hell!” A banshee knows no pity and his greasy ponytail flailed in lagging time, to my further torment. BRUTES WITH JACKHAMMERS AND NEON ORANGE VESTS HAD CHOSEN THE DAY TO GOUGE OPEN EVERY STREET IN THE CITY. Ne’er-do-well pedestrians defied the traffic light, to clog all intersections. And man’s misery had taken a novel twist. The taxi ride of expectation subjects the poor passenger to a death wish of angered acceleration, but I suffered the only cabbie in the history of motorized transportation who drove like an old lady on Valium.

“Roll down the window, can you? Smells like a brothel.” I am a sensitive soul, as you know. Torn upholstery further padded my trove of unrest.

“Trut’! Las night coupla kids doin’ the nasty on back seat. M’ boy don’ give a shit, goin all the way. Giddy up cowboy! I gives ’im ’igh five when e’s done. Apologize if yer seat a lil sticky, heh heh.”

“Ho-hum.” I squirmed, but maintain a policy.

“’s all good bub, long as they pays up.”

“You have a job, a small miracle in itself.”

“For now. Chicks I see, damn! Might ave t’ go for it m’self. I git my ass fired, wha’s done?

I have some responsibility. Luxury Cabs needed a reference and their applicant had fabulated time on my payroll. My ethics had a reckoning: The lie of his cajoling would subject his fares to mortal danger and condemn fine ladies to indecent solicitation. But my cave would temporarily reduce the frequency of his loan requests. Fortunately, I was alone in the store when the phone rang: Yes sir, Edward was an exemplary employee, I cannot recommend him highly enough.