Ronald Dondiego, click
here to update your pages on AuthorsDen.
Blogs by Ronald Dondiego
Taxi Cab Confessions: New York City 10/13/2005 11:18:32 AM
Sex for money... She got in on Park Avenue South and asked to go to the Upper West Side. 271-86th street to be exact. It was a pulp fiction sort of night: rain, wind, dense fog, the hazy light of street lamps, the staring eyes of headlights, pedestrians moving blindly through the rain swept streets. It was getting late, about midnight as I recall.
I had a couple of hours left to go. I felt weary and couldn't wait for my shift to end. I remember turning off the radio and rolling down my front window half way. Then I heard her weep, a soft sob, an echo of remorse.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"I'm fine," she answered.
I am not one to pry, but I felt curous about this young woman. I caught a glimpse of her face as she dried her eyes. She was beautiful in a sultry way... Long black hair, finely chiseled features, blue gray eyes that shone luminously even in the fog.
"You look like a nice guy. Why do you drive a cab?" she asked.
I get this question a lot. But still I felt compelled to answer it with some honesty.
"Because I dont have to lie, cheat, or steal when I do this work. Besides, I like driving at night and being alone with my thoughts."
"No infringements on your solitude and no aspirations to be like Kenneth Lay?"
"Exactly," I replied.
Then there was a silence between us as my cab entered the Central Park Transverse to cross from East to West.
I heard her cry again. Since we had already exchanged some polite conversation, I took the liberty of asking her why she was so upset.
"I'm a call girl," she said, quite pointedly. "And my client, a man I've known for about six months, just went beserk on me."
"Did he hurt you?" I asked.
"He wanted me to stay for an extra hour. But he didn't want to pay for it. And he's rich too.. The bastard's loaded."
"I see. So what happened?"
She sobbed again and dried another tear before answering.
"It's hard to explain. He jumped on top of me, held me down, and started to slap my face. Then he grabbed my throat and pulled my hair."
"What did you do?" I asked curious as hell.
"I hit him over the head with a night table lamp and knocked him unconscious."
"Did you kill him?"
"No. At least I don't think so. There was some blood but the creep was still breathing."
"You don't have to worry," I said. "He won't call the police... He's got too much to lose."
"Yes, that's true," she replied.
At this point I pulled up to her swank apartment house on the Upper West Side and her doorman came running out to open the rear door of my taxi. She fumbled for her money and tipped me generously. Before she made her exit she said, "Thanks for listening to my story. I feel better now."
"Don't mention it," I replied. "I guess that's hacking in New York City."
After I dropped her off I rode down vacant streets, and listened to the dance of raindrops bouncing off the windows of my cab. I looked at apartment house windows, some lit, most of them unlit and absorbed in mist, and realized that every home had its story. Some sacred. Some profane. And that there were hidden sins, and secrets that would never be told. And everyone had them, even me.
