Quasi-fictionconstruction
Canarsie
I
The first strange thing that happened was that a cab stopped right away. It was fortunate, because it was raining pretty hard. But it was also just after eleven, when all the Broadway shows let out. Getting a cab in that part of town, at that hour, especially in the rain, was never easy. She had resigned herself to spending twenty minutes trying to hail a cab. But one stopped for her right away.
Before the driver could speak, she said, in her weird cab-voice--which was also her telephone-customer-service voice and her helping-old-ladies-with-directions-voice--a little too loud and high-pitched and over-pronounced, "I'm going to Greenpoint, Brooklyn. McGuinness stop of the BQE."
The driver turned around and looked at her. She couldn't tell if he was sizing her up generally or if he was sizing her up to see if she was the type of passenger who would report him for refusing to drive to Brooklyn. He looked to be about her age, mid-20s. Save for an intensity about the eyebrows, he looked like the kind of guy who would describe himself as laid-back. The kind of guy who cuts his own hair and goes to see bands every night and smokes a lot of pot. Not the average cab driver. She narrowed her eyes. The driver smiled. "I know a shortcut," he said. "It'll be our secret. You know, from up here, it doesn't make a lot of sense to go all the way downtown, to the bridge, and then back up, right--?"
"Right," she replied, relieved. "I didn't mean that you had to take the bridge--"
"We'll take the tunnel," he said. "Born and bred New Yorker, right here. And I drive a yellow cab, that's right. Tunnel'll save you money."
"Okay."
"It's a favor," he added.
She was a little drunk--not too drunk. A little drunk and a little tired, but not tired in the way that people who work in offices tell each other they are tired in elevators every morning. A more long-term tired, a tired not about activities and not about not sleeping or about working too hard. It was a tired based on thinking. Tired in principle. Tired with an implied, parenthetical "of."
"You ok?" the driver asked. He looked at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes were dark brown.
"Yeah," she responded, after a moment. Then, "Why, do I look not ok?"
"Ummm," said the driver. "No, I guess you look fine. Maybe a little sad."
"It's just how my face looks." It was an automatic response. Too quick. In the rearview mirror, the driver's eyes widened for a second. She got that "you look sad" thing a lot.
"Oh," said the driver, pulling on to Fifth avenue. His driving was tense and jerky, full of sharp turns and sudden stops. He fiddled with the radio until he settled on some heavily staticked bagpipes.
"Anyway, I'm fine. I'm just thinking."
"Whatcha thinking about?"
It was a hard question. She barely knew. She had been staring out the window, most recently at an advertisement perched atop another cab, a geometric appendage, more triangular tumor than dunce hat. The ad was for a strip club. Dyed-blonde girls smiled against a black background, looking hungry, friendly, and shocked. Why was it that that hungry/friendly/shocked expression was the one that meant "sexy?" She thought about strip clubs and all the other places in the city she had never been, places she did not know about, places that kept on existing and always would exist, completely independent of her. And then there was the matter of the word "other" and the word "another," always so lonely and scary. Another cab, another place, another woman, other--that which is not of the self, of the familiar. She thought about how most of the world was like that. In the eight years she'd lived here, there was still so much she had never touched. There was so much she never would touch. It felt exhausting, lonely.
"Just about--how I've been here eight years--and how... how weird the city is."
The driver seemed to accept this. "Why is it weird?" he asked.
She didn't want to go into detail. She brought her hand to her lip and squinted, her eyes focusing through the raindrops that dotted the window to the taillights of cars , to people huddling by beneath quivering umbrellas.
"I've... I've been here eight years, and..." she finally said. "And it's just funny to think about."
Part of her was annoyed that she could not put this into words, that there was something that at the same time was so simple as a feeling but so irritatingly full of detail and nuance once it transformed into language.
"And it's been a weird night," she finished, as though to lend legitimacy to her in-eloquence.
"What did you do tonight?"
"Well... there was this dinner for my boss. He's moving to China." She was not sure why she was telling this to the driver.
"Is that a good thing? Or are you sad?"
"I mean, it's fine--not that much will change for me--he's still going to be my boss--just from China." All of this was a nonsequiter. It barely even mattered to her, and she felt stupid for having this compulsion to explain it to the driver. It was true, but since when was the trueness of a statement a good enough reason for its existence?
"I mean, he's not leaving the firm or anything."
"You don't really seem like the firm type," the driver said.
"I'm not." She suddenly felt a lot more drunk, even woozy. "I'm really not." Her torso filled with a warm, sickly, liquid sense of gratitude that the driver noticed she was not the firm type. It was becoming less and less obvious to strangers, she worried, that she was not the firm type. Either she had nothing to fret about, or this driver was especially perceptive.
"I can see that," he said.
She attempted a self-effacing chuckle. It was more of a hiccup. She wanted, for a moment, to tell the driver to pull over, to kiss him, to beg him to run away with her to a distant place that fell into the category of places that are wonderful but that do not exist, a place with lovely little houses surrounded by magic gardens and enchanted stone paths and black kittens and sparrows and spiderwebs and dusty old books written in fancy fonts where the esses looked like effs, and most importantly, no firms and no yellow cabs and no people who talk too much or too loudly and no advertisements or bridges or tunnels or time or cold rain. For that moment, it felt like no one in the entire universe understood her the way the driver understood her and that her entire life was fated--fated to lead only to this one tiny, precise moment that could have so easily been overlooked. But here she was. She inhaled, her breath quick and sharp.
"What now?" asked the driver.
It was perfect. Let's go bowling, she thought. Let's drive into a canal. Let's hijack a plane and fly it to Ohio. Let's shave our heads and make faces at each other in a foggy bathroom mirror at a room in a cheap motel in an interstate-stop southern town. Let's get a milkshake. Let's fuck in the trunk. Let's sing sad songs to the freeway from an overpass. Let's dig holes in the cemetary. Let's hold up a bank and spend all the money on caviar and edible underwear. Let's take a drive to Canarsie. Let's pray to forgotten deities in guttural, tonal tongues.
"What now in a big sense or a small sense?" she ventured. "I mean... go straight on McGuinness and turn right on Norman."
"I didn't mean the directions," he said. "Just... what now."
"Well." This was her chance. Chance for what, though? "I guess when I get home, I'll probably play guitar for awhile and then go to sleep." She paused. She took a deep breath. "And... and in a bigger sense, and in a really, really big sense... I guess I don't really know."
"What do you want to do?"
She thought about it. The heavy rain's rhythm on the roof of the car drummed into her head, crowding everything else out. "Mundanely, be a writer, I guess," she murmured. "Or something else, uh, artistic. Not that I really, you know, even do these things, or at least do them enough to be serious about them. Just, well, ideally. And...not mundanely, in a different, sense, what do I want to do, I don't know."
"Hm." He didn't seem like he was going to ask what kind of writing she did or what kind of other artistic things she did, which was a blessing. She could not conceive of a line of questioning more despicable. The rain was letting up a little.
The driver coughed. "So, what kind of guitar do you play?" This question was so specific and answerable that it soothed her, although it also reminded her of a physician trying to diagnose.
"Electric," she said. "It's purple."
"Oh. I play guitar too." She expected him to follow with "we should jam," like everyone always says during this conversation, but he didn't. She fiddled with her wallet, waiting, a little relieved but a little disappointed.
"Neat," she said. "Well, turn left at this light. It's halfway down the block."
He turned and crept the cab down the street, much more slowly than he had to.
"Thanks for saying I'm not the firm type," she said. "It might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me." This was a lie. It was more of an exaggeration than a lie, but still a lie. Weirdly, she noted, even though she knew it was a lie, she meant it completely.
"No problem," he replied. "No problem at all."
"This is my house." He pulled to a stop. She handed him a twenty dollar bill. "Can I have one back? And a receipt? So I can get reimbursed? From my firm?" She wanted to talk more about how she wasn't the firm type.
He passed the requested items to her through the window of the plexiglass partition without saying a word.
"Thanks."
"Thank you," he said, over-emphasizing the 'you.' She hesitated a moment before she opened the door.
"Well, good luck," she said. She wasn't sure what the driver needed luck for. Generic luck is always good, though, so she figured it was an okay thing to say. She thought he might have responded, but her door's slam drowned out his voice. He sped down the block and she stared after him, her key halfway inserted into the lock on her building's door.
II
When the cab got to the red light at the end of the block, it not only stopped, it began to reverse. She pulled her key out of the door and stepped down from the front stoop.
The driver rolled down his window. "Hey," he called out. "I was thinking. I thought, would you rather play your guitar or would you rather go do something with me?"
It was nearly midnight and she had to be up by seven. Still, though, she could not shake the sense of fatedness that draped shroundlike over this whole encounter. "Well, what do you want to do?"
"Get in the car. We'll figure it out." She could barely tell if he was serious or if he was kidding. "Come on. You can sit up front."
She hesitated. What was so wrong? It was crazy--just minutes ago, she was having fantasies about motel room mirrors and digging up the dead and lovely little houses and fucking in the trunk. "I don't know," she said.
"You say that a lot, you know. You don't know."
"Do I? You only met me half an hour ago."
"You've said it a lot since I met you half an hour ago." He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and held it between his lips.
"It's just a verbal tic."
"Is it?" He dug a lighter out from a pocket in his jeans and lit the cigarette.
"Yes," she declared. "Yes, it is."
"Well, it's good you're sure about something."
"Aren't you not supposed to smoke in a cab?"
He rolled his eyes. "Come on, get in."
"Why?"
"Because why not? I just thought, hey, this girl seems like an interesting--"
"Okay, okay." She knew if she let him get through an explanation of how interesting she seemed, there was no way she would want to go anywhere with him. That is the thing about explanations, she thought: They ruin and simplify and trivialize anything that is complicated enough to warrant one. "I'll go."
She walked around to the passenger side of the cab and got in. "So where is it that you want to go?"
"I dunno," he replied. "We could just drive around for a bit and see if we find anything worth stopping for."
"That's not very economical," she said.
He laughed. "You were a lot different in the backseat."
She stopped herself from saying 'that's what they all say.' Instead, she said, "You are, too. We are more familiar now."
"Huh," he said. "Yes, I suppose that's what it is. We have now officially exited the cab driver/ passenger relationship. That filter is removed."
"I don't really have much of a filter to begin with, so I'm not sure that's it," she confessed.
"Yeah, you didn't really seem like you did. But that's okay. I think that's good."
"A lot of people claim not to have filters, but they still do."
"But you're different than all of them," he said. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette. "Want one?"
"No, and no thanks," she replied. "No, I'm not different. I'm probably just saying it too. Although admitting that takes filterlessness to another level, so maybe it's a paradox to even say that. And I don't smoke."
He didn't reply except to nod. He put out his cigarette, one quarter smoked, on the dashboard, which was already marred with little circular burns. He returned it to the place behind his ear. She twirled a piece of her hair between two fingers and held it up to eye level, an inch in front of her face. She focused her eyes on the hair so that everything in the background became blurry, and she moved it back and forth, as though to hypnotize herself. The bagpipe radio station no longer had a static overlay. The driver hummed quietly to the song.
She dropped the piece of hair and propped her elbow against the car door and leaned on it in the posture of relaxation, boredom. She wondered if he could tell it was a put-on. To be more convincing, she sighed.
"I'll tell you what," he said. But he didn't say anything else.
"What?"
"I forgot." He turned his head to look at her, taking his eyes off the road long enough to make her nervous.
"Um." She picked at her cuticles.
He took the cigarette from behind his ear, and, steering the car with only his elbows, relit it. He took a deep drag.
"I hate to be like this, but can you please not do that?"
"Not do what? Smoke?"
"Take your hands off the wheel when you're driving. I'm sorry, I'm just a really nervous passenger."
He laughed. "Sure thing." Then, looking at her to make sure she was watching him, he removed his hands from the steering wheel, held them up in the style of children on a roller-coaster, and screamed.
"Stop it!" She reached over to grab the wheel. The cab swerved. His hands were back on the wheel in less than a second. "Fuck you," she said. "What is wrong with you?"
The driver laughed again. "Really, I'm sorry. I had to. Look, there's no danger. Okay? Okay?"
She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, trying to seem more angry than afraid.
Again he hummed along to the bagpipes for a few songs, every so often slapping the steering wheel to the rhythm. He smoked two more cigarettes.
He finally spoke. "So..."
"So."
"Listen," he said. "I'm going to tell you something, and don't freak out. I'm not really a cab driver. I stole this cab."
"What?!"
"I said don't freak out. So don't. I'm still the same guy. I still said that you're not the firm type. Remember? You liked that. You're not the firm type. Me either. We're the same type. We're the same type of people."
"No! We're not! Jesus! You stole a cab!? I don't even know your name!"
"And I don't know yours! But that doesn't matter!"
"Why would you steal a cab!?" The rain was starting up again, this time in big, heavy droplets that splattered into smaller droplets as they pummeled the windshield. The driver turned on the windshield wipers. He sighed.
"I was desperate." He broke into a bizarre, quavering falsetto. "I couldn't control myself. I needed to. I felt... romantic." He took another drag on his cigarette. "You know what I mean." He dropped his right hand onto her leg and squeezed it. She slapped it away as though it were a rat that had jumped on her.
"No, I really don't. And don't touch me! Let me out. Stop the car. You're insane."
"You really want me to? Do you even know where we are? I'm totally not insane."
She admitted that she did not know where they were.
"We're in East New York. Van Siclen Avenue. This neighborhood is the pits. You do not want to get out here."
She crossed her arms and settled miserably into the far corner of the seat. "Fine. Then please just turn around and take me home, or you can drop me off at a subway station if you pass one."
He began to laugh. "You really believe that I stole a cab?"
She stared ahead at the rain hitting the windshield, her mouth set in a straight line.
"I didn't steal a cab. Relax. It's my cab. Look, my picture is in the license you can see in the backseat. I was just playing a joke."
"I don't care." She noticed that she had tears running down her cheeks. She didn't feel especially sad or angry or scared, and couldn't figure out why she was crying. She felt outside of herself, as though she were watching herself in a movie. She felt misplaced, as though she were drugged. She felt like she felt the semester of college that she spent mildly addicted to codeine cough syrup. That semester was strange and ephemeral and nothing ever seemed tangible; even while things were happening, they were never real. She remembered feeling twined up inside, her intestines in knots, her lungs intricate strings wrapped around the rubber-band ball of her heart. She had to take the codeine nightly to fall asleep. Her suitemates had noisy sex with ghostly men whose eyes never seemed to fully open, whose hair covered their ears and half of their faces. On codeine the minutes seemed like hours but the hours also seemed like minutes and the air she breathed and the air she moved through were too thick, too pleasant. A lush, melatonin slowness. Music and voices had sounded boingy through cinderblock walls. She'd fall asleep, yes, but it felt like an accident, or worse, an error.
"Seriously, this is legitimately my cab. I drive it. It's what I do. I know it's hard to believe, a fascinating guy like me, but this is it." She could see the driver looking at her, waiting for some response. She gave him nothing. He shrugged and played with the radio and found a station that was playing a Patsy Cline marathon. Neither of them spoke for two songs.
"Hey," the driver said. His voice was softer now. "Listen, stop crying. Hey. I'm sorry. Listen, I'll take you home. I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have come back for you in the first place. I don't know why I did. Or if I did, I should have had a plan or something. And you're right, once you said it bothered you to if I took my hands off the wheel, I should have kept them there. I'm really very sorry, okay? I don't know why I do what I do. I'm sorry. Hey, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
"It's okay," she lied.
"Listen, can I take you on a date sometime? A proper date. I'll promise not to play any stupid jokes? I'll be a safer driver from now on, too. I'll never smoke in the car, either. It will be great."
"Why did you come back and get me?"
"You seemed so miserable. I just... It was an impulse. I just thought it was what I had to do."
"So I seemed miserable and you thought that this would help!?"
"Well, didn't it?"
"No!"
"I think it did. I think now you have had a weird night, and you can go to your firm tomorrow and tell everyone about this weird thing that happened to you, this dumb crazy guy you met, and you can sit at the cool table at lunch for a whole week."
"There's no lunch table." Her eyes were hateful slits. "It's a firm. It's not second grade."
"Well, sorry." He threw his cigarette out the window. "So how about that date?"
"I'm married," she said.
"Bullshit. No ring."
"I pawned it."
"Bullshit. You don't need to pawn a damn thing. You work at a firm."
"Fine. I lied. I'm not married. I have a boyfriend." This, too, was a lie.
"Dump him. Let's go on a date. I'm the most exciting guy you'll ever meet. We're perfect for each other. A couple of crazy iconoclasts like us? Whoa!"
"I'm not a crazy iconoclast."
The driver began to sing along loudly to Patsy Cline. "I walk for miles along the highway. Well that's just my way of saying I love you. I'm always walking after midnight searching for you..." He didn't have a bad voice. She was tempted to sing along. Maybe it would distract her from crying. "I stopped to see a weeping willow. Crying on his pillow maybe he's crying for me. And as the skies turn gloomy. Night blooms will whisper to me I'm lonesome as I can be." She hummed, despite herself. The driver looked at her and smiled. That's quite a smile, she thought--"smile" was generous. It was something between a grimace and a simper. He changed to whistling. When the song ended, he turned off the radio and belched. "Sorry about that," he said.
"Are we still in East New York?"
"No, now we're in Canarsie."
"Can you please take me home?" She felt more tears slide down her cheeks.
"Only if you agree to go on a date with me."
"Fine. We'll go on a date."
"You're lying."
"Yes."
He sighed. "Where do you live again?"
"Just drop me off here."
"We're still in Canarsie," he said.
"Okay. I don't care. Whatever. Just stop. You have to let me out." She was now crying very hard, and was too embarrassed to remain in the cab.
"Really? For real? You want me to stop? Here?"
"Here."
"How are you going to get home?" He sounded genuinely concerned.
"I'll figure something out." She knew it was a crazy idea--maybe even crazier than having gotten back in the cab in the first place--but she could simply not bear to be in the car another minute. She felt that the events that had lead her here had lead her here for a reason, and the reason was that she was to walk in Canarise.
"You hate me so much that you won't even allow me to drive you home? Listen, I really don't feel good about letting you out here. Please let me drive you home. Come on, free cab ride home."
"Please just stop. I have to get out."
"What if I parked and then walked you to the train?" He laughed at the look she got on her face. "Okay, I will take that as no." He pulled to a stop. "Are you sure? You really want to get out here?"
"Yes." She opened the door.
"Uh, good luck?" he called after her. "I'm going to look you up and take you on that date!" She resisted the temptation to remind him that he did not know her name. She stepped out of the car, slammed the door very hard, and walked away in a direction that felt like east.
It was 1am now and she had no idea where she was. She figured she could walk a few blocks north and south on every street until she found a main thoroughfare, and on a main thoroughfare, there would be a subway stop somewhere, and from there, she figured, she would be able to find her way home. It was going to be a long night.
A roundabout tour of Canarsie's main streets revealed them to be wide and mostly unpopulated. A lone man, holding an inside-out umbrella, stood at a bus stop. Illuminated fast food restaurant and gas station signs dotted the sky and their reflections shimmered like abstract art in the puddles. The residential streets were dark and the dark slinky forms of stray cats darted from shadow to shadow. She couldn't tell of the wetness on her face was from the rain or from tears. She didn't think she was crying anymore, but it was hard to tell.
She started walking in a direction that seemed very much to be north, but it was impossible to tell for sure because everything was dark and she'd never been to this part of the city before. She kept walking, though, and felt certain that eventually, something had to give.