(C) 2009 Do not use without Permission
~ 1 ~
Boston, Massachusetts
The Present
“Where to?”“Faneuil Market, please. At North Street.”
“You got it.” The cabdriver flipped the meter without so much as a backward glance as he pulled away from the curb. “Oh geez,” he grumbled as a group of conservatory students crowded the crosswalk in front of him, seemingly unconcerned with clearing the street before the light changed. Two young men, each toting instrument cases the size of sarcophagi stopped mid way across, looking up at the tall buildings around them. The cabby gave the horn a loud blast and stuck his head out the window. “Yeah they’re called buildings! Youse can see ‘em from the curb too!” The students gave him an ingenuous smile and hurried across the street.
“Conservatory kids,” the driver said with a chuckle, glancing into the rearview mirror. “They got more dollars than sense if ya know what I mean.” He turned his attention back to his driving. “I only yell to keep ‘em movin’, ya know? Not every cabby in Boston gives a damn. Run ‘em over as soon as honk, but I figure, they’s someone’s kid, ya know? I got kids, so I know how that would be, ya know? Mine don’t go to no fancy music conservatory, but I they do ok. You got kids?”
“Hmm? I’m sorry, what did you ask?”
“Kids–you got any?”
A slow smile crossed the passenger’s face as he glanced out the window. “Thousands. None my own. All of them, my children.”
The cabby looked at him through the mirror, one brow raised. “Eh?”
“I’m a teacher.”
“Oh, now I get ya. I had a feeling you did somethin’ callin’ for brains–Hey! Bonehead! There’s a reason the little man has an X on him!—you look the type.”
“There’s really no need to worry about the pedestrians. I’m in no hurry.”
The cabby grinned. “Yeah? Good, the meter goes on time, not miles, ya know what I mean?”
The passenger smiled. “Take your time.”
“Your dime.”
“So,” the man said after the light had changed. “How many do you have?”
“Eh?” the cabby asked, looking through the mirror.
“Children. You said–”
“Green means GO on my planet! Oh kids, I have two. Teenagers, boy and girl. Twins. Eighteen next month. Though I swear I put on forty years of gray hair raisin’ ‘em.”
“I’m sure. They can be a challenge.”
“They’re good kids,” the cabby said abruptly. “I ain’t so afraid of them getting’ in trouble as I am them gettin’ in, you know—trouble.” The tires screeched as the car came to a sudden stop. “Damned T buses think they own the street. The lights count for you too!”
“What sort of trouble do you worry about? Drugs? Alcohol?”
“Naaah, they’re good kids. I taught them to stay away from that shit. See I don’t make no big deal about a beer now and then, so they don’t go out sneaking it. And as far as drugs, they seen enough of what it can do . . . and they get that. No I worry about the other guy you know? More worried about what they’ll have to live with out there in the real world once they get out ya know?”
“Ah, I understand. The real world. Away from the hallowed ivy walls of the school.”
“They got ivy at BHS?”
“Metaphor.”
“English right? You teach English.” The cabby turned toward the square. “Probably know real good grammar. High School?”
“No, history. At Standish Preparatory. It’s out near–”
“Standish?” The cabby let out a high whistle. “Out on Gibbons Island?”
“Yes, that’s right. You’ve heard of it?”
“My girl wanted to go. She’s got the brains and the grades for it too, but it’s. . . a little out of my reach if you get me. Nice place if you’re a . . .” he let the sentence hang, and turned the cab onto Congress street. “North Street up a head.”
“I take it you’ve visited Standish.”
“Yeah, I took the kids out on the ferry a couple of summers ago . . . no offence, mister, but that place didn’t exactly fill me with a warm fuzzy glow. I think every brick in the place must have been a million years old. Makes this place look brand new,” he said gesturing toward the old market buildings as he turned onto North Street. “The headmaster said it used to be some sort of loony bin.”
“Asylum. Yes, two-hundred years ago.”
“Yeah. And it’s probably haunted by dead loonies.” He glanced in the mirror. “You ever seen a ghost?”
“No. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“No? I sure do.”
The passenger smiled. “Good. Keep believing. We need more believers in the world.”
“If you say so.” He pulled the cab to the curb, and flipped the meter off. “Well, here’s your stop. Fourteen-fifty.”
The man handed the cabby a twenty. “Keep the change, and thank you for the ride.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, keep the change.”
The cabby smiled. “No, I meant . . . you’re welcome. I don’t hear a lot of thank yous. Hope to drive you again.”
The man leaned toward the driver’s window before walking away, slipping a card out of his breast pocket. “There are scholarships available. Give me a call. My name is Logan. My number is on the card. I’d be happy to see what could be done for your daughter. I promise, if there are any dead loonies lurking about, they are all very well behaved.”
The cabby took the card, staring at the man’s face, then down to the card, then back to the man, a slow smile brightening his face. “Thank you!” he tucked the card in his pocket. “And be careful crossing the street. The cabbies in this town are nuts–I’m goin’! Keep your shirt on!—thanks again, Mr. Logan!” With a honk and squeal the cab disappeared into a herd of other similarly colored taxi cabs that crowded the square.
To be continued . . .
