I know the temperature didn't reflect it, but it felt like the coldest day of the year. People keep telling me it's the worst winter ever. I disagree. Every new winter is the worst because others no longer matter. Anyway, I was fortunate to earn money accompanying a friend to the doctor, so not being able to operate the floating book shop didn't hurt financially. I also had other odds and ends to do to fill the hours. The forecast for tomorrow is favorable, so I call myself lucky.
Here's an excerpt from a short story, Distinctions, about a raucous night on the town, published long ago. The events are true. The challenge was getting inside the heads of the real folks on which the characters are base. It is mostly dialogue, so I'd guess it's no more than a 10-minute read. Adherents of political correctness are warned to pass:
I paid my respects to the others and left the bar. I leaned against a parked car, resolved to give Phil ten minutes before I set off on my own. Soon he emerged, arguing with a bouncer, who towered over him and laughed at the threats directed at him. His beer had been confiscated. I suspected he'd gotten fresh with another woman.
"Let's go," I said. "The trains're murder this time of night."
"What train?" he smirked. "We're takin' a cab."
"Why throw your money away?"
"Don't worry about it, you cheap Sicilian bastard."
I had to fight to repress a comment about the thick-headedness of the Calabrese.
"That mic's comin' with us. He's springin' for the cab."
Although Bobby's earnings at least tripled ours, I still couldn't see commissioning a cab, paying 25 times the subway fare. My parents' immigrant frugality still influenced me. Phil had been right in this
distinction, as I'd been regarding him, as he definitely conformed to the stereotype of the Calabrese.
"Let's go, you dumb guineas," said Bobby as he emerged.
He hailed a cab. The driver, of Arabic descent, pulled down the meter's lever. I hoped Phil would behave.
"I want you to make three stop in Brooklyn," said Bobby.
"Only two," said the driver through a thick accent.
"I said three."
The cabbie shook his head. "Two! Only two."
"What's the difference? We all live near each other. It'll take you ten minutes extra."
"I'm sorry, I can't do. Find another car."
"You're doin' it. We're not leavin' this cab until you do."
"Come on, Bob," I said, "it's not worth it."
"Wait a minute," Phil interjected, irked. "I ain't gettin' out. I'm an American citizen and I demand my
rights. You get out, you ....... immigrant. I was born in this country. Who're you to tell me what to do? I'll
tell you what to do."
Had the scene been part of a movie, I would have laughed. As it was, I was annoyed. I covered my eyes
with a hand as the argument raged. Bobby, seated in the middle, and Phil remained adamant. I was tempted
to get out and head for the subway.
"We're not leavin' this cab," said Bobby emphatically. "I drove one for three years and never turned
anybody down. I went any place. Get out and call a cop. You gotta take us. It's the law. It was passed 'cause
of guys like you."
The driver slid out and gazed along Lexington Avenue.
"What're you tryin' to prove?" I said. "All this time we're wastin' we could find a driver who'll take us."
"He has to take us or get fined," Bobby insisted. "I'm surprised a level-headed guy like you would let
himself be pissed on."
"What is this - a great moral or philosophical question?"
"It's the principle."
I rolled my eyes in disbelief. "Well, I'm tired. I wanna go to bed. We hafta go to work tomorrow."
"I ain't movin'," said Phil. "I lived here all my life. No foreigner's gonna tell me what to do. I'll get out
and wipe the floor with 'im."
The cabbie flagged down a squad car.
"See?" said Bobby. "The cop won't get out. He knows the guy's wrong. He has to take us or get fined."
"Who's responsible for the meter?" I said, noting its approach to $5.
"I ain't payin for nothin'," said Phil. "He's settin' it back to zero when we start or I'll smack the piss atta
him."
The driver returned.
"Can we go now?" said Bobby.
"I'm not going."
"Fine, then take us to the precinct. It's right around the corner here. I'm sure you know where."
Moments later we were double-parked behind a row of vacant squad cars. The driver approached a pair of officers standing nearby and persuaded one to intercede.
"Good evening, gentlemen," said the officer, smiling, tipping his cap, projecting a politeness that seemed comical.
It was a startling contrast to any policeman I'd ever encountered. It was as if there were no barrier
between the public and he.
"First of all, I'd like to tell you that you're absolutely right. By law, he has to take you. But you'd be better off finding another cab. It'd take you hours to file a complaint. You'd be here 'til sunrise."
"I understand that, Officer," said Bobby, "but we're not leavin'. I want him fined."
"I'm a Vietnam veteran and I demand my rights," Phil croaked. "I parked my car in the garage back there
overnight 'cause I'm in no condition to drive. I want this bum to take us home."
"That's very commendable, sir, but as I said, you'd be better off if you found another cab. Goodnight."
Phil was not a veteran, nor did he own a car. I sensed that not having served his country, especially in
Vietnam, contributed to his sense of inadequacy. He hadn't approached, let alone surpassed his father's
accomplishments. His father, a veteran of World War II, the owner of a home, was retired and living on a
handsome pension. Bobby was chuckling over the lie. I was too irked to be amused.
"You mean to tell me you'd tie up a precinct like this over something so trivial?" I said. "God knows what goes on here at night." I wondered if this too were an unjust stereotype.
The driver peered into the cab, found no change, and headed toward the stationhouse. In my mind, he was as foolish as my companions. He was costing himself money, and the stops he would have to make were all on safe streets and minutes apart.
And so we sat, waiting, arguing as the meter ticked toward $10.
"If I was a little drunk I'd drive away with this thing," said Phil, noting the keys dangling from the
ignition. "You don't know how bad I wanna do it, how bad I wanna screw this camel jockey."
The driver tried again. I wondered if he were Iranian, Iraqi or Afghan. There was no way of knowing by his appearance. He pulled the meter from its rack amid the keys from the ignition. His calm seemed sham.
"Goodnight."
We watched him disappear into the stationhouse.
"What now, men of principle?" I said.
"I'd like to piss in the mother......'s cab," said Phil.
"Do it," said Bobby.
"Don't get crazy now," said I.
"Screw 'im. I'm doin' it. No Iranian 'so-and-so's' gettin' away with holdin' me hostage."
I walked away, wanting no part of vindictiveness. The stationhouse was on the opposite side of the street. Someone in civilian clothes emerged. I was sure he was an off-duty policeman.
"Don't do it, Phil," I said softly, urgently. "Don't. I'm warnin' you." I'd resolved to go home were he nailed for indecent exposure.
He was wedged between the open rear door and the side of the car, Bobby at his back, standing lookout. He was there a long time, having consumed a copious quantity of beer. To my relief, the man in civilian
garb kept walking.
Phil's satisfaction was bitter, not as cheerful as it'd been during his strip. His dialogue was laced with
invective as we headed back toward Lexington. "I'd love to see his face when he comes out. I hope it stinks like hell in there."
"Why don't you wait for him?" I said, hailing a cab. "Let's ask this guy, first. I'm not goin' through that
crap again."
Soon we were on our way. The driver was black. I hoped there would be no more trouble. Phil was loud
and vulgar, deliberately, I was sure.
"I'm glad I pissed in his cab. I wanna know who the .... he thinks he is holdin' us hostage. They should
send everyone of 'em back where they came from."
Although I knew he was drunk, angry and pained, I was angered by the distinctions he'd made between
the immigrants of today and yesterday. I realized I too was making one in my own mind between his and
my own ancestors.
"That was stupid," I said.
"I thought you were a principled guy, Victor," said Bobby.
"Men of principle don't do what you guys did..."
Vic's 4th Novel: http://tinyurl.com/bszwlxh
Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic's Website: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic's Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic's Horror Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3
Vic's Rom-Com Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/kny5llp
Vic’s Short Story on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/k95k3nx
No comments:
Post a Comment