I nodded my head, “ So what you’re saying is that since you can’t influence the weather, why bother worrying about it, right? Well, I guess that’s a pretty reasonable way to approach life, if you can pull it off. “
“Rain, no rain, who cares?”
We sat in a kind of prickly silence after that.
As he rounded onto Bloor at Spadina, he began to furiously pound on his horn. “Look at this, “ he yelled back at me. “The lady is taking up two lanes while she tries to turn!” As he was saying this he was driving past the SUV, but still honking his horn and sneering at the woman for good measure. Feeling slightly wounded by his response to my rain question, I said, “Ah, you shouldn’t worry about it! You can’t influence how she drives, so why get yourself all tied-up in knots?! “ Adding magnanimously, as if offering him a drink, “And besides, you’re already past her, relax! Traffic, no traffic, who cares?”
The driver exhaled loudly, looked back at me once and then looked back at me again before shaking his head from side to side.
“You think you’re smart guy, eh?” he said.
“Sometimes.”
“You feel smart right now?”
“I feel like a fucking Buddha.”
“You are no fucking Buddha.”
And for the rest of the fare we drove amidst a tense silence, one that was punctuated only by the sound of dispatch in the background.
This is what is said:
Anna:
On Saturday, at about two in the morning, I stepped into a cab that was blaring opera.
It was completely unexpected and absolutely beautiful. The taxi was speeding through the mild, winter night with such light and joy contained within—we were a dazzling secret. Oh, I did not want to get out of that cab–the two of us, the driver and I, we could have gone until dawn as far as I was concerned. Keep the meter running, cabbie, let’s unroll the windows, let’s pour the music out into the streets and have the stars fall in.
I wish I had moved to Toronto with you, I wish I had loved you better.
RM
]]>“Do you have air conditioning?” I asked.
“Dah,” he responded in a blunt, unfriendly East European accent.
“Would you mind turning it on, please?”
“It is expensive for me to run AC, it take more energy, you know? So I keep windows open for breeze, OK?”
“Look, I’m sorry, but I’m dying in this heat, and the regulations say that you have to turn it on if the customer asks for it, right?”
The driver, irritated, snorted.
“What?” I asked, also irritated.
“You are weak, little man who can’t take sunshine?”
“Yes, that’s right. I am a weak, little man who can’t take the sunshine,” I sighed.
The driver pretended to laugh, shook his head and said something in a language that I presumed to be Russian.
“Have it your way, little mister boss.”
He then powered up the windows and contemptuously snapped on the AC.
We drove in black silence for the next five minutes.
I hated his fucking guts.
I hoped his native country got obliterated at the Olympics.
Food poisoning.
Nightmares with toys.
No Internet.
Being dunked-on while playing pick-up.
All these pestilences I wished upon him.
As I sat there concentrating my hatred, I began to pick at my fingernails. This is a habit that manifests when I’m angry, and in this case I managed to peel off several crescents of nails, which I then stored in my pocket. This detritus felt disgusting so I opened the window and tried to throw them out of the car.
The driver, his furious eyes staring at me from the rear-view mirror, shouted, “You demand AC like little dictator and now you put window down! You have no manners in my home! You waste my money, it is now five dollars extra!”
“C’mon, don’t be such a prick, I was just throwing a piece of fingernail out the window. Would you rather I left if on the seat?”
“You are disgusting man.”
“Like you’ve never picked at your fingernails.”
“You know who you are? You are like Gollum from The Hobbit. That is you.”
“That tattoo of a bear you have on the back of your neck looks gay.”
The driver slammed on the brakes.
“Gollum throw body waste out of my car, I throw Gollum out of my car. Get out now or I break you into pieces.”
“Really, are you serious?”
The driver looked at me, his eyes softening.
“Maybe I am not myself. My boy is sick and the doctors say he might lose hearing. It is awful and I cannot sleep, imaging his world without music, and then people like you come in and complain about small, small thing and I blow top. You be quiet and sit still, say nothing and I will take you home, but remember, say nothing!”
