ThePotential
12-06-2009, 05:47 PM
A bilious blackness had fallen, permitting the entry of shadows within the cement veins of the city. Traffic lights had become colour blind, the amber swirling with dabs of green as the taxi darted through Fifth and Broadway. A sudden aurora of neon and orange advertising Disney’s latest incarnation of Beauty and the Beast illuminated the leather entrails of the cab, only to quickly dissolve into utter blackness as a foot drilled into the accelerator. Scouring the night-time scene, shadows hitched behind the pea-coats, the trench-coats, and the suit jackets of the evening’s best-dressed.
“83rd Street right?” The taxi driver’s sandpapered voice croaked the question.
Silence answered.
Another intersection and its parade of colour-blinded lights enveloped the vehicle; murky golden trails pouring from streetlamps into the backseat where a young man sat. Eloquent cuff links glistened in the invading streetlight, strangling the man’s wrists. A bulky Windsor knot encroached upon his neck.
“Sir?”
Once again, silence attempted to carry on the conversation.
“No, sir?”
The word of rejection clanged throughout the vehicle. Another intersection conquered, the gleaming skyscrapers were absorbed by apartments that had long ago surrendered to sleep. Darkness once again reigned, shadows returning to dance upon the rippled forehead of the backseat passenger. Gazing out of the taxi window, the young man’s eyebrows furrowed. Linked arm in arm, a couple ambled down the apartment ridden street, appearing out of place—their mannequin-like movement and ornate clothing resembling the lucid windows of a Fifth Avenue boutique.
“Sir, your destination is 83rd Street, correct? I have to make a turn here if so.”
The young man’s eyes fell upon his own attire, mirroring the dress of his Fifth Avenue counter-parts. The backseat finally answered with sound as two metallic clinks tolled. Glaring at him with a silver, repugnant shine, the young man’s cuff links sat in his sweat-laden palm. Another streetlight instilled a flash of bronze luminance into the black leather of the vehicle, and the manipulated pieces of metal were in the abyss of a pocket.
“Yes, 83rd is correct.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Brake lights collided with the windshield of the taxi, the left turning signal droning a repetitive click.
“A late night stroll through Central Park, I assume?”
The taxi was shrouded in red light as it swooped around the corner; rubber squealing against cement, raging head lights penetrating the backseat window where the young man sat. Not a single nerve flinched within the well-dressed passenger; instead his mind dilated by the taxi driver’s question. The crimson light faded from the leather seats; the cabbie’s enquiry already answered. Yet his lips continued to flap.
“Long day at work, I guess,” the taxi driver’s face materializing in the rear view mirror, “and I couldn’t help but notice that you work at the New York Times.”
Emerald light soared through the vehicle’s windows—a green light and another asphalt crossroad conquered. The young man’s lips refused to quiver, instead his hand jolting into the pocket of his coal wool coat. Clammy flesh greeted frigid metal, and slanted eyes met the marble spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
“I hear the place is a sweatshop—ridiculous bonuses, but a sweatshop.”
With the exception of the executive vehicle’s percussion of gears and motor purring a tinny tune, the sound of silence played the role of orchestra. A mezzo-piano phrase followed as the taxi driver’s foot eased off the accelerator. Beyond the vehicle’s varnished glass, the blur of the outside world halted, and a gaping, brick-inscribed building bathed in the intersection’s red light. A wrinkle creviced the young man’s forehead as his glistening hand slid away from the wool fabric. Emblazoned upon the crimson, uniform brick was New York Presbyterian Hospital.
“Cooooooonk!” a car horn shrieked, sparking anger to blush within the executive cab’s brake lights. At last sessile, the taxi crouched over the white lines of the intersection, impatiently waiting to burst through yet another cement crossroad. The young man drilled his vision into the leather shadows swarming the taxi’s backseat.
There would be no cheating this particular junction, and time was bound to stand still.
“Work is a ****hole.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You are a taxi driver.”
“So?” The crimson traffic light lingered in the rear-view mirror, as the cab driver eyed his passenger.
“I don’t know. It’s just—”
“Just?”
The young man clutched the Windsor knot straddling his neck, loosening the branded silk.
“You are always moving.”
Silence.
“And you are not?”
Red melted into green, the accelerator tasted metal, and the executive cab leapt off the white line of the intersection into the veins of the city.
“No,” the young man’s voice sounded aged and withered, “no, I am not.”
The cab driver lowered his eyes from the rear-view mirror, his own forehead plastered in wrinkles, as the luxury vehicle’s purr escalated to a crackling hiss. The taxi snaked through intersection after intersection, the city-world beyond the glass becoming an incomprehensible blur of light and sound; the young man relying on memories of past excursions to establish any sense of direction or location.
Figments of green that didn’t stem from bulbs of glass signalled arrival. Shadows dodged moonlight seeping from a pallid moon sleeping above; the first white light of the night.
“Five even, sir.”
The polished, black door of the executive cab snapped back into its frame. The thwack of metal and plastic colliding was quickly overwhelmed by the uproar of the car’s engine as it darted away into the endless veins of the city.
The young man jarred his hand from the pocket of his ash pea coat, a clunky cellular device squished in his palm. In one swift swoop, ten buttons were punched by trembling fingers, another to signal the call, finally the phone being lifted to a sweat-drenched ear.
“Hey, it’s me. I am here—how was your day at wo—”
The young man’s lips froze.
“Yep, I am here. Can—can you see me?”
Again, frozen.
“I must be tired. You know work.”
A distant, crimson traffic light gazed at the young man. Without notice, it blared green.
“Yes! I see you! Okay, I will hang up now.”
The young man’s sweat-creased hand dangled back into his pea coat pocket as his fingers explored the fabric abyss and the familiar, residing pieces of frigid metal. A particular piece gnawed at the pad of his ring finger.
This one, though, was warm.
“83rd Street right?” The taxi driver’s sandpapered voice croaked the question.
Silence answered.
Another intersection and its parade of colour-blinded lights enveloped the vehicle; murky golden trails pouring from streetlamps into the backseat where a young man sat. Eloquent cuff links glistened in the invading streetlight, strangling the man’s wrists. A bulky Windsor knot encroached upon his neck.
“Sir?”
Once again, silence attempted to carry on the conversation.
“No, sir?”
The word of rejection clanged throughout the vehicle. Another intersection conquered, the gleaming skyscrapers were absorbed by apartments that had long ago surrendered to sleep. Darkness once again reigned, shadows returning to dance upon the rippled forehead of the backseat passenger. Gazing out of the taxi window, the young man’s eyebrows furrowed. Linked arm in arm, a couple ambled down the apartment ridden street, appearing out of place—their mannequin-like movement and ornate clothing resembling the lucid windows of a Fifth Avenue boutique.
“Sir, your destination is 83rd Street, correct? I have to make a turn here if so.”
The young man’s eyes fell upon his own attire, mirroring the dress of his Fifth Avenue counter-parts. The backseat finally answered with sound as two metallic clinks tolled. Glaring at him with a silver, repugnant shine, the young man’s cuff links sat in his sweat-laden palm. Another streetlight instilled a flash of bronze luminance into the black leather of the vehicle, and the manipulated pieces of metal were in the abyss of a pocket.
“Yes, 83rd is correct.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Brake lights collided with the windshield of the taxi, the left turning signal droning a repetitive click.
“A late night stroll through Central Park, I assume?”
The taxi was shrouded in red light as it swooped around the corner; rubber squealing against cement, raging head lights penetrating the backseat window where the young man sat. Not a single nerve flinched within the well-dressed passenger; instead his mind dilated by the taxi driver’s question. The crimson light faded from the leather seats; the cabbie’s enquiry already answered. Yet his lips continued to flap.
“Long day at work, I guess,” the taxi driver’s face materializing in the rear view mirror, “and I couldn’t help but notice that you work at the New York Times.”
Emerald light soared through the vehicle’s windows—a green light and another asphalt crossroad conquered. The young man’s lips refused to quiver, instead his hand jolting into the pocket of his coal wool coat. Clammy flesh greeted frigid metal, and slanted eyes met the marble spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
“I hear the place is a sweatshop—ridiculous bonuses, but a sweatshop.”
With the exception of the executive vehicle’s percussion of gears and motor purring a tinny tune, the sound of silence played the role of orchestra. A mezzo-piano phrase followed as the taxi driver’s foot eased off the accelerator. Beyond the vehicle’s varnished glass, the blur of the outside world halted, and a gaping, brick-inscribed building bathed in the intersection’s red light. A wrinkle creviced the young man’s forehead as his glistening hand slid away from the wool fabric. Emblazoned upon the crimson, uniform brick was New York Presbyterian Hospital.
“Cooooooonk!” a car horn shrieked, sparking anger to blush within the executive cab’s brake lights. At last sessile, the taxi crouched over the white lines of the intersection, impatiently waiting to burst through yet another cement crossroad. The young man drilled his vision into the leather shadows swarming the taxi’s backseat.
There would be no cheating this particular junction, and time was bound to stand still.
“Work is a ****hole.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You are a taxi driver.”
“So?” The crimson traffic light lingered in the rear-view mirror, as the cab driver eyed his passenger.
“I don’t know. It’s just—”
“Just?”
The young man clutched the Windsor knot straddling his neck, loosening the branded silk.
“You are always moving.”
Silence.
“And you are not?”
Red melted into green, the accelerator tasted metal, and the executive cab leapt off the white line of the intersection into the veins of the city.
“No,” the young man’s voice sounded aged and withered, “no, I am not.”
The cab driver lowered his eyes from the rear-view mirror, his own forehead plastered in wrinkles, as the luxury vehicle’s purr escalated to a crackling hiss. The taxi snaked through intersection after intersection, the city-world beyond the glass becoming an incomprehensible blur of light and sound; the young man relying on memories of past excursions to establish any sense of direction or location.
Figments of green that didn’t stem from bulbs of glass signalled arrival. Shadows dodged moonlight seeping from a pallid moon sleeping above; the first white light of the night.
“Five even, sir.”
The polished, black door of the executive cab snapped back into its frame. The thwack of metal and plastic colliding was quickly overwhelmed by the uproar of the car’s engine as it darted away into the endless veins of the city.
The young man jarred his hand from the pocket of his ash pea coat, a clunky cellular device squished in his palm. In one swift swoop, ten buttons were punched by trembling fingers, another to signal the call, finally the phone being lifted to a sweat-drenched ear.
“Hey, it’s me. I am here—how was your day at wo—”
The young man’s lips froze.
“Yep, I am here. Can—can you see me?”
Again, frozen.
“I must be tired. You know work.”
A distant, crimson traffic light gazed at the young man. Without notice, it blared green.
“Yes! I see you! Okay, I will hang up now.”
The young man’s sweat-creased hand dangled back into his pea coat pocket as his fingers explored the fabric abyss and the familiar, residing pieces of frigid metal. A particular piece gnawed at the pad of his ring finger.
This one, though, was warm.