By Dwayne Phillips
Short Story 2008-44, 14 November 2008
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9 PM
Roy Taylor stood on the sidewalk in New York City. Actually, it was Greenwich Village. Roy only knew that because the people who hosted the business meeting told him so. This was first time he had been in "the City" and he was going with what the locals told him.
It had been a beautiful early June day. The kind of day that the Tourism Bureau ordered for a first-time visitor. Roy had landed at JFK that afternoon, taken a commuter bus into downtown (everything looked like downtown here), and walked an hour south to Greenwich Village. Along the way were restaurants with the entire front open to the air. Roy had never seen anything like this. They were perfect for this type of day. Roy wondered how often the weather was like this.
Roy had met for three hours with bankers. He had dreaded the meeting before hand, but enjoyed it. They sat in a room that looked more like a den than a meeting room. They ate pizza, drank soft drinks, and chatted. Everything was going well. The meeting ended when one of the participants announced that they needed to go home and walk their dog.
Catching a cab on the streets of New York was a new experience for Roy. The hosts of the meeting assured him it was simple. Nevertheless, they stood on the sidewalk with him and waited for a cab to drive by. It was only a minute when one came up the street. Three of the meeting participants raised their right hands, walked onto the street towards the oncoming taxi, and whistled. The taxi stopped.
"Here you are," said one of them. "Just tell him where you want to go. Have a good evening."
The cab was dingy with a thick plastic wall between Roy and the front seat. The wall had holes drilled in it in a random, home-made pattern. Stuck to the driver's side of the wall was a piece of paper with the driver's photograph and name. "Ermin Muje...." Roy read the last name half a dozen times trying to parse it and "sound it out." He quit trying.
Roy told the driver the address of the Best Western Motel where he had a room reserved. The motel was near JFK airport. The driver nodded while Roy told him the address. Roy discovered that the driver didn't have a map with him. Roy soon cursed himself for not bringing the Google Maps printout of the motel location.
The trip to the JFK area only took half an hour. Roy was pleased. Traffic had thinned more than he expected, and Roy was anticipating a peaceful night's rest.
That didn't happen. The cab driver was on a street where the block numbers were counting down to the motel's address. The numbers stopped counting down and started counting up. They must have missed the motel. The driver turned around and headed back. The same thing happened again. They must have missed the motel.
The cab driver stopped at a gas station to ask for directions. A scrawny, unshaven old man in a torn t-shirt came out of the gas station and walked towards the cab. He stuck his head into the open driver's door, pressed us nose against the holed plastic wall, and shouted, "Where the Hell are you? Don't you know where you're going?"
Roy shrugged and laughed. The driver climbed back into the cab and headed off on another bearing. Roy felt relief as the driver now seemed to know where he was going. Roy was wrong. The driver drove for twenty minutes, cursed in Bosnian or something, and turned back. He passed the gas station where he obviously did not receive good directions and kept going for another 20 minutes before turning back again.
Everything along the road was new to Roy. That is it was new the first time they passed it. They drove by Shea Stadium four times. They also drove by the place where they play the U.S. Open tennis tournament three times.
The cab driver stopped for directions three more times. Each time he came back to the cab with a grin of embarrassment and a crumpled piece of paper. Roy never saw what if anything was on those crumpled pieces of paper. As the cab ride continued, he conjectured that they were blank. Nothing they did brought them any closer to the motel.
At one point in the night, the cab driver looked at Roy and pointed to the cab meter. It was over $100. "Cab ride free. Sorry," was all he said.
Roy sat in the back and tried to think of a plan B. He didn't have a cell phone with him to call for help or directions. He didn't have a map. He didn't have a compass. What he would do with a compass he didn't know, but for some reason he felt it would be good to have a compass.
This had been a long day. Roy had been going since 5 AM and it was now 11:55 PM. He rubbed his eyes with both hands and paused when he felt the cab stop quickly.
"Here," is all the driver said.
Roy looked up in amazement and relief. They were sitting in front of the Best Western Motel. The numbers on the front of the building matched the address of the motel Roy had reserved.
"Sorry, no charge," said the driver. Roy couldn't bring himself to exit the cab without paying something. He looked at the cab's meter: $160. So that is what a three-hour ride in a cab in New York City costs. Roy placed four $20 bills in the pass through tray from the back seat to the front.
Roy walked into the lobby of the motel. "Surely this is the right one," thought and prayed Roy. The lobby was tiny. It reminded Roy of a hotel he had transited near the Tokyo airport twenty years earlier. Ten minutes later an exhausted and relieved Roy sat on the bed in his room.
"Okay, relax," said Roy quietly. "I've been to the big city, had a good meeting, took an unscheduled tour, but am in my motel room. I lost a few hours sleep, but I'll be fine."
5 AM
The small travel alarm clock beeped. Roy turned on the lamp next to his
bed and sat up. It had been a short night. The sleep was welcome, but
insufficient.
By 6 AM Roy was once again standing in the tiny lobby of the motel. A young man with dark hair wearing a white shirt, thin black tie, and black slacks and shoes stood at the door. The motel had accomplished what Roy had asked; an airport car was ready.
This wasn't a cab. It was black, full-size Cadillac. The young man driving appeared to be "American" - whatever that means in a nation of immigrants. He spoke English well and behaved as if trained in the art of customer service.
"Thank you Lord," thought Roy. "A good motel and a good ride to the airport. Last night's cab ride was just one of those things. It would make a good story back at the office."
The back seat of the airport car was large and comfortable. Roy settled in for a five-minute ride to JFK's main terminal. He closed his eyes and felt the smooth ride of the Cadillac and the accompanying peace of mind.
Perhaps Roy fell asleep for a moment. He wasn't sure if he were dreaming or experiencing reality when the peace was vanquished by flashing lights and a whelp.
"Was that a siren? Is this the police?" asked Roy of himself as he rubbed his eyes and came back to harsh reality.
The young all-American driver pulled the Cadillac over to the curb and cursed under his breath. "Not again," was all that Roy could understand. They sat for a moment until the driver lowered his window to speak with the approaching policeman.
"License and registration," said the policeman in a stern, short manner.
"Yes sir," replied the driver. "Could you please give me a break this morning officer? I got a ticket right here at this time yesterday."
The policeman took the papers from the driver and stepped back a couple of paces. He looked at the papers with a flashlight, looked at the driver, and looked at the car again.
"I gave you a ticket here yesterday morning at this time," said the policeman punching the words "I" and "yesterday" with scorn. "You don't learn much do you?"
"Please officer, please give me a break today," pleaded the driver drawing on all his customer service training.
The policeman ignored the driver as he wrote a ticket. He shook his head from side to side as he gave the ticket to the driver and entered into his best "this hurts me more than it hurts you young man, but you need this" tone of voice. "You must learn to drive the speed limit young man. Be careful on the roads."
The driver accepted the ticket in silence, raised his window and read the crumpled piece of paper. "A hundred and fifty bucks. It was seventy five yesterday. How am I going to pay these?" The young man slumped in the driver's seat and looked in his rear-view mirror. His eyes first went to the policeman entering his car and pulling around. Then his eyes went to Roy in a pleading manner. Roy lowered his eyes quickly.
"What is happening here?" thought Roy. "First the cab driver last night loses three hours of pay because he can't find the motel and now this. Poor kid. Two tickets in two mornings. The fees, the insurance rates, the whatever comes with all this stuff."
Roy slumped in his seat. His heart was racing and he tried to control his breathing so that he didn't show the young driver his dread. Roy felt responsible for these problems of other people. He had never driven in circle for hours; he had never received a single speeding ticket let alone two in two mornings at the same spot from the same policemen. Regardless, Roy felt empathy for these people who were helping him leave the City.
Five minutes of s-l-o-w driving brought Roy to the main terminal of JFK. He paid the driver the $20 fee for the ride and gave him a $10 tip. The driver, drained of all the customer service fluid he had a half an hour ago, merely nodded.
Airport security was easy and quick this early in the morning. A United Airlines Red Carpet Club was a few steps past the security line. Roy sat there for half an hour sipping coffee and eating a banana and a cheap pastry.
"Okay," he thought, "I am okay here. Just board the plane and be on my way."
The phrase "what could possibly go wrong?" almost came to Roy's mind, but he stopped himself from thinking that. There was no need to tempt fate.
The plane for the short flight to Washington's Dulles airport was a commuter type. Two propeller engines (noisy), two narrow seats, a narrow aisle with a short ceiling, and two more narrow seats. This would be cramped and uncomfortable, but the flight would be relatively short.
Roy had an aisle seat in an exit row. That was what he always requested. It meant a lot to him on coast-to-coast flights as exit rows had more leg room. It didn't mean anything on this flight. All the seats were small, and all the rows were cramped.
Across the aisle from Roy sat a small, round man wearing thick glasses with sweat on his brow. The sweat caught Roy's attention. The temperature outside was in the low 70s with low humidity. The airport was air conditioned. Roy was a bit cool himself. Why was this man sweating?
The man clutched a large leather briefcase to his chest. Roy had a bad feeling.
"Sir, that brief case has to go under the seat in front of you," said a young, thin female flight attendant.
"It won't fit under there," answered the man. "I'll just hold it."
"Sir, you can't hold it. If it doesn't fit under the seat, we'll check it in the baggage compartment for you." With that the flight attendant continued her trip to the back of the plane.
Roy watched intently as the man across the aisle tried to put his briefcase under the seat in front of him. He was right; the briefcase would not fit. The man resumed his prior position clutching his briefcase and perspiring nervously.
"This won't be difficult," wished Roy. Small commuter planes like this had a simple baggage handling routine. Passengers carried their carry-on baggage to the plane. The plane's under-seat storage areas were small. If the carry-on bag didn't fit, the flight attendant gave it to a baggage handler who placed it in the luggage compartment. Upon landing and before entering the terminal another baggage handler would give you back your carry-on bag. No problem. Roy had given one of his carry-on bags to the baggage handler same as he always did when flying on such small aircraft.
The flight attendant came back to the man across the aisle. "Sir, I'll have to take your bag now so we can stow it and be on our way."
"No, I cannot give it up," replied the man.
Roy stopped breathing.
"Sir, I have to take it now. We cannot start the engines and taxi for takeoff until we stow you bag."
"I'll give it to you," started the man, "if you personally swear to me that the bag will be safe. This is a very important bag you know."
The man pulled a notepad from his inside jacket pocket and placed a sterling silver pen to it. "What is your name? I need your first, middle, and last name before I can give you this. You will be held responsible for this."
Roy's jaw dropped. "Oh no," was his only thought.
The flight attendant didn't say anything. She stood stiff and erect, her head coming within a quarter inch of the low ceiling of the plane, turned abruptly, and walked quickly to the front of the plane, down the stairs, and onto the tarmac.
"This isn't going to be pretty," thought Roy as he slowly slid from the aisle seat to the window seat to his left.
In a few moments a large man dressed in khaki shorts and wearing orange hearing protectors entered the plane and squeezed his muscular body down the aisle to Roy's row. He looked at the small, sweating man clutching the large briefcase. "Sir," he said, "come with me."
The large man squeezed his muscular body back out of the plane. Without a word, the small, sweating man across from Roy stood, still clutching his briefcase to his chest, and followed.
Roy wanted to know what was happening outside the plane, but he didn't look out the window. Instead, he stared at the tops of his shoes. "Please Lord," thought Roy, "Please get us out of here." Two minutes passed. To Roy the two minutes seemed longer than the three hours he had ridden in the cab the night before. Roy listened, but didn't hear anything. The plane was silent.
Finally, the small, sweating man entered the plane again. He was still clutching his large briefcase to his chest. He walked past Roy and continued to the last row of the plane where he sat for the duration of the flight. Somehow, the small, sweating man with the all-important briefcase had reached a peaceful compromise with United Airlines. They let him hold his precious bag as long as he sat in the back row of the plane. The only thing Roy could think of was that sitting in the back balanced the weight of the plane. That didn't make any sense, but that is all Roy could imagine.
The flight attendant closed the door, the plane's engines started, and they taxied to the runway. To Roy's surprise, the plane left the ground and the flight to Washington was uneventful. The small, sweating man made no noise during the flight. The flight attendant never went near him again.
Two hours later, Roy was in his home. He had escaped from New York.
Go to
Dwayne's Home Page
Email me at
d.phillips@computer.org