No Title at This Time. Possibly "The Cab"-Kassie Maser

Someone asked me to post this, so here goes. It will either be for the anthology or the final open mic, but definetely for the open mic tomorrow.

Frank awoke with a start. Someone was knocking on his window, which meant he had fallen asleep on the job again. He got up at the same time every morning, but his body just couldn’t seem to agree with his alarm clock that it was time to wake up.

He looked up to see who was knocking. It was the woman. Why would he have expected anyone else?

She opened the door and slid into the seat. “Where to?” Frank asked groggily.

The woman gave him an exasperated look, but said “42^nd and Broadway.” Somehow, whenever the woman was in the cab, Frank could get where she needed to go without asking, but he preferred to do it the old fashioned way. It was more natural.

She had never told him here name, which was probably more for Frank’s benefit than that of her anonymity. He imagined her name was something like her face; a kind of beauty he wouldn’t quite be able to grasp. He could tell that she was strikingly beautiful, but when he looked right at her, he was so overcome by the apparent average-ness of her face that he forgot what she looked like the second she turned away. The only image Frank had to connect to the nameless woman was that of the billowy white dress she wore sliding into his cab every morning.

Frank yawned, and pulled out into the New York traffic. He tried not to think about who the woman might be visiting today. Instead, he thought about his grumbling stomach, reminding him that he had been in too much of a rush this morning to eat. He would have to get a donut while he waited.

Traffic had come to a complete stop, probably because of construction. Frank was annoyed until he heard the wail of sirens. He tried not to look back, but the woman had already gone to fetch whatever unlucky pedestrian or bike messenger had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dead on arrival.

Frank sighed and waited for the woman to return. Soon, she slid back into her seat, no obvious change in emotion since this morning. Or since he first met her, for that matter. He decided to take a different route. No need to see any broken glass or blood, and she wouldn’t mind paying a few extra bucks.

When Frank pulled up to the intersection, he said “Here we are,” but she had already left on her silent way to whichever building was her first stop. He circled the block until he found a miracle parking spot, then walked to the nearest donut shop, where he picked out the biggest, greasiest pasty he could find. He silently scolded himself as he took a bite out of his breakfast, and headed back to the cab.

She was already in the car when he got back. Her next stop was only a few blocks away, and they drove silently.

As always, he pulled over and waited for her. This time, he didn’t have a donut to distract him. He had never taken much interest in what she did, which was probably why she chose him. Some other sick person might have asked about everything, but he tried not to think about it.

Frank adjusted his mirror, and the picture of his son fell onto his lap. He sighed, and stuck the corner back into the frame. A couple of times, he recognized someplace he had been on the news. It made him sad, but he hadn’t cared to much until the day that actor died. His son had wanted to be an actor. Frank was so upset he stopped watching the news completely. He usually got home too late anyway.

The woman startled him when she got in the car. Usually, he barely noticed her, but this time, maybe because he was thinking about his son, he could feel the weight she added when she sat down.

Frank started driving. “Where next?” he asked, but she didn’t answer. Why did she pick today to not tell him?

Five minutes later he asked again. “Where are we going?”

She said, “Pull over.”

“Here?” Frank asked. She didn’t seem like she wanted to stop, there, but had to.

He was about to ask what was wrong when the pain gripped his chest. He felt like he was being torn in two.

“Pull over,” she said more sternly. “Frank?” He could barely hear her. “Frank, pull over!” she yelled, as she reached forward and yanked the steering wheel to the right. He wanted to scream, but he could barely open his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently as her light hand brushed his shoulder, and he slipped into darkness.