read 1:24 a.m. The bass almost massages you as the driver heads down streets as if he knows where he’s going.
“You won’t believe it.”
“You’re not from around here, huh?”
“Chicago,” you say.
“You live in New York long enough, you’ll get to see everything. But a white guy wandering around this part of the Bronx at one in the morning—now that’s a first for me.”
“This is the Bronx?”
He laughs, a deep guttural laugh that makes you do the same. “Yeah, a very nasty section. Don’t even ask what I’m doing driving down here. But you—you gotta have a story.”
“It started with meeting a chick.”
The driver curses in amusement. “Stop there. No need to say anything else.”
“Half an hour ago someone had a gun in my face.”
He curses again, now in astonishment. “What for?”
“Info on the woman.”
“And what’s her story?”
You shrug. “Just met her today.”
He looks at you with eyes that look tired and glassy. “Just met her today, huh?”
You nod.
“How long you been married?”
For a minute you think he noticed your wedding ring, but you remember you left it back at the hotel.
“How’d you—”
“Man, you’ve got married written all over you. That ‘just met her today’ comment. Major guilt, man.”
“Twelve years.”
“What’s her name?”
“Lisa.”
He nods. “Kids?”
“Two.”
“So a call in the middle of the night to Lisa saying her hubby was found in the south Bronx with a couple rounds in his head wouldn’t be so good, right?”
“I just wanted to get out of that car.”
“Like being married?”
The question is simple and straightforward.
“Where are you going?”
“Heading toward Midtown,” the driver says.
You find the license and ask to turn on the light.
“What’s that?”
“The woman I met.”
He takes the license from you and curses. “She looks like this?”
You nod.
“And you let her get away?”
“Didn’t have much of a choice. Any chance you’re heading toward there?”
“That’s the Village.”
“That’s where I need to go.”
The guy nods. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yeah, marriage is good.”
You say this without thinking. The guy’s laugh surprises you.
“What?”
“Good, huh?”
You’re tired and your buzz is wearing off and you should be heading back to the hotel but you can’t.
“It’s hard work too,” you say.
“So you gotta keep things exciting, huh?”
“Not
this
exciting.”
“Just got engaged a month ago.”
“Congrats.”
“I’m Tupac,” the driver says.
“Michael.”
You look at him and he’s laughing. “Man, I’m just teasin’. My name’s Walt.”
Any other time, you’d come up with a witty retort. But you’re too tired and too out of it to think of anything.
“So twelve years and two kids—what’s that have to do with that license?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, huh?”
“Yeah, I can’t explain it.”
Walt laughs and stops the SUV at the red light. He looks over at you. “You don’t have to explain it. She’s hot. Enough said.”
You want to say
She came up to me
. You want to say
She invited me out
. But those are lame excuses. Lisa would say so and so what and you’re so in trouble.
I didn’t do anything
.
“So what now?” Walt asks.
“What?”
“You seeing her again?”
“Hoping to. She left me a voice mail—she might be in a little trouble.”
“Serious?”
You nod.
The song changes and the laughter starts and Walt turns up the stereo as the funky beat goes in unison to the high-pitched voice singing “Feel Good.”
What would it feel like to be twenty-one again? To be engaged again? To be free again? To not have to think of the responsibilities and the ring on your finger and those snapshots in your head? You wouldn’t give up anything, but sometimes on occasions you wish you could be single and twenty-something again just for the night.
But you’re not, Mike
.
You’re thirty-seven and
“You won’t believe it.”
“You’re not from around here, huh?”
“Chicago,” you say.
“You live in New York long enough, you’ll get to see everything. But a white guy wandering around this part of the Bronx at one in the morning—now that’s a first for me.”
“This is the Bronx?”
He laughs, a deep guttural laugh that makes you do the same. “Yeah, a very nasty section. Don’t even ask what I’m doing driving down here. But you—you gotta have a story.”
“It started with meeting a chick.”
The driver curses in amusement. “Stop there. No need to say anything else.”
“Half an hour ago someone had a gun in my face.”
He curses again, now in astonishment. “What for?”
“Info on the woman.”
“And what’s her story?”
You shrug. “Just met her today.”
He looks at you with eyes that look tired and glassy. “Just met her today, huh?”
You nod.
“How long you been married?”
For a minute you think he noticed your wedding ring, but you remember you left it back at the hotel.
“How’d you—”
“Man, you’ve got married written all over you. That ‘just met her today’ comment. Major guilt, man.”
“Twelve years.”
“What’s her name?”
“Lisa.”
He nods. “Kids?”
“Two.”
“So a call in the middle of the night to Lisa saying her hubby was found in the south Bronx with a couple rounds in his head wouldn’t be so good, right?”
“I just wanted to get out of that car.”
“Like being married?”
The question is simple and straightforward.
“Where are you going?”
“Heading toward Midtown,” the driver says.
You find the license and ask to turn on the light.
“What’s that?”
“The woman I met.”
He takes the license from you and curses. “She looks like this?”
You nod.
“And you let her get away?”
“Didn’t have much of a choice. Any chance you’re heading toward there?”
“That’s the Village.”
“That’s where I need to go.”
The guy nods. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yeah, marriage is good.”
You say this without thinking. The guy’s laugh surprises you.
“What?”
“Good, huh?”
You’re tired and your buzz is wearing off and you should be heading back to the hotel but you can’t.
“It’s hard work too,” you say.
“So you gotta keep things exciting, huh?”
“Not
this
exciting.”
“Just got engaged a month ago.”
“Congrats.”
“I’m Tupac,” the driver says.
“Michael.”
You look at him and he’s laughing. “Man, I’m just teasin’. My name’s Walt.”
Any other time, you’d come up with a witty retort. But you’re too tired and too out of it to think of anything.
“So twelve years and two kids—what’s that have to do with that license?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, huh?”
“Yeah, I can’t explain it.”
Walt laughs and stops the SUV at the red light. He looks over at you. “You don’t have to explain it. She’s hot. Enough said.”
You want to say
She came up to me
. You want to say
She invited me out
. But those are lame excuses. Lisa would say so and so what and you’re so in trouble.
I didn’t do anything
.
“So what now?” Walt asks.
“What?”
“You seeing her again?”
“Hoping to. She left me a voice mail—she might be in a little trouble.”
“Serious?”
You nod.
The song changes and the laughter starts and Walt turns up the stereo as the funky beat goes in unison to the high-pitched voice singing “Feel Good.”
What would it feel like to be twenty-one again? To be engaged again? To be free again? To not have to think of the responsibilities and the ring on your finger and those snapshots in your head? You wouldn’t give up anything, but sometimes on occasions you wish you could be single and twenty-something again just for the night.
But you’re not, Mike
.
You’re thirty-seven and
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