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Authors: Felice Picano
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mirror. At Third Avenue, two turning busses were stopped in the middle of the intersection. The brown eyes continued to look back and forth at us then at the road ahead.
By Second Avenue, I could see dozens more taxis here than one would have expected. Ahead of us, I saw the cab with Junior Obregon and Reinhold's distant relation in the backseat.
At First Avenue, we stopped dead in traffic.
Wally dropped his head into my lap and began nuzzling my crotch.
In the rearview mirror, the eyes were searching for and not finding Wally: they were startlingly large.
Horns were blaring all around us. Ahead, the traffic jam was solid all the way to FDR Drive. Wally lifted his head, and though I couldn't see his face, I was sure he was doing something amazingly lewd with his mouth. He dropped his head again. I thought the cabby's large brown eyes would pop out of their orbits.
The horns blowing in and out of chorus were suddenly punctuated by the electronic wail of an EMS van. Which occasioned even more horn blowing, and heads out the window shouting. Evidently the emergency unit was coming up First, right at us.
We'd been moving a few feet at a time, and the preoccupied cabby suddenly found himself sticking out about three quarters into the avenue, any further progress blocked by cross cars inching past, any possible backward move stopped by cars who'd pulled up close behind. The blare from the horns and the shouting from nearby drivers and pedestrians waiting to cross was both fierce and ugly. Our cabby was trapped, and if he'd been nervous before, now he was a complete wreck. He shouted back, he swore, he tried moving the car ahead—right into the side fender of a sedan—prompting its driver to stop dead, get out of his car, and begin thumping on our cab's hood. Our driver rolled up his window and backed away, lightly tapping the front bumper of the car behind.
His head in my lap, Wally was laughing.
Finally, the EMS van pulled through, and in a matter of seconds traffic began to move again. Drivers got back in their cars, and everyone moved. Our cabby charged ahead, swerved to a sudden stop with a screech of all four tires at the line of parked cars. He turned around and began shouting:
"You cannot do this! You cannot! You have almost made me a accident!"
When I continued to ignore him, he got out of the car and opened the back door. Wally had turned around, still leaning across my knees, and he put a casual hand up to the side of his head.
"Well? What's holding us up now?" Wally asked.
"You must get out," the driver was shouting. He made the error of reaching forward in an attempt to touch Wally, who kicked out violently. The driver drew back. "You cannot do this. You cannot!"
"Do what?" Wally asked, totally blasé.
"You know very well what. Filths! Terrible filths!"
"All the filth is in your mind!" Wally said. "Now, get back in and drive us to where we want to go."
"Never! Never! With all this filths!" the driver insisted. "You must get out!"
"Not until you've driven us to where we're going," Wally insisted, quietly, rationally, implacably.
"This I will not do! You must get out!"
"Not on your life!"
"Then I will call a gop." That's how he pronounced it.
The driver spun around in the street, looking for a policeman. Naturally none was present, several precincts full having been drained and with their hands full a few blocks away at Gracie Mansion. He reached into the front seat, pulled out the change maker, flagged shut the meter, and removed the keys from the ignition. We weren't going anywhere. This was serious. The cabby now began making wider forays from the taxi, still looking for a cop. Whenever he returned to the cab, he'd repeat that we had to get out or stop "making filths." And Wally would say something irritatingly casual like "Sue me!"
This ridiculous standoff might have gone on all night, but as I sat there listening to them, I suddenly had this image of Alistair's locked bathroom door, with the
By Second Avenue, I could see dozens more taxis here than one would have expected. Ahead of us, I saw the cab with Junior Obregon and Reinhold's distant relation in the backseat.
At First Avenue, we stopped dead in traffic.
Wally dropped his head into my lap and began nuzzling my crotch.
In the rearview mirror, the eyes were searching for and not finding Wally: they were startlingly large.
Horns were blaring all around us. Ahead, the traffic jam was solid all the way to FDR Drive. Wally lifted his head, and though I couldn't see his face, I was sure he was doing something amazingly lewd with his mouth. He dropped his head again. I thought the cabby's large brown eyes would pop out of their orbits.
The horns blowing in and out of chorus were suddenly punctuated by the electronic wail of an EMS van. Which occasioned even more horn blowing, and heads out the window shouting. Evidently the emergency unit was coming up First, right at us.
We'd been moving a few feet at a time, and the preoccupied cabby suddenly found himself sticking out about three quarters into the avenue, any further progress blocked by cross cars inching past, any possible backward move stopped by cars who'd pulled up close behind. The blare from the horns and the shouting from nearby drivers and pedestrians waiting to cross was both fierce and ugly. Our cabby was trapped, and if he'd been nervous before, now he was a complete wreck. He shouted back, he swore, he tried moving the car ahead—right into the side fender of a sedan—prompting its driver to stop dead, get out of his car, and begin thumping on our cab's hood. Our driver rolled up his window and backed away, lightly tapping the front bumper of the car behind.
His head in my lap, Wally was laughing.
Finally, the EMS van pulled through, and in a matter of seconds traffic began to move again. Drivers got back in their cars, and everyone moved. Our cabby charged ahead, swerved to a sudden stop with a screech of all four tires at the line of parked cars. He turned around and began shouting:
"You cannot do this! You cannot! You have almost made me a accident!"
When I continued to ignore him, he got out of the car and opened the back door. Wally had turned around, still leaning across my knees, and he put a casual hand up to the side of his head.
"Well? What's holding us up now?" Wally asked.
"You must get out," the driver was shouting. He made the error of reaching forward in an attempt to touch Wally, who kicked out violently. The driver drew back. "You cannot do this. You cannot!"
"Do what?" Wally asked, totally blasé.
"You know very well what. Filths! Terrible filths!"
"All the filth is in your mind!" Wally said. "Now, get back in and drive us to where we want to go."
"Never! Never! With all this filths!" the driver insisted. "You must get out!"
"Not until you've driven us to where we're going," Wally insisted, quietly, rationally, implacably.
"This I will not do! You must get out!"
"Not on your life!"
"Then I will call a gop." That's how he pronounced it.
The driver spun around in the street, looking for a policeman. Naturally none was present, several precincts full having been drained and with their hands full a few blocks away at Gracie Mansion. He reached into the front seat, pulled out the change maker, flagged shut the meter, and removed the keys from the ignition. We weren't going anywhere. This was serious. The cabby now began making wider forays from the taxi, still looking for a cop. Whenever he returned to the cab, he'd repeat that we had to get out or stop "making filths." And Wally would say something irritatingly casual like "Sue me!"
This ridiculous standoff might have gone on all night, but as I sat there listening to them, I suddenly had this image of Alistair's locked bathroom door, with the
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