Read Online The Choir Director by Carl Weber - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carl Weber
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say: If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. I gave myself one year, and I was going to rule this city.
“Hey, taxi!” I yelled thirty minutes later, flailing my arms up and down like one of the sisters doing the holy dance. It was to no avail. The son of a gun drove right past me like I wasn’t even there.
Thirty minutes. I’d been standing out there for half an hour trying to flag down a cab. Frustration and anger consumed me. How the hell was I going to take over the city if I couldn’t even catch a taxi? Anyhow, I guess it was true what they said about trying to hail a cab in New York City when you’re a black man: It’s impossible. Whether it was driven by a white man or a black man, a Latino or an Arab, each cab I saw whizzed right by me as if I were waving a 9 mm handgun instead of just my arm, which was beyond tired at this point.
Luckily, about five minutes later, a cab pulled up to the curb right in front of me and let out two passengers. I grabbed the cardoor so fast when it opened that the people getting out probably thought I was a doorman. I left the door open so the cab wouldn’t pull away and then turned to grab my belongings. When I turned back to the cab, this dark-skinned sister around my age with a scarf around her head slid into the backseat.
“Hey, wait a minute! That’s my taxi.” I was holding a suitcase in each arm, and my keyboard was flung over my shoulder.
“I don’t think so,” the woman replied curtly. She reached to close the car door, but I stepped in front of it, holding it open with my hip.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, giving me a withering look.
“Yes, there’s a problem. You’re in my taxi,” I snapped. I wasn’t usually this rude to women, even when they were wrong, but she was the one who started giving me attitude first.
“If this was your cab, you’d be sitting in it, not me. Now, can you close the door?”
If I hadn’t been standing out there for thirty minutes, I might have relented, but I was tired, hungry, and wanted to get where I was going.
I heaved a deep sigh. “Look, it’s late. Why don’t we compromise? We can share the cab.”
“I don’t think so,” she snapped. “I’m headed to Queens.”
“See there, today must be my lucky day. I just happen to be going to Queens too.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean you’re traveling there in this cab. Besides, I don’t share cabs with strange men, especially not one dressed like a thug.” Her eyes traveled up and down, appraising my outfit, which clearly didn’t impress her.
I felt like I’d been taken out at the knees.
“A thug! You think I look like a thug?” I dropped both bags, spreading my arms out to show off my outfit. “Lady, this is a three-hundred-dollar Sean John sweat suit. These sneakers cost almost two hundred dollars. Don’t be talking about my clothes, especially if you don’t know a damn thing about fashion.”
She laughed. “What would make a grown-ass man spend that kind of money on a sweat suit and sneakers? I bet you don’t even own a suit. You know, for someone so cute, you should really grow up.”
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? You don’t know me!” I guess my tone kind of scared her, because I saw her flinch. But that didn’t mean she was going to back down. As soon as I moved my hip slightly, she managed to pull the door closed. With that, the cab sped off.
“Dammit!” I made a fist and shook it in the air. I wanted to call the strange woman the word that rhymes with
itch,
but I said I would never call a black woman out of her name. Instead, I stomped my feet to release some of my pent-up frustration.
Man, if that’s how the sisters up here acted, I was going to have to import a few from down South. I’d heard rumors about how cold-blooded New Yorkers were, and I’d just witnessed my first example.
At the rate I was going, I was never going to get a cab out of Manhattan. Who could I call? I thought of
“Hey, taxi!” I yelled thirty minutes later, flailing my arms up and down like one of the sisters doing the holy dance. It was to no avail. The son of a gun drove right past me like I wasn’t even there.
Thirty minutes. I’d been standing out there for half an hour trying to flag down a cab. Frustration and anger consumed me. How the hell was I going to take over the city if I couldn’t even catch a taxi? Anyhow, I guess it was true what they said about trying to hail a cab in New York City when you’re a black man: It’s impossible. Whether it was driven by a white man or a black man, a Latino or an Arab, each cab I saw whizzed right by me as if I were waving a 9 mm handgun instead of just my arm, which was beyond tired at this point.
Luckily, about five minutes later, a cab pulled up to the curb right in front of me and let out two passengers. I grabbed the cardoor so fast when it opened that the people getting out probably thought I was a doorman. I left the door open so the cab wouldn’t pull away and then turned to grab my belongings. When I turned back to the cab, this dark-skinned sister around my age with a scarf around her head slid into the backseat.
“Hey, wait a minute! That’s my taxi.” I was holding a suitcase in each arm, and my keyboard was flung over my shoulder.
“I don’t think so,” the woman replied curtly. She reached to close the car door, but I stepped in front of it, holding it open with my hip.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, giving me a withering look.
“Yes, there’s a problem. You’re in my taxi,” I snapped. I wasn’t usually this rude to women, even when they were wrong, but she was the one who started giving me attitude first.
“If this was your cab, you’d be sitting in it, not me. Now, can you close the door?”
If I hadn’t been standing out there for thirty minutes, I might have relented, but I was tired, hungry, and wanted to get where I was going.
I heaved a deep sigh. “Look, it’s late. Why don’t we compromise? We can share the cab.”
“I don’t think so,” she snapped. “I’m headed to Queens.”
“See there, today must be my lucky day. I just happen to be going to Queens too.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean you’re traveling there in this cab. Besides, I don’t share cabs with strange men, especially not one dressed like a thug.” Her eyes traveled up and down, appraising my outfit, which clearly didn’t impress her.
I felt like I’d been taken out at the knees.
“A thug! You think I look like a thug?” I dropped both bags, spreading my arms out to show off my outfit. “Lady, this is a three-hundred-dollar Sean John sweat suit. These sneakers cost almost two hundred dollars. Don’t be talking about my clothes, especially if you don’t know a damn thing about fashion.”
She laughed. “What would make a grown-ass man spend that kind of money on a sweat suit and sneakers? I bet you don’t even own a suit. You know, for someone so cute, you should really grow up.”
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? You don’t know me!” I guess my tone kind of scared her, because I saw her flinch. But that didn’t mean she was going to back down. As soon as I moved my hip slightly, she managed to pull the door closed. With that, the cab sped off.
“Dammit!” I made a fist and shook it in the air. I wanted to call the strange woman the word that rhymes with
itch,
but I said I would never call a black woman out of her name. Instead, I stomped my feet to release some of my pent-up frustration.
Man, if that’s how the sisters up here acted, I was going to have to import a few from down South. I’d heard rumors about how cold-blooded New Yorkers were, and I’d just witnessed my first example.
At the rate I was going, I was never going to get a cab out of Manhattan. Who could I call? I thought of
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