Read Online The Waiting Room by T. M. Wright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. M. Wright
Tags: Horror
Ads: Link
shrugged, too, then turned and found a seat at the back of the car.
Minutes later, I was on East 57th Street and looking for another subway entrance so I could get to Queens. The Manhattan sky was a still, dark gray, only a little lighter than the old man's pinstripe suit, and the air had a grisly cold snap to it that smelled vaguely of car exhausts and tar.
I heard, from behind me, across the street, "Hey, up yours!"
And, "Yeah, up yours, too! You get the fuckin' heavy one!"
I looked. Two garbage collectors, a beefy white man and a tall, muscular black man, were arguing over who was going to pick up which garbage can. A yellow garbage truck waited several feet away, a plume of gray exhaust billowing around it. I called to them, "Hey, where's there a subway entrance?"
The beefy white guy called back, "You just come outta one!"
"I know. I want to go to Queens; I need a different one." It still hadn't dawned on me that I didn't know precisely how to get to the beach house. I thought a moment, added, "One that doesn't smell so bad."
Both of them laughed shortly. "Shit, my man," called the black guy, "they all of them smell, you know, but you go on down to West 60th Street and you'll find yourself one that maybe smells a little different ."
"Yeah," I called, "sure, thanksâI hope so." I was beginning to look and sound like a complete ass. "Thanks again," I called. They stared blankly at me a moment, then got back to their argument about who was going to lift which trash can. The truck driver leaned on his horn for a couple of seconds. They continued their argument. The truck driver leaned on his horn again. The argument continued.
I called, from fifty yards down the street, "For God's sake, why don't you both pick it up?!"
In unison, they turned, leveled their gaze on me, and started walking very slowly in my direction. The truck's gears meshed, and it lurched forward several feet, gray exhaust billowing around it like a cloud.
"I was only being helpful," I called. "I was only trying to be helpful."
The white guy, the black guy, and the truck all continued slowly, methodically in my direction.
I turned and ran. When I'd made it to Fifth Avenue, I looked back briefly and saw that they were still coming my way. I looked up Fifth, saw a cab coming, and hailed it. It pulled over. I got in.
"Queens," I told the driver.
He turned, looked at me. "It's a big place, mister."
"So's the moon," I said.
"You're a real card."
"Somewhere near the ocean, then. North of Queens, near the ocean."
"It's your quarter," he said, put the flag down, and closed the Plexiglas partition between the front and back seats.
~ * ~
A good forty-five minutes later, the cabbie pulled up in front of a small shopping plaza, turned in his seat, and said, "This okay, fella?"
I shook my head. "No. I'm sorry. I'm going to a house on the beach somewhere. This isn't the beach."
He nodded to indicate the meter, which read $22.70; it clicked over to $22.90 as I watched. "You gonna be able to pay me, mister?"
"Of course I'm going to be able to pay you."
"You wanta check and make sure?"
"I don't need toâ" I stopped, realized that I'd cashed my last payroll check three weeks earlier, had put most of it in my savings account, and had lived quite frugally ever since. I sat up straight and looked at the meter. "How much is that, now? That's $22.90?"
"$22.90. That's right." It was clear he was losing his patience.
I checked my wallet, found three tens and two ones in it. I sighed, relieved, handed him the three tens, told him to give me a five and keep the rest. "This will be okay, right here. Which way's the ocean?"
He inclined his head to the right. "That way. Just keep walkingâyou can't miss it."
"Thanks," I said, and got out.
~ * ~
I have a lousy memory for placesâstreets, roads, housesâso it didn't surprise me very much when, an hour later, I found myself walking the shoulder of a four-lane highway flanked by industrial
Minutes later, I was on East 57th Street and looking for another subway entrance so I could get to Queens. The Manhattan sky was a still, dark gray, only a little lighter than the old man's pinstripe suit, and the air had a grisly cold snap to it that smelled vaguely of car exhausts and tar.
I heard, from behind me, across the street, "Hey, up yours!"
And, "Yeah, up yours, too! You get the fuckin' heavy one!"
I looked. Two garbage collectors, a beefy white man and a tall, muscular black man, were arguing over who was going to pick up which garbage can. A yellow garbage truck waited several feet away, a plume of gray exhaust billowing around it. I called to them, "Hey, where's there a subway entrance?"
The beefy white guy called back, "You just come outta one!"
"I know. I want to go to Queens; I need a different one." It still hadn't dawned on me that I didn't know precisely how to get to the beach house. I thought a moment, added, "One that doesn't smell so bad."
Both of them laughed shortly. "Shit, my man," called the black guy, "they all of them smell, you know, but you go on down to West 60th Street and you'll find yourself one that maybe smells a little different ."
"Yeah," I called, "sure, thanksâI hope so." I was beginning to look and sound like a complete ass. "Thanks again," I called. They stared blankly at me a moment, then got back to their argument about who was going to lift which trash can. The truck driver leaned on his horn for a couple of seconds. They continued their argument. The truck driver leaned on his horn again. The argument continued.
I called, from fifty yards down the street, "For God's sake, why don't you both pick it up?!"
In unison, they turned, leveled their gaze on me, and started walking very slowly in my direction. The truck's gears meshed, and it lurched forward several feet, gray exhaust billowing around it like a cloud.
"I was only being helpful," I called. "I was only trying to be helpful."
The white guy, the black guy, and the truck all continued slowly, methodically in my direction.
I turned and ran. When I'd made it to Fifth Avenue, I looked back briefly and saw that they were still coming my way. I looked up Fifth, saw a cab coming, and hailed it. It pulled over. I got in.
"Queens," I told the driver.
He turned, looked at me. "It's a big place, mister."
"So's the moon," I said.
"You're a real card."
"Somewhere near the ocean, then. North of Queens, near the ocean."
"It's your quarter," he said, put the flag down, and closed the Plexiglas partition between the front and back seats.
~ * ~
A good forty-five minutes later, the cabbie pulled up in front of a small shopping plaza, turned in his seat, and said, "This okay, fella?"
I shook my head. "No. I'm sorry. I'm going to a house on the beach somewhere. This isn't the beach."
He nodded to indicate the meter, which read $22.70; it clicked over to $22.90 as I watched. "You gonna be able to pay me, mister?"
"Of course I'm going to be able to pay you."
"You wanta check and make sure?"
"I don't need toâ" I stopped, realized that I'd cashed my last payroll check three weeks earlier, had put most of it in my savings account, and had lived quite frugally ever since. I sat up straight and looked at the meter. "How much is that, now? That's $22.90?"
"$22.90. That's right." It was clear he was losing his patience.
I checked my wallet, found three tens and two ones in it. I sighed, relieved, handed him the three tens, told him to give me a five and keep the rest. "This will be okay, right here. Which way's the ocean?"
He inclined his head to the right. "That way. Just keep walkingâyou can't miss it."
"Thanks," I said, and got out.
~ * ~
I have a lousy memory for placesâstreets, roads, housesâso it didn't surprise me very much when, an hour later, I found myself walking the shoulder of a four-lane highway flanked by industrial
Similar Books
