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Taxi Runner

A Short Story

By Sophie RobertsonPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
1
Taxi Runner
Photo by Todd Cravens on Unsplash

“Miss June’s a special lady. She lives in the house up the road, comes here sometimes.” Moley explained to the cashier. He watched the little woman carefully totter out the door of his convenience store. Miss June sat on a bench outside the store, next to the long expanse of straight road. She munched on the pre-packaged donut she’d just gotten, not caring that the white powder would stick to her freshly pressed pink suit jacket. Suddenly she stood up and with a frail finger, she pointed into the evening street and shrieked, “Taxi!”

The young cashier rolled his eyes. “Since when has there been a taxi in Patten, Maine?” He leaned on the counter and watched the woman with the mild curiosity of a teenager who has nothing better to do. “We can’t even get an Uber to Portland.”

Dan Moley sighed. “Miss June lives in another world, Jack. She used to be a big-wig in New York, a model or a singer. There’s a rumor that she was friends with Sammy Davis Junior.”

Jack shrugged, then his eyes widened a bit. “She thinks she’s still there, doesn’t she?”

The door swung open and both men’s eyes shifted automatically toward it, expecting a customer. Instead, it was Miss June again, standing as straight as she could. “Excuse me, excuse me,” she faltered, pulling down a strand of her white hair. “Could you help me call a taxi? Those drivers never…they never pay attention to me.”

“There’s no taxis here.” Jack turned to organize the cigarette case behind him. “Look at this place. Why would taxis come here?”

Moley sighed. The words hurt, although they weren’t meant to. He glanced around at the practically empty shelves, the peeling paint, the lights that occasionally blinked out. Nothing for anyone else…nothing for him. Why would taxis come here, when no one else did?

“I wish I could take a taxi away, too, Miss June,” he said, “but there aren’t any.”

“What do you mean, no taxis?” She paused, then gave a little laugh and began to dig around in her leather purse. “No matter, if you have a phone, I know I have the number here somewhere…” She pulled out a little black book and flipped through it. “Ah! The company…”

“There’s no taxis.” Jack said again. “Follow the road the way you came.”

“I’m sorry, Miss June.” Moley said, reaching for the lady’s hand. “I can help you get home…” She didn’t live far. He could drive her.

Something changed in the little woman’s eyes. Her face, still beautiful though stained with old age, became clouded with rage. “Don’t you touch me! And don’t you tell me there aren’t any taxis!” She held up the black book. “I have the number right here! Don’t you see, I have to get to my gala tonight? Everyone is expecting me. It’s the biggest night of my career!”

Moley glanced at Jack and then back at Miss June, who had begun to try to find a way back behind the counter. “Miss June…won’t you let me take you home?” He hesitated.

She slammed her little hand down. “I have to get to the gala! Never mind.” She huffed to herself. “You men. Never helpful. I’ll flag one myself.” She pulled her purse tight to her with one hand, her book close with the other, and she marched out the door.

It was too quick. Moley thought she would go home, or wander around for a bit to enjoy the summer breeze and calm down. Miss June saw a vehicle approaching, and Moley saw it too. It wasn’t a taxi. It was a logging truck, the most common kind of vehicle that traveled through Patten, and it wasn’t going slow. Miss June called for it to stop, and when it didn’t, she rushed out into the road.

Moley didn’t move. He watched her little black book fly up into the air, opening, the pages fluttering, fluttering, before drifting down onto the black pavement. There was something between the pages, flapping out. He was vaguely aware of the boy, Jack, running out of the store, pulling out his cell phone, calling 911; but he walked over to the book, and picked it up. Flipped through it. There weren’t any numbers. Only green, green Benjamins.

And Dan Moley saw his taxi to New York.

“Damn,” he said to Jack, sliding the book into his pocket. “That was the worst thing I’ve ever seen, and I was in Vietnam.”

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