Taxi Aquarium

On the next traffic light on 7th avenue and 55th street the Little Tree car air freshener hanging on the rear mirror once again finished swaying. It had long lost its commercial "fresh pine" scent and even before the radio was stolen during the black out, it had become more of a nostalgia item, a reminder of things gone by and perhaps of things that could have been.

Unlike people the tree was good at adapting to new reality and was now serving a purpose it was never intended for - to liven up the radioless universe of the car salon. I did for a short while attach some beads around it for extra livelihood, but they hit my eye rather well once when I slammed the breaks in Bronx, so I took them off. Who knew Bronx could be so violent without me even stepping out of the taxi?!

The outside world however was diametrically opposite to my peaceful car salon. Nevertheless, I noticed myself calming down, my immune system was sensing that rush hour was near. A professional reflex I developed after 13 years in the trade with New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission. Kept me sane and tame.

With the car gaining speed the Little Tree once again intensified its swinging dance, when somewhere in Midtown after 7th Avenue a thin man lifts his hand and whistles to hail my taxi. Good whistle! I used to find them condescending, but now I find they contribute to the character of the city. He gets in, quickly materializes some book and reads from it:

“Central park West, West 72nd Street!”

“Yes, sir”, I switch the roof light off and start the meter.

Speaks (and reads) English, but not American. Do they speak like that in Canada? Not a business type, but wears some sort of suit, bit oversized and loose though. He looks like one of those Fab Four guys, just a bit more shell shocked but somehow with fresher lips. In fact, when I glance at him through the mirror, behind the partition glass he looks a bit like a fish in an aquarium that wouldn’t mind being fed by an audience. His vibe stands out from my usual passengers, comes across somewhere between confident and arrogant, maybe even famous. You can usually tell. Though a lot of people do act like that these days, well, usually late at night, especially the disco people. I gave it some time, drove another block and asked if his day was ok?

“Actually, pretty good thanks! Just got some good news at work. Yourself?”

“Ah, you know, the usual routine. Was thinking of Oyster Bay before picking you up. Ever been there?” I ask a leading geographical question to see if he is foreign.

“No, I haven’t I’m afraid. I’m not from around here.”

“It’s a quiet place in Long Island, used to get taken there as a kid on holidays, run around, listen to the radio, paint and write stuff. It’s south east from here. Most restaurants in town get their oysters from there.”

“All right. I might be having some of those tonight. Great conversation filler, I like new facts, especially if I can remember them. I’m all ears.”

He’s more like all lips.

“Well, there’s not much more about Oyster bay or Long Island. Just nice views and memories.”

“You said you painted?” the big lips ask.

“Well, you know, as a kid. Just dreaming up stuff, letting it flow. Preferred the writing.”

“All right. What kind of writing?”

“Uh... just like anything, songs, poems. Even won a state poetry competition in my last year in school. Got published in a newspaper.”

“Oh, wow. That’s what happens when one starts early. I only started in my twenties, actually only because my friends encouraged. In fact, going to see one of them now.”

Sounds like he’s definitely famous.

“Good friends you got. Anyway, I moved on from writing, can’t make much of a living from it.”

“I guess. But you kept writing as a hobby?”

“I did for a while. But after years of just seeing the same traffic and city filth, I ran out of material you know?! Not a writer’s block or anything like that, it’s just that after a long shift I come home and I’m just…”

Suddenly out of nowhere a couple appear in front of the taxi and I slam on the brakes. My passenger shoots forward like a fish out of a shotgun and avoids kissing the aquarium window, as he manages to catch the door handle and push the other hand against the partition window. On my side for a split second the Little Tree glues itself so intensely to the window, as if it was performing one of those Japanese hara-kiri rituals.

“… shattered!” I resist to shout out and feel a strain on the right side of my neck. Anyone briefly glancing at the indifferent couple would see they don’t look a part of normal society or very healthy, in fact their skin had something about it that resembled my current passenger. Realizing the semi-conscious state they’re in, I resisted cursing at them as they wouldn’t care or even remember what just happened.

“I tell ya, it always happens in the same area! Some weird hot spot!” I say.

We drove in silence a short while only with the Little Tree to restart drawing attention to itself. It now seemed to move in a more punk manner. I could see the big lipped passenger starting to search around his jacket and then hear him rummaging through what appeared to be a crackling envelope or paper package. When he finally found what he was looking for he asked:

“You wouldn’t have a pen by any chance?”

“Sure.” Gave him a pen. Whatever he had found, he propped it against the window and started writing. It was a small black notebook. The big lipped fish was documenting the cruel, non-aquatic life it witnessed outside the aquarium, hopefully in a Poe-esque style.

In a couple of minutes, we had reached the destination. I parked where I wasn’t supposed to. The aquarium was still in reportage mode.

“We’ve arrived,” I announce.

“All right!” rushes to close the pen, shuts his notebook and puts it away. “How much do I owe you?”

“Three dollars, eighty cents my friend.”

His long arms chaotically insinuate themselves around his jacket like a drunk octopus. He gets out a seaweed looking lump of cash and hands me a twenty-dollar bill.

“Keep the change buddy. Hope this lets you off home early, so you can go home and restart writing!” Starts opening the door.

“Thanks a lot! I’ll get some seaweed too,” I dare to joke creatively.

“I beg your pardon?” turns back and announces the slightly more shell-shocked octopus after a brief silence.

“Don’t worry about it. Funny thoughts. Can I have my pen back?”

“Oh, yeah...” starts to search the jacket again with his numerous long limbs. The cars behind us start to honk like angry seagulls.

“There you go!” Returns the pen and shuffles out quickly. “Cheers.” Slams the door.

I start driving away and notice he’s got an intense walk, though somehow smooth and with a flow to it. Now that I think about it, he’s more of a feline than a sea creature. Yeah, I should have had him in a cage not an aquarium. Oh, well. Haven’t been to the Bronx zoo for years. Haven’t been anywhere.

While waiting at the next traffic light an older lady gets in. Pretty busy looking.

“Mount Sinai Hospital. Oh, and somebody left this here.” Passes large brown envelope through the hole in the partition window.

“Ok. Thanks!” I say. The octopus, I mean, the cat suit guy left it. Damn, I hope he’s got his writings with him. Can’t go back now, this lady needs to go to hospital. I could go back afterwards, but, nah, that’s pointless. The lady seems to want to talk or hear her voice, so I have to pretend I’m interested. I’m Freud on wheels now. From celebrity aquarium to shrink on wheels in no time. It’s gonna take about 15 minutes until the hospital, (20 if there’s traffic going through Central Park) until I can see what’s in the envelope.

We arrived in 22 minutes. The lady rushed off somewhere in to the hospital, though not through the main entrance. I drove off and found a parking space on 98th street after Park Avenue. Excited like it’s Christmas I took the brown envelope. It was heavier than when I first held it. Probably some office things, paperwork or something. On the front of the envelope it said “His Majesty. Thanks for a great show”. Geez, he’s definitely famous and like royal or something. Though why would a royal have a show? Must be an inside joke. So, then he’s gotta be a singer or something. Yeah, too weird looking for an actor. This discovery added a degree of sacredness to the envelope and a feeling of guilt, though most taxi drivers aren’t known to have that feeling. The envelope was barely sealed, it seems the royal cat man was using it as a carrier bag. I turned the envelope pocket towards me and was resisting to look inside, just to prolong the mystery and surprise. A few motorcycles passed by and I decided to peep into it.

Whatever was at the bottom, it was covered with that small black notebook he’d used for writing. All his ideas and perhaps hit songs are in my hands. Remembering how I used to value my own writing, I’m not sure how I feel about all this now. But I’m curious to read what he’s got and compare it to my work. Transfixed on the notebook, ritual like, I decide to take it out. Intending to start reading the holy scriptures I plan to put the envelope to the side to discover the remaining contents later on. Nevertheless, as I’m doing that, in the blurred background vision I recognise something familiar inside the bottom of the envelope. I realize that it’s something I’ve seen not so long ago. It’s a colour and shape I see daily in fact. Can it be... it’s god damn president Andrew Jackson! And he’s real neat and flat like a new certificate page and he’s embraced by a rubber band. I put the notebook on top of the dashboard and this time focus my eyes sincerely on the remaining contents inside the envelope. Yup, it’s twenty bucks! In fact, in a stack! In fact, there’s a few stacks!! I take them out one by one and there’s a whole, nine, no, ten stacks of twenty bucks. I look around the car and the street to see if anyone is seeing what I’m seeing?! No, it’s just me! I count one stack. There are a hundred twenties… times ten… so there’s $20,000 bucks in total! In disbelief I start worrying and imagining too many various scenarios in my head. My mind keeps exploding with words, images, until it’s just one big noise. I snap out of it, start the engine, switch the Off Duty sign on and switch off the medallion light.

Out of nowhere I notice the Little Tree gently sway. It had awoken me from a daydream or hypnosis even and placed me back into the car salon smelling of fresh foliage and the sea. Noticing the notebook open on my lap with an open pen between pages, envelope on the side seat, I look forward into the road. I realize I had crossed the Triborough bridge and driven through most of Queens. Without myself knowing and gradually identifying the familiar roads, the obvious occurred to me - I was going back to Oyster Bay.