The Taxicab Ride

There were so few things that Marnie deemed important that when something did in fact come along, she felt as lost as when things existed purely in the mediocre. It was disconcerting to her family that she be like this, for the whole of the Coxwells could be considered, in so few of words, rambunctious and passionate. Confusing even more by the sole fact that each and every one of them became engineers, relegated to their grey walled offices and docile softwares, it was unimaginable to the people of St. Mary’s Cathedral that it would be her family who would take Marnie by the sleeve of her coat on that one fated day and toss her out on the street for the “unimaginably horrendous” and “inexcusable disruption” of her great uncle’s funeral, especially if they, of everyone, understood what it felt like to be trapped.

Upon being tossed to the stoop, Marnie sat up and rubbed her right elbow carefully, because like any engineer would tell you, when a problem seemed insurmountable, it was best to fixate on what can be fixed—even if all that consisted of was massaging polyester and viscose between her two fingers until something better came along.

She was not an unattractive girl. If anything, all throughout her childhood she had been told by adults and peers alike that she had the bone structure to make it in the modelling game. Perhaps not catwalk, as one would most aspire to, but the catalogue was both safe and lucrative. And if there was enough makeup to cover up the large freckle in the middle of her chin, then she’d be very rich indeed. So as she watched the passing of one taxicab after another, she decided that, for the first time in her life, she would hitchhike back to Manhattan. Because it didn’t matter that she didn’t have two pennies to rub together for fare. It would be looks and charm alone that would deliver her home safely. And, goddammit, her sexuality.

Careful not to further scuff her heels, she descended the cathedral stairs slowly, then went to stand at the corner. She pushed her hair back, for the mousse from the morning routine was lacklustre and returned the locks back to its stasis of electrocuted frizz, and pushed her hip out because that was what every hooker did in the movies. Not that she was a hooker. A woman could hitchhike with the unspoken promise of sex without being a hooker. That was modern day feminism. She refused to be relegated into the staunch world of heteronormative, nuclear politics.

Plus, she didn’t have a pimp.

Feeling sure of her chances, she held up a thumb, tilted her head to seem more alluring, and flashed a smile. She was thirty-five years old, but her body didn’t sag in the ways one would expect when the irreversible traps of the middle-ages took its toll. It was as if her body knew her social stunt and kept her posture rigid, her stomach flat, and eyes still the crystal blue she imagined lovers could drown in. Not that she had many. Or any. Surprising since she didn’t look a day over twenty-three, and for today she was not going to be the loser she had been made to feel by society and those damn grocery store magazines at the checkout. The top buttons of her blouse were unbuttoned, her hose sucked in all the creases, and the flap of her triceps was bound securely in the sleeves of her jacket. Any driver would be lucky to pick her up.

A yellow caravan of taxicabs passed, one after the other in a holy procession. So she tilted her head further, popped her hip more noticeably to the other side, and smiled as carefree as any liberated woman would. The sun was shining, the streets buzzed with that famed New York City energy, and all around people were giving her looks that told her, at a near molecular level, that they supported her efforts. She didn’t need a guy like Jason making her feel like anything other than the queen she was, let alone crash a memorial to remind her that she was as entertaining to him as the worm at the bottom of his tequila bottle. The very same, in fact, that he waved up and down the aisle, stopping Father Christian from his sermon on the holy afterlife, and placing upon the cold lips of the deceased a huge kiss he declared gave him more action than Marnie ever could.

And it was she that was thrown out on her ass. A whole life of strict regiment and unwaveringly good judgement, and three months with Jason was enough to dismantle the entire structure, leaving her wondering if there really was a god that was going to be waiting for her after this whole mess she was made to call her life. Was her great uncle nestled at the breast of the Lord, or was he floating around just as aimlessly as she, a dimension away but just as confused and misguided? She was about to bet on the latter when a cab stopped at her corner and gave her a rejuvenation for life.

She climbed into the backseat. Astoria to Tribeca, on any given day, would have demanded a hefty sum. But she sat back against the cracked leather seat with the confidence that could only come from the sheer nude of her tights and the feeling of her bra’s underwire digging into her flesh, reminding her that her breasts were raised high, two entities separated from the host, and itching to come into contact with the scruff of the driver. She felt a flush rise on her neck, and a laugh escaped her lips. What was going on with her? What was this feeling that was percolating in her stomach, begging to rise up and consume her? Too passionate for love or lust—something that could only come from unequivocal and misplaced anger.

Jason. It was always Jason.

She and the cabbie travelled the cityscape together, weaving in and out of the freeway, down the alleys only public drivers knew, through neighbourhoods taboo to outsiders, racing through the yellows of streetlights and rolling through intersections. She saw the world for the first time, something that the thrill of a one-time stand could only illicit. And she was going to have one. Sex was persuasion. Sex was currency. She was deviant. Unpredictable. As free as the wind. Finally, a woman.

The driver peered at her in the rearview mirror.

"You're bleeding."

"Huh?" Marnie turned from the window, consciously arching an eyebrow and leaning ever more forwards with each second that stood between them.

"You're bleeding. There, at your, uh--" With a finger he motioned to his own chest, outlining along his clavicle a line that extended from his neck and jagged downwards towards his sternum.

"Wait, what?" she peered down and sure enough,  beneath the mesh of her opened blouse was a line of blood.

"You've got the long, uh..." the driver held up his hand and wiggled his fingers. "Probably scratched yourself."

"Huh." She should have been embarrassed. Any person in such a situation would have been embarrassed, or else have had the decency to flush a little. Have the colour in the cheeks indicate a certain internal turmoil, unspeakable yet nonetheless understood-- a semiotics of the body, a human universal language of shame.  She knew this. All of this. Yet, in the moment, all she could do was laugh. Genuinely laugh, from the gut, having the sounds extend up through the oesophagus, tickle that tender spot at the back of her throat, and burst out in an uncontrolled fit of pure joy. The thought that such a scrape was the product of revenge horniness, the pain masked by some overzealous, hormone infused adrenaline, filled her with an unspeakable delight.

The driver reached back and handed her a napkin.

"I can't get blood in the car."

She dabbed the scrape, all the while staring at the driver as he turned onto her street.

"Which one is it again?"

"The one at the end there. Grey brick." She crumpled the napkin in her fist and leaned forwards on the centre console, making a point to extend a finger in the direction of the apartment, just close enough that that same scrape was not five inches away from his face, tantalising the scruff, challenging his view.

After a moment, he cleared his throat.

"If you could please, uh, sit, um...."

She slowly edged backwards onto the seat, all the while maintaining eye contact with his gaze in that rearview mirror. His eyes were brown, a flattering contrast to her blue, wrinkled ever so around the edges.  Lips that refused to be chapped despite the wind, a uniform that fit well, the shirt collar pressed.

"I'm sorry about the blood, but I don't think it got anywhere." She cleared her throat and made a point to arch her eyebrow again. Was it alluring? She hoped it was alluring. Or at least suggestive. But not in the way a smile could be suggestive. Really, a smile could suggest anything, as very rarely these days did it have anything to do with genuine happiness. Just as an eyebrow raise had little to do with confusion. "I was very careful."

"Thank you, Miss. Very much appreciated." He signalled and parked along the sidewalk,  in front of the walkway to her building. "Will that be cash or card?"

Now came the nerves. She took a deep breath, plastered that hooker winning smile on her face, and leaned forwards on the centre console ever so.

"I was thinking of another form of payment."

His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "I can't accept cheques, Miss, I'm sorry."

She freed another button on her blouse. "I wasn't thinking a cheque."

"Well it's only cash or card--"

She took a finger and placed it over his lips. He quieted.

"I think we can work out another way, don't you?" She felt as if she were existing outside of herself, watching the whole interaction from the safety of the omnipotent. Never before had she been so sexy, so free, so intriguing and powerful in the presence of a man.

"You don't have the money." It was a statement delivered so matter-of-factly that it swayed her momentarily away from the seduction. Instead of answering, she undid another button, and loosened the fabric over one shoulder and down the length of her arm.

The driver leaned back in his seat and sighed.

"You're very pretty," he began, and Marnie leaned closer to him, her face in such intimate proximity that she could count the creases under his eye. "You remind me of my daughter."

And with that, she pulled back entirely and cleared her throat. "Right. Well--"

"All I know is that if my daughter were in this situation, I'd hope that the driver would be forgiving with her."

She felt a weight lift off of her shoulders. A cab ride from Astoria to Tribeca, completely free. It was so unbelievable that it could only exist in a story. Heart racing,  she leaned forwards, not to seduce, but to grip the hand of the man who so graciously transported her safely across the city. A god amongst men. A living proof that miracles did happen. A redemption in her mind that all men were not like Jason and that some could be good. Really, honest to god, good gentlemen.

The thought alone was enough to knock her back on her ass.

"Which is why when the cops come I'm going to recommend they go easy on the fine."

With his hand in hers, blouse draped over her shoulder, and shoes pooled in a pile somewhere beneath the seat, she began to feel the tinge of the scrape prickle against the smooth of her skin. It didn't hurt, yet, but seemed to tickle a part of her soul in such a way that it induced a series of tears to well up in her eyes. Not from sadness, though undoubtedly the ticket would stir similar emotions later. But for now, she laughed until she cried. And cried as she laughed. Because that was all one could do in such a situation. Meanwhile, the driver looked straight ahead until the sound of sirens filled the street and the colours painted the leather of the cab.

As the police questioned her, she pictured Jason's worm at the bottom of the tequila bottle. They wouldn't be so different, once she was locked up.

And that thought alone was enough to make her laugh.

Property of Morgan Davies and The MAD  Exposé