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They are prejudiced, the cabbies in town. Because the sun has risen every morning in memory, they expect it to dawn during this shift too, and to dawn again one minute earlier each day until the solstice, then later again each morning like the year before. They predict low wages. They anticipate dents and rattles and non-lethal automotive malfunctions and for their tips to be insufficient to ditch the business altogether to the younger hacks and spend their days fishing for trophy. And they don’t take dark-skinned fares uptown. They explain it this way:

Seven times I’ve seen a knife in this cab and two guns. Usually I just see it; it’s shown to me, or it’s deployed by someone to threaten someone else. But twice it’s used to injure or persuade me physically. Once I’m stabbed. Once a shot is fired through the windshield. Of the nine times, each time I’m the only native Caucasian in the car. So I have a policy. No dark fares after sundown, none uptown any time of day. It’s common sense. You judge from what you’ve seen, you act on what you know, you live to serve your sentence.

To confound this logic, a group of us, a very small but steadfast group, have been systematically stabbing cabbies. We dress well, carry umbrellas, and stand outside expensive hotels with a finger in the air. We kiss our dates goodbye and get inside. We introduce ourselves invariably as Mr. White, which most of them later recall. We entertain our driver with the same rap every time. We’ve been injured, we say, sometimes grievously, in multiple, near-fatal automobile accidents, but we can’t remember what color the cars were. Then we cut them, carefully, therapeutically, to alter the odds the only way we know how.

Copyright ©1997

Michael’s face was red. “OK, then, gun to your head,” he demanded, “what’s the best Christmas movie?” Though his tone suggested he might actually have put something to my head, he hadn’t. Well, first, I told him, with a gun to my head I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on movies; second, the category’s too broad: Christmas comedy? Christmas love story? Is Die Hard a Christmas movie for taking place on Christmas? “Completely irrelevant,” he said. “Best is best. But anyway, it’s a trick question. They all suck because they all lie.” I knew better than to take the bait but I told him anyway that all movies lie. “Well, I know actors wear makeup and play make-believe,” he told me, “but they do that to tell a truth; Christmas movies lie to lie.” He put his mug down hard as if he wanted to tenderize the coaster. Glasses clinked down the bar. He’d been pounding me the same way since we sat down, which was common, but his red face was not. He cared about this. I watched his eyes and waited. A string of lights twinkled behind his head. “You think Santa Claus is universal,” he told me,“and that finding out he’s your parents is a primal disillusionment. That’s Hollywood bullshit. Kids have dads who bring out guns on Christmas Eve and put them to their children’s heads one by one,” he said. That can’t be right, I told him. “One by one and pulled the trigger,” he told me, “year in and year out, and made them wonder if one year there’d be bullets. Why have I never seen that in a movie?” I waited until he was finished. Why are you telling me this, Michael? I asked him. What the hell are you telling me?

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This work by davidbdale is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at davidbdale.wordpress.com.

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The pen name davidbdale honors my mother Beatrice (Bea) and my father Dale

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