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Anytime Taxi
by Lee Landers
A freak cold wave spit wet, last-of-the-year snow all night in New York City. Easter morning’s brownish slush was everywhere in the street, caked in wheel wells of cars and buses like nasty, aerosol frosting. North wind meaned the city canyons with ice in its gut. From 5923 Fifth Avenue, across the street from Central Park, the middle-aged couple’s doorman hailed a cab. A clean, white car with Anytime Taxi Company on the door materialized. The man guided his shivering companion. She was frail and slow. They settled into the back seat. He said, “Sloan-Kettering Hospital, please.”
“When?” said the driver.
The passenger inspected the cabby to see if he was likely to have trouble with English. But the hack license on the driver’s visor made Sidney Freed appear American enough.
“Now, would be good. Ellen’s sick.” He touched her knee.
“I’m fine, Bob.”
Sidney said, “No, I mean what year, mister.”
Bob frowned. “This year. If you don’t mind?”
“I can take you there any year; past, present, or future.” Bob couldn’t place the accent.
Ellen said, “Please excuse my husband, he’s worried about me—lost his sense of humor.” She patted Bob’s leg. “Attitude’s everything, honey.” Bob shrugged, forced a smile for her.
“Take us there in 2060, driver,” he said. Ellen giggled.
“A.D. or B.C.?” Sidney asked. Bob’s smile faded. Shaking his head slowly he turned away from Ellen. Seeing healthy young couples walking in the park hand in hand breathing clouds of misty banners made him reach for Ellen’s hand. He thought of Ellen’s books, like Laugh Yourself Well, and Humor; the Best Medicine. Bob stared at Sidney’s bald, shaven head. At least his was by choice, not rotted off his skull from chemo. Ellen, mortified, felt compelled to wear ridiculous wigs. Her pain made him nauseous as she’d been, every lost divot torture like the cabby tormenting him, now. Sidney tore wings off flies, gave babies lemon slices.
Bob thought, God, and struggled to unclench his teeth, “A.D., Sidney.” The cabby’s name hit with only a slight hiss.
“2060 A.D. Check.” Sidney raised his wraparound sunglasses, rested them above his thick, black eyebrows, punched numbers into what looked like a new-fangled digital fare-meter and pulled into traffic. Bob noticed Sidney’s eyes in the mirror. No wonder he wore glasses. His irises were red like pictures from coin photo-booths. Bob imagined them scaring hell out of kids. The red irises were thin around dilated pupils. Bob couldn’t look away until Sidney noticed and put them back.
Sidney said, “We have to go through the tunnel.”
“Holland tunnel isn’t on the way,”
“Not Holland.”
“Let him go his way, sweetheart. Let’s believe in him.” Ellen looked at her husband and then the driver. “Bob’s a corporate attorney, trained to trust no one.” She trusted people. Always had.
“Mellow out, Bob,” she’d said weeks ago, sharing some medicinal marijuana. Law school twenty years ago was his last try. Easy to remember Ellen’s Alice B. Toklas brownies, then love-making for hours in her dorm. He was resistant. She said, “Get a little discom-Bob-ulated, lover.” He did. Ellen remembered too, and recreated that time with the joints and that trigger-phrase. Ellen made love with passion that belied her fragility. “I must assure you of the violence of my affection, Madam.” Bob teased her with Mr. Collins’ proposal to Elizabeth from Pride and Prejudice. They’d read together and laughed, most violently.
Sidney’s smile said, ‘Thank you.’ He turned into a neighborhood Bob had never seen, took a hard left shoving the passengers right.
“Hey! Easy!” Bob helped Ellen, and kissed her curly, red wig.
“Sorry, back there. Here’s the tunnel.” The cab darkened. Light reached from outside, an odd glow casting the interior monotone indigo.
“It smells funny here—Radio Shack,” Ellen said. She’d been sensitive to odor since starting chemo. “Ozone. Like before thunderstorms.” The passenger’s stomachs fluttered as if in a plane descending.
“Whoa! What the….”
They got out of the clean white cab and stepped into dark slush piles at 5923 Fifth Avenue. Their doorman wondered what the Reardons forgot as they’d only been gone long enough to circle the block. Bob had that one-thousand-yard-stare. Ellen said, “Where were we going? I’m sorry. Chemo’s affecting my mind. I’m crazy.” She tapped her head. That brought him out of it, reminding him of the inoperable brain tumor killing her—his light, snuffed.
“Uh, Sloan-Kettering Hospital for your two-week checkup.” They hailed a Yellow cab and gave the address.
After the examination, waiting for Dr. Grant was the hardest part. During the last visit Grant hadn’t candy-coated. “You’ve got a month, maybe.” Now, the doctor had a strange look as he approached.
“We might have to redo the scan. The tumor didn’t show. We’re checking the equipment. Have patience, patients.” Bob’s eyes rolled. Grant returned in an hour with a puzzled expression. “Equipment’s fine. Tumor’s gone! In two weeks! Like it was never there!”
The Reardon’s returned to 5923 Fifth Avenue, didn’t notice deeper, dirtier slush or feel the cold. Without thought Bob tipped the cabby a hundred dollars and carried violently laughing Ellen across their penthouse’s threshold. An empty vial fell from her coat pocket with a Sloan-Kettering Pharmacy label. Bob studied it.
“We get medicine?”
“No!”
“This prescription’s for you, dated this day, 2060.”
Connley (Lee) Landers was born in Norman, Oklahoma in 1947. He received his BS in ’72 and MS in Nutrition ’74. After careers in nutrition and later, real estate investments, is working toward a creative writing degree from the University of North Texas, exercises vigorously, plays tournament poker aggressively and lives humbly in Mckinney, Texas. He has had stories published in Rope and Wire Magazine, Darkest Before the Dawn Magazine, The Horror-Zine, upcoming in Perceptions and can be reached at connleylanders@yahoo.com.
