register a noise complaint. Sounds like the perfect end to the perfect night to me.
“Hellooo? You there, Bray?”
“I’m not really feeling the whole sex-with-shady-strangers vibe tonight. Sorry, boys.”
“Then just do it with Christian!” This is followed by Servando’s trademark seal cackle, a noise that would make a stereotypical wiry-haired cartoon witch blanch with envy.
“Christian is there? My Christian?”
“Um, yeah. We just waved hi to him like two seconds ago. We were gonna go over, but he looked busy.”
Busy
. I flinch. Like a punch to the gut. “What’s the address?”
“Oh, NOW he wants to come out? Not for his old buddies, but for some boy toy he’s been seeing for like three weeks? Typical!”
“Actually, it’s been a month. To the day.” If I hear one more of his laughs, I will find him and skin him like a rabbit. “So. Address?”
“Whoa. Sorry, Bray. Hey, Row? Where the fuck is this place anyway?”
Cabbies despise driving to other boroughs—especially this late, when they’re planning on driving back to the garage to retire their yellows for the night and head back home for five hours of sleep before it’s back to the city in time for the morning rush. For this reason, I make sure I am in the backseat, door closed, seat belt latched (and I NEVER wear my seat belt) before I tell my victim where he’s taking me.
“No, no, I no go there,” he says.
I repeat the address.
“No. No.”
“Drive this motherfucking cab right now or I’ll call the fucking cops on your ass!”
I can actually get the authorities involved because, in this city, it is against the law to deny a passenger a ride once they’ve entered the cab. Smarter cabbies refuse to unlock their doors before hearingwhere they’re expected to drive. Mine is clearly a rookie, so this is a teaching moment.
I catch his eyes in the rearview. He’s scared. Probably wondering if I’m carrying a knife or something, like those occasional cabbie-murderers the newspapers graduate to front-page placement every few months when they go on a spree.
“Thanks, buddy,” I add.
And so the hunt is back on. How long has Christian been at this fucking sex party? All night? For Christ’s sake, he could have been there since I got to Grant’s. I yawn so wide that the sides of my mouth hurt. I should have gotten a Red Bull.
I drift off and am only startled awake when the road changes under the cab. We are on the Brooklyn Bridge, I think. The familiar Manhattan skyline disappears behind me, the far shorter and stranger buildings of Brooklyn rising up in front. Somewhere in this place I’ve only visited once (with Christian, the irony) is my slutty ex.
Oh, Christian. It didn’t have to be this way—did it? What went wrong with us? We were so compatible. So happy. Right from that very first night.
Okay, so maybe I checked your e-mail a couple times after you used my laptop and forgot to sign out. Who wouldn’t? And yes, I looked at your phone this morning, and that one other time you went to the bathroom and left it on the couch. I only had a moment to scroll through texts and look for incriminating namesand phrases before I heard the toilet flush and had to set it right back down where I’d found it. But again, who wouldn’t, given the chance? You could’ve password-locked your phone if you were THAT worried. A guy’s got to watch his back, particularly in New York. And you’ve just proven that I wasn’t watching it hard enough, despite my efforts.
The cab stops.
“Here,” the driver mumbles. “Twenty-five dollars.”
I tip him on my way out. He rips the cash from my hand and speeds away as I close the door, proceeding to run red lights to make up for whatever time he lost carting my ass to Bumfuck, Brooklyn.
I’m alone again, just like I’ve been all fucking night. Just like I’ve been for most of my fucking life.
FUCK. Someone get me vodka before I start an emo band. I HAVE to find Christian. Punch
“Hellooo? You there, Bray?”
“I’m not really feeling the whole sex-with-shady-strangers vibe tonight. Sorry, boys.”
“Then just do it with Christian!” This is followed by Servando’s trademark seal cackle, a noise that would make a stereotypical wiry-haired cartoon witch blanch with envy.
“Christian is there? My Christian?”
“Um, yeah. We just waved hi to him like two seconds ago. We were gonna go over, but he looked busy.”
Busy
. I flinch. Like a punch to the gut. “What’s the address?”
“Oh, NOW he wants to come out? Not for his old buddies, but for some boy toy he’s been seeing for like three weeks? Typical!”
“Actually, it’s been a month. To the day.” If I hear one more of his laughs, I will find him and skin him like a rabbit. “So. Address?”
“Whoa. Sorry, Bray. Hey, Row? Where the fuck is this place anyway?”
Cabbies despise driving to other boroughs—especially this late, when they’re planning on driving back to the garage to retire their yellows for the night and head back home for five hours of sleep before it’s back to the city in time for the morning rush. For this reason, I make sure I am in the backseat, door closed, seat belt latched (and I NEVER wear my seat belt) before I tell my victim where he’s taking me.
“No, no, I no go there,” he says.
I repeat the address.
“No. No.”
“Drive this motherfucking cab right now or I’ll call the fucking cops on your ass!”
I can actually get the authorities involved because, in this city, it is against the law to deny a passenger a ride once they’ve entered the cab. Smarter cabbies refuse to unlock their doors before hearingwhere they’re expected to drive. Mine is clearly a rookie, so this is a teaching moment.
I catch his eyes in the rearview. He’s scared. Probably wondering if I’m carrying a knife or something, like those occasional cabbie-murderers the newspapers graduate to front-page placement every few months when they go on a spree.
“Thanks, buddy,” I add.
And so the hunt is back on. How long has Christian been at this fucking sex party? All night? For Christ’s sake, he could have been there since I got to Grant’s. I yawn so wide that the sides of my mouth hurt. I should have gotten a Red Bull.
I drift off and am only startled awake when the road changes under the cab. We are on the Brooklyn Bridge, I think. The familiar Manhattan skyline disappears behind me, the far shorter and stranger buildings of Brooklyn rising up in front. Somewhere in this place I’ve only visited once (with Christian, the irony) is my slutty ex.
Oh, Christian. It didn’t have to be this way—did it? What went wrong with us? We were so compatible. So happy. Right from that very first night.
Okay, so maybe I checked your e-mail a couple times after you used my laptop and forgot to sign out. Who wouldn’t? And yes, I looked at your phone this morning, and that one other time you went to the bathroom and left it on the couch. I only had a moment to scroll through texts and look for incriminating namesand phrases before I heard the toilet flush and had to set it right back down where I’d found it. But again, who wouldn’t, given the chance? You could’ve password-locked your phone if you were THAT worried. A guy’s got to watch his back, particularly in New York. And you’ve just proven that I wasn’t watching it hard enough, despite my efforts.
The cab stops.
“Here,” the driver mumbles. “Twenty-five dollars.”
I tip him on my way out. He rips the cash from my hand and speeds away as I close the door, proceeding to run red lights to make up for whatever time he lost carting my ass to Bumfuck, Brooklyn.
I’m alone again, just like I’ve been all fucking night. Just like I’ve been for most of my fucking life.
FUCK. Someone get me vodka before I start an emo band. I HAVE to find Christian. Punch
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