Rain to Snow

It was just… he was a big guy. But that wasn't all of it. I mean, he wasn't just a big guy; he was a fat, old bastard with a gray mustache and fat, hairy, gray arms and one of those black and white stickers that said “Leased to Driver” on his backseat. A guy with nothing to lose but his mustache, I thought. The kinda guy who'd spit on you during a football game from three rows up and after you realized it was him, you'd have to turn around and watch the rest of the game pissed off and smelling like chewing tobacco. The kinda guy that'd smack your girlfriend's ass one nice day when the both of you are walking down the street and you'd have to put up or shut up; and usually it came down to you shutting up and losing the girl a few days later to some hotshot with a gun. Or some prick with a motorcycle and a snake. He was the kinda guy who probably taught gym class for a few years before he was fired for punching a hole in the back of some kid's baseball helmet after the poor bastard missed a bunt or something. The kinda guy who didn't answer questions, who didn't ask questions, and who didn't know a goddamned thing about life. And that's why I was in the cab about ten minutes before I got the guts to ask him my question; it wasn't because I didn't want to. I definitely wanted to say something. It was just that he was so goddamned imposing that I couldn't.

"The fat sonuvabitch was trying to keep something from me. Bogarting a good time."

I wasn't prepared for his answer after all, so I just asked, “You sure?”

“Listen, bud, I got a wife and three-point-five kids,” He said, “And a mortgage. Yeah, I got a mortgage. So if you think I know anything about girls, the only thing I can tell you is that they ain't nothing but trouble.”

“That's good, cause I'm looking for trouble.” I was pretty goddamn happy with my response, so I winked again in the rearview. It really didn't matter that he wasn't looking at me… The fat sonuvabitch was trying to keep something from me. Bogarting a good time.

“If you're looking for trouble, you oughta get married.” He turned the wheel to the right, smooth and effortless, guiding the cab down some dank little alley with shit on the sides and a few stray cats eating whatever shit they could get to, without being hit of course.

“Not that kinda trouble.”

“What kind of trouble then?” The cab hit a something. I guessed a cat.

“A good time,” I jumped around to get a good look at what it was. Couldn’t see anything, so I turned back, “You know goddamned well what I mean… a good time.” I looked in the rearview hoping he'd glance back and understand me by another wink or a hand signal. He didn't, and there was a long pause. It gave me time to think again, so I just looked out the window. It had stopped raining.

The fat bastard finally spoke up: “I know what you mean, kid. Hookers. You're looking for hookers.” He clicked off the wipers.

“Yeah, so you know anything about them?”

“All I know is that our conversation here is over.” The cab slurred up the thin alley for maybe two seconds more and then stopped a few feet before an intersection. Three other cabs were in front of us maybe fifty feet ahead, waiting on a red light.

“Well, goddamnit, that's fine…. How much do I owe you?”

He kept looking forward, thinking, and finally said, “Nothin’. Just get out.”

“Okay, well how are you going to pay your mortgage if you don—“

He cocked his body around, shoved his dirty head towards the door. “To each their own, buddy.”

“Fine.” As I got out of the bastard's cab, the green light ahead sprang on and all the cabs in front turned left, speeding down whatever street it was. The old bastard waited for me to get out of his way and then passed me, trying to make the light. He got within a few feet of the light, but it caught him on red. He had to stop at the intersection. “Serves you right you fat fucking meatball,” I said.

I walked passed him with my head down and kept practicing my line: “You know how a guy can find a good time?”; “You know how a guy can find a good time?”… After about twenty steps and four more recitals I heard a honk, and knew it was from the fat bastard's horn. I revolved around very slowly, to show the fat old bastard that I didn't want his goddamned shit anymore; but all he was doing was pointing to the sky and smiling.

I looked up. Turns out, a few snowflakes had just started falling and the wind was picking up something fierce.

The light turned green and the fat old man drove past me, still smiling, still pointing up.

“Fuck,” I said, and started walking the other way.

It was time to go home, I realized. It was time to jack off.