... He stepped to the platform, tired and irritable from this ancient runaway train. Was he an outcast or a victim? Both? Everybody hurried back and forth while he, lost in the colorful crowd, deliberately taking his time. One could hardly figure out where he came from or where he was going to. Like a black cat that suddenly comes your way, leaving you with the unknown shape of things to come.
The man wearing the rumpled dark suit and walking to the exit did look a perfect stranger. The red, work-swollen hand held tight the big, a little worn-out, black bag, as if it were his only treasure to keep. There was a sort of resignation in his face and walk. But still, there was something to direct his heavy feet, some purpose. Apparently, he'd never been here. Though all his steps showed signs of self-confidence, every step seemed painful. The man must have been scratched bad on the inside. The reason? Simply put, life.
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Now his eyes, half closed, met the big blue sky. He stopped, a grinding halt, giving the new surroundings reserved looks, penetrating ones. A cab driver, kind of sneaky, philosophically said to himself in his badly parked "banana", "Hallo out there. What a beautiful day! You need a ride, don't you? No problem. Clients are welcome. At your service, sir."
It sounded a good motto. Actually, he paid no attention to anyone as to whether some "sir" was interested. A professional deformation. Most probably he repeated that until you got in, pointing a gun at his dumb egglike head, and you shouted go. Self-absorbed as poets are. He may have been a great artist rejected a million times, now gone insane in the eyes of others, but in reality still creating and desperate.
To his own surprise, he noticed the dark man, finding himself breathless and speechless. He rushed to his potential client to help him with the "serious-looking" bag. The dark man stood still, his forehead furrowed, avoiding eye-contact. Finally he cleared his throat and said in a voice far away from strong, "Sure. You'd better keep your distance."
A solitary figure he seemed, uncommunicative, unfriendly. The stout driver froze dead, like a pale saint. But it did not last too long. He started murmuring to himself, but this time thoroughly minding his own business, trying not to bother his client anymore. In silence they both got in the car and now were ready to go. However, not a word left the client's mouth. To the driver, this should be an awkward situation to handle because he received no instruction as to which way to head. But this driver was a hopeless case. His primary interest was advertising business rather than making it. A third "outsider" involved would have to conclude: two freaks of nature at first sight. No one around seemed to care yet, not yet. They were just a meaningless part of the traffic, even though they blocked it.
In the mirror, cautiously, the driver watched the sad, staring face of a middle-aged man dragging the past out into the light, lost in thought. Feeling the wheel sticky with sweat, he wondered what to do, growing imaginative, that this kind of man might well be no one but a cold-blood killer with an antique collection of "instruments" treasured in his bag held so tight all the time. He was unaware of having given reins to his imagination. He felt terrified, morbidly thrilled at the thought and only swallowed when short of breath again. Suddenly it was over. Again and again. The wave of terror in his eyes and heart or heart and eyes passed, in a way. Within a few seconds, he was back to "normal", thinking realistically, trying to work out the absurd situation using the American way. He made a brave attempt not to indulge in joking. On the other hand, he realized he would be lying if he were to act sad as well, for he felt no specific sadness, not this time, and he would probably shock his "client", putting emphasis on the word, if he were to exhibit any cheerfulness, any life at all. He should remember it was his job to drive his clients wherever they wanted to, or otherwise he would lose it.
"We can go now," said the driver, resigned, hardly expecting any reaction at all. The dark man nodded, going blank again.
"Sure."
His voice did not sound very strong, but, for sure, one could tell a difference. It was much stronger than the last time. A subtle change.
The ride to the heart of town was strained. It took half an hour to break the oppressive silence hanging down on them when the impatient driver spoke again, very politely.
"How do you like this town? Well, it's none of my business, but it seems to me that you are here for the first time."
"And for the last time," a voice broke in.
The driver continued as if he had never heard the remark because his speech had been well prepared and nothing could ruin it but a reasonable answer.
"Do you have a wish, any particular place where I should drop you off before we are run out of gas? Well, I know a couple of fine hotels here."
"I see. Can you take me to the prison by three?"
Prison was not the word anymore, was it? It was called "corrective institution". The destination perfectly fitted the driver's wild thoughts, but nothing made sense. On one hand, he was glad he was kind of "right" as had judged the dark man, thinking he had something to do with the law. On the other, he wondered why he felt so disappointed. Finally he found it too hard to think and ended up totally confused, quitting his thought experiments or improvising. His primary attention was focused on driving.
The dark man had never seen a prison town before or given any particular thought to one. He looked uncomfortable in the shapeless suit, as though he shared some remote guilt.
"It's almost one o'clock. There's plenty of time. If I may suggest, let's go for a lunch. Don't you feel like eating? You must be hungry, sir?"
"I am. Sounds good."
Across the street was a Chinese bar. As they came closer, they grew suspicious for different reasons. The dark man sighed, "You wanna go in here right now?", which was a bit embarrassing because of the decision they'd made a little while ago. The driver, now smiling, began, "I always know I could lose myself in Chinese art or American girls. Look around, there are no girls. No, no, no, these are ladies. But I say but there is a Chinese bar and maybe there is some art in it to adore. You know, I take every chance I get. So, come on. Come on."
The dark man grinned, his teeth making a sharp contrast to his appearance and personality. The grin certainly impressed the driver. Was it supposed to mean something? He considered it a success to make his client grin. He was like a clown drowning in a world of magic or tragic show and make-believe while the dark man uttered, "You're crazy, man." They entered.
2023 A.D. Jungle bound, happier, more hopeful than ever, I type, one-armed, amidst constant blackouts, with the slowest internet connection on Earth, on my sporadically working 15 year-old computer, only to be heard on Substack, big deal. This may be not a sorry scene, after all.
If you find me worthy of your money, please support your favorite Tarzan on my page ! I cannot get paid on Substack because Stripe is not available in Nicaragua, at the real end of the world. I will appreciate any contribution to my struggle for survival. Thank you for reading, getting this far …
Thanks!
I contacted my bank a few seconds ago.
I've asked them again to send you the money I promised you quickly.
I'm doing the best I can.
Luc
Great writing.
Luc