She passes the keys over. “It’s parked out the back. Come and I’ll show you.”
I can’t believe this plan is actually working. We walk out the back and over to a cab. “This is the brake. It’s standard auto.”
“Okay.” I get in and start the car. “What do I do?”
“You can do the airport run.”
“So I just go to the airport and wait in line?”
“That’s it. Pick up the people, drop them off, and return straight to the airport.” She looks at her watch. “Be back here at four.”
“Okay, no problem.” I grip the steering wheel as excitement runs through me . . . look at me, getting jobs on my own and shit.
“And remember the customer is always right.”
“Gotcha.”
“No speeding, and the credit card machine is tap only.”
“Okay.” I nod as I look around the cab. “Sounds easy enough.”
“Good luck.”
I smile. “Piece of cake.” I drive out and put the blinker on to pull out into the traffic. I watch her back inside, and as I get to the first intersection, I laugh out loud. I look left; I look right . . . now . . . where’s the fucking airport?
The taxi line moves forward at a snail’s pace. “Come on,” I mutter under my breath. It took me fifty minutes to find this fucking place, and now that I’m here, I have to line up for customers.
I don’t have time for this shit. I roll my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as I wait. I need to make some cash for that vinegar-tits taxi bitch . . . and on the double.
The double doors of the airport open, and a woman strides out. She has honey-blonde hair in a high ponytail and a spring in her step. She oozes happiness. I smile as I watch her . . . hot.
The line moves up, and oh shit, I’m next. I pull up next to the line and get out. “Hello.”
“Hi,” the guy grumbles as he throws his bag at me. He’s in his late teens and all scruffy looking.
I catch his bag in midair and glare at him.
Don’t piss me off, dickhead.
I go to put it in the trunk. Wait a minute, how do I open it? I look around on the dash, and the taxi behind me beeps his horn. “Hurry up,” he yells out the window.
“Shut up,” I yell back. “Wait your turn.”
My eyes nearly bulge from their sockets. “Where the fuck is the open-trunk button?”
“Come on, man,” the guy groans from the back seat. “What are you doing? I’m so not in the mood for this shit.”
I turn to face him. “I have waited for twenty fucking minutes in the line to pick you up. Do not push me, asshole!” I get out and march to the back of the car and throw his bag into the front seat. It sits so high that I can hardly see around it.
“You can’t drive with my bag in the front seat,” the guy gasps.
“Whose cab is this, motherfucker?”
He stays silent.
“Just as I thought.” I pull out in a rush. “Where to?”
He mumbles something.
“I beg your pardon?” My eyes flick up to him in the rearview mirror.
“I said . . . 123 the Boulevard!”
I narrow my eyes. “If you speak to me in that tone, I will drop you off right here.”
“Sorry . . . ,” he mumbles.
We stop at some traffic lights, and I quickly type in the address.
It’s forty minutes away . . . ugh. The lights change. I take off once more. We’ve been driving for a few minutes when I make a wonderful discovery.
I can actually do this.
Half an hour later we are stopped at a set of traffic lights.
He moans from the back seat, and my eyes flick up to him in the rearview mirror.
He’s wet with perspiration, and his face is contorted.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I don’t feel so good . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh no . . .” He moans.
“What’s oh no?” I begin to drive faster. I want this fucker out of my cab.
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
My eyes widen in horror. “Don’t even think about it!”