Posted by Karen on 3/17/2002, 9:09 pm Under the canopy in front of the theater, a stream of people were crowded, inching their way toward a rainclothed attendant with a whistle in his mouth and an agressive stance in the rain-drenched street, hailing cabs for them. He opens the doors and he smiles, and they pass by, passing a twenty into his hand. Knowing of the event going on, a bearded cab driver makes his approach up Broad Street and sees the canopy and all of the wealthy targets for his particular service. He slows and waits behind a limosine and he watches the women in their sexy black gowns in the parking garage as they wait for their shiny cars, placing elegant and long cigarettes in their mouths and indulging themselves in the pleasure they are so dependent upon. Almost mesmerized by the sight of their artistically decorated lips exhaling long and thin and elegant clouds, he is awakened by the rude honk of the cabbie behind him, and the harsh whistle of the attendant in front of him. It's time to move up and collect the fare and get to work, and he admonishes himself for the daydream and the reverie, yet acknowledges it as one of his special and unique flaws and is not ashamed. She was wearing a blue gown and holding her flat purse over her head to prevent the pouring water from spoiling her hair. He saw the quick motion, almost a handshake with the attendant, and he caught the man's smile as he saw him look down in his hand. The door slammed, and the driver automatically clicked the fare box and pulled out into the street, honking his horn to make room in the midst of the traffic. "Airport," she says routinely, shaking her head to attempt to rid herself of the rainwater and to correct her coiffure. He looks in the mirror and sees her as she opens her purse and withdraws a long, white cigarette from a gold case, places it within her vividly decorated lips, and lets it hang as she snaps the golden case shut and searches within the confines of her bag for the lighter, clawing at the contents with her long and shiny fingernails. "Cost you about nine bucks," he says, making a splashing U-turn in front of a city bus and now heading south. He's had many shining and smoking stars in his cab, and best put them to the test of the present, and not get off on dreams. Dreams can be trouble, but she looks so perfect, does she not? Soft hair, sprinkled by raindrops, a cigarette in her lips, the thin and haunting eyebrows, the soft, yet accenuated lips revealed as they grasp the long, white cigarette... "It's alright to smoke in here, isn't it?" she asks, now prepared with a jeweled gas lighter in her hand, her words punctuated by the bouncing movements of the cigarette in her mouth. The movements of the cigarette are like that of a conductor before the philharmonic, and he feels his own instrument on-ready, because he is a player. He sees her face briefly before being distracted by a double-parked truck, and he senses something familiar and he says: "Sure! You can smoke here. Have I met you before?" There is a pause as she concentrates upon lighting her cigarette and adjusting her gown and her body into a more comfortable position in the seat. Then she stares at the pair of eyes that she sees in that rear-view mirror while she opens her fingers wide and takes that first and most glorious drag since the concert intermission that seemed hours ago. She inhales that beautiful breath and studies the eyes in the mirror, and she answers. "No, you must be mistaken," she states as she releases the smoke into the interior of the cab and alows it to be illuminated by countless and random headlights peering through the darkness into the interior of the place that they are sharing together. He honked his horn and ran a few red lights in the race down Broad Street toward the Interstate. He knew that the sports arena was letting out soon, and wanted to serve her well by getting her promptly to her destination on-time. They rode in silence for minutes as he glanced occasionally at her in his back seat, enjoying the smell of her smoke and his private thoughts. Her eyes were like magnets, very dark and colored well. Her cheeks were highlighted with the color of life, and looking at her smoking made him feel swell. As they moved on in silence past the cars and the the portals and the ramps, he saw her strike another light and he got himself into a trance. In the brightest of lights just before the big bridge, he looked back and saw her reading something. It turned out that it was his placard, with his picture and everything that lay within. He stared at her face in his mirror, illuminated with the orange glow of her cigarette. He watched her eyes register something while she scanned the little bit of his life. With a dose of fearful apprehension, he gazed once more into her eyes in the glass. He saw something really familiar in her smoke, then he remembered this lass. She said: "How are you, Harry?" He said: "How are you, Sue? "Through the too many miles She winks at him and then takes a puff, so full and so very deep. It's been a long time that she's been gone, and nothing can be enough. In the looking glass she sees his eyes so blue and full of the fun. She opens her mouth very delicately and watches the ball emerge, and remembers when he was the one. "Here are the exits for the airport, and you should take one if that's what you will. But I wouldn't be opposed if you want to miss those, and go on climb the next hill." Through the darkness of the rain in that taxicab on that special night, they talked as they drove onward, the driver turning neither left nor turning right. Perhaps he's got something inside him that will make him drive her all night, or on the other hand, it could be just a quick stand but could also make them both feel alright.
It was raining hard in Philly that night, and the cars on Broad Street spawned huge waterfalls upon the sidewalk as they roared from traffic light to traffic light, drenching the unwary and well-dressed pedestrians as they poured out of the theater and scampered off to the seedy, but well-lit parking garages and passed in their coupons and paid their $12 fee to collect their Boxsters or Mercedes or their Jaguars. Once out of the rain, the well-dressed and well-to-do women and men paused to extract their cigarettes and to light up after the concert and then continue the enjoyment of the rest of their lives. The poor car jockies who lived on the north side of the city scurried to fetch the cars and to collect those tips, hoping against hope that nothing had been ripped-off or otherwise spoiled during the internment of those expensive vehicles.
and the too little smiles
I still remember you."
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