The Last Two Fares and the Punchline Nobody Heard

Fifteen years I'd spent driving a cab in this beast of a city – you know the kind, all concrete skin and blinking neon eyes. Then, about a week before that day, the day I finally hung up my keys, my whole world just… ripped. Losing your keys is annoying. Losing your wife, Helen, and your kid, Lily, because some lorry driver couldn't stay in his lane? That's a different category of lost entirely. Leaves behind a quiet that's louder than any traffic jam.

So, there I was, supposedly just another cog. Arthur Mills, badge 734 – that was me. Knew the city like the back of my hand, kept the cab clean enough, played music nobody would complain about. Just doing the job, right? Clock in, clock out. My flat was just a place to crash, miles from the action. Helen and Lily, though… they were the anchors. The quiet hum under all the city noise. The garage, smelling of old oil and regret, that was my ground zero. Even had my own parking spot, a tiny slice of predictability in the whole mess.

That last afternoon, pulling into the lot, wouldn't you know it? Some joker's parked in my spot. Normally, that'd get my blood boiling. I'd make a point of memorizing their plate, maybe have a quiet word with dispatch later. But that day? Couldn't have cared less. Felt like watching litter float down a drain. I just found another empty slot. The air was thick, promising rain that never quite came. Felt right, somehow. As I locked up the old girl for the last time, one fat drop did hit my cheek. Felt weirdly personal, like the sky itself was offering condolences.

Inside the dispatch office, old Morris, who's practically part of the furniture, couldn't quite meet my eye when I dropped the keys. He knew. Bad news travels faster than a fare trying to skip out. "Terrible thing, Arthur. Just awful," he mumbled, sort of scared, like my grief was contagious. Then he passed on the boss's message: Thursday, come sign the papers. My notice, basically. No arguments needed.

I didn't head home. What was the point? Walked instead, right down the main drag, rush hour still screaming its head off. Headlights blinding, horns blaring – the city's usual racket, but now it just sounded… wrong. Ended up outside Luigi's, this little Italian joint Lily loved. Checkered tablecloths, lights a bit too bright. Usually cheerful, tonight it was dead empty. Suited me fine. Funny thing is, an hour before, right outside this place, I'd picked up the first of my final fares.

She slid into the back, all quiet intensity. Expensive coat, serious face. "Where to?" The usual. "Just drive," she said, voice low. "Straight on." Caught her eye in the mirror – miles away. Phone rings. She answers like she's been interrupted mid-surgery. "Yes, I know." Pause. "What choice is there?" Another pause, staring out the window like the city held answers. "Perhaps it has to be." What was it? Money? A man? Sounded heavy. Bits and pieces floated over: "I don't want this." ... "You can't imagine." ... "No, you're wrong." ... "You wouldn't get it." ... "Worrying is pointless." ... "I'll tell you." Snaps the phone shut, checks her watch, then the cab clock. Cool as you like: "Just after the next lights, thanks." Pays with a fifty for a tenner fare, ignores my change, and just melts back into the street. Left this weird ache behind. She's the last one, I thought.

Wrong again. Pulled away, and another couple flags me down, practically diving in. Heading back near the depot. Short trip. You could cut the tension in the back with a knife. Sitting miles apart. He kept trying to start something, she kept shutting him down with a look that could freeze fire. Traffic was murder – pile-up near the square. Stuck there for ages. Finally crawling past, he tries again, voice all thin. "Sometimes... I almost miss..." "Miss what?" she snaps back, sharp as broken glass. "Nothing worth missing." He looked genuinely hurt. "But it felt real," he mumbled. "How can real feel... fake?" Quick as a whip, she says, "Maybe it was. Fake, I mean."

Ouch. The air got thicker. I pretended to be fascinated by the brake lights ahead, their little drama feeling both huge and ridiculously small compared to the crater in my own life.Their back-and-forth limped along. "I don't get why..." "You never did." "But maybe..." "Maybe nothing. This is it." "Can't we just... find another way?" "What other way?" He sounded desperate now. "Don't think..." he started, one last try. "I'm not thinking," she cut him off. Game over.

Pulled up where they asked. She hands over another fifty. Turning round with the change, I see her face. Streaming with tears. Completely at odds with that ice-queen act just seconds before. Like a mask just shattered. And there it is, I thought, clear as a bell. That's the damn truth. We walk around, all buttoned up, playing our parts, saying the lines. But underneath? Everyone's carrying something heavy. Her tears, mirroring the ones I refused to cry, felt like… recognition. The gap between the face we show and the mess inside.

So I sat there in Luigi's, picking at a pizza Lily would've inhaled. Drank my Coke. Found myself doing that stupid thing she did – lining up the ice cubes on the table. Closed my eyes. Could almost see her little fingers poking them around. Pointless, perfect. The ice melted fast, leaving wet streaks. I traced them with my finger. For a second, just a split second, I could swear I felt her fingertip touch mine. Then this wave hit me – grief, yeah, but clean, almost… peaceful?

Looking out at the street, the endless cars, the faces behind glass – it was like seeing it for the first time. Utterly alien. Fifteen years pounding these pavements, and I hadn't left a single dent. No future here. Only place left was back. Back to the folks, the quiet town I ran away from. Felt less like escaping, more like… tidying up. Arthur Mills, London cabbie? He clocked out the moment Helen and Lily did. This driving away was just signing the final log sheet. And that weird calm, right there in the middle of wanting to howl? It felt like I wasn't leaving alone. Felt like maybe, just maybe, we were all leaving this city together. How many cars out there, I wondered, were carrying ghosts just like mine? How many stories slide past, unheard?