Nena's Cab

She'd never paid a fare and always got to ride in the front seat. She didn't collect the fares and didn't receive a paycheck, but Nena was on the job, nevertheless.

Nena was the protector.

Most of the riders never even saw her. She lay next to Sandra as she maneuvered Manhattan's busy streets, expertly avoiding the delivery-bike riders and the occasional jay-walkers. These Sandra had christened "idiots". Who in their right mind would attempt to cross the city streets anywhere but at a stoplight?

Most of the riders named their destinations and sat back in their seats, playing with their cell phones or banging away at laptops or actually having a phone conversation. When they talked, Nena's pointy ears would flick and shift. She didn't care what the customers were talking about; she listened for hints of any threat to Sandra.

Nena appeared to be relaxed, perhaps even napping, but Sandra knew better. She delivered pats and smiles when traffic lagged, and trusted that the tiny package of dynamite pressed against her right thigh would recognize any danger.

It had happened before; of course it had—this was the city, and the city wasn't always a friendly place. It was, in fact, essentially unfriendly.

Sandra herself was unfriendly, at least as far as anonymous passengers were concerned. Sandra never attempted to engage her customers in conversation, the way many of her driver contemporaries did. She didn't believe it netted her better tips. Instead, it sometimes gained her more interest from her fares than she was comfortable with. She answered when spoken to, in as few words as possible.

There were those people, though, who simply could not endure a ride without a conversation to go with it, and Nena recognized them immediately. Her little body would stiffen in response to Sandra's impatient sigh of resignation, and she would be on alert for any sign that the speaker would become abusive or aggressive.

Most simply remarked on the weather or the traffic. If there was an upcoming holiday, they might ask if Sandra was ready for it. She'd mostly grunt noncommittally, and occasionally she'd say yes or no. She didn't contribute to the conversation.

Others might spend the trip heaping either praise or insults upon the current governmental administration. If asked, "What do you think of that?" Sandra would reply, "As little as possible." Then she would either swerve the car or apply the brake as if avoiding a small animal in the road and hope to distract the rider from further comments.

Sandra refused to acknowledge any opinions she might have held about politics. Talking about it, or religion, was an invitation for trouble.

There's a window between Sandra and her fares, just as there are in most New York cabs. It's a protective device. Riders probably share this illusion of safety, but that's because they have no idea how quickly that window can be retracted in the vehicle Sandra drives.

A slide-out tray has been installed in the back of the front seat, and is controlled by Sandra. She avoids direct contact with her fares, and they are required to place the money they owe into the tray. Sandra counts the bills and then releases the customer from the confines of the back seat.

Nena, had she been able to speak, might have said that female passengers were the ones most likely to cause trouble. They demanded, rather than requested. Information, route decisions, fare costs—all were subject to shrill debate. Sandra refused to participate; she would calmly inform them that the cost of their ride, thus far, was such and such, and payment would be expected before she unlocked the door to expel the argumentative rider. Police could be involved in short order, she'd add.

Police involvement would be preferable to the alternative: Nena.

She weighed about four pounds, and looked a bit like a miniature fox, except that her snout was rounded rather than pointed.

She was cute. Sweet. Anyone who saw her would want to pet and cuddle her.

Nena was not a cuddler. Nena was the protector. Yell at Sandra, and you'd be asked to disembark. Immediately. Pay up and get out.

Woe to the passenger who failed to follow instructions.

She was instantly alert when the shrill blonde shoved a meek gentleman aside and flounced into the back seat. "I saw it first, loser!" she cried, and slammed the door on the unfortunate's protests. She then proceeded to give Sandra her destination and demand that she be taken with no haste.

Nena's ears perked up. She waited for Sandra's response. Sandra waved at the middle-aged man, indicating that he should wait. She turned her head slightly and told the blonde, "Get out. He was here first."

"What?" Blondie shrieked. "I'm the customer. The customer is always right. Take me

to—"

"Get out. I have the right to refuse service to anyone." Sandra's voice remained calm and reasonable. "Today, anyone is you, and I refuse to take you anywhere."

"What is your ID number? I'm calling your dispatcher right—"

"This is my cab. I am my boss. Get out."

Blondie flung her arms across her chest and slammed herself back in the seat, pouting like a child. "No!"

Sandra retracted the window.

Nena began to growl. She put her tiny paws up on the back of the seat, too small to look over the edge.

But as she growled, a transformation began to take place. With each "Grrrrr," she grew and grew. Her head, when it finally popped up over the top of the seat, was enormous. Her teeth were gleaming daggers, dripping venom.

Blondie screamed. She tried the door. It was locked. She screamed again. "Let me out of here! Let me out!"

"Oh!" Sandra said, feigning mild surprise. "Now you want out?"

Nena continued to grow. She leaned toward Blondie, snapping her gruesome teeth inches from her face. Blondie screamed again. "Please, please, please!" she begged, starting to cry pathetically. "Let me out of here!"

"Nena?" Sandra asked.

Nena growled, but backed off a little.

Sandra disengaged the lock, and the rude blonde fled, screaming and crying for help.

Sandra waved to the bemused gentleman. He got in. As he fastened his seat belt, he asked, "What was that all about?"

Nena, all four pounds of her, jumped up on Sandra's shoulder and grinned back at the new passenger. "I guess she's afraid of dogs," Sandra said. "Where to?"

The End

This story was previously published on October 30, 2020 in the following Anthology:

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