THE RIDE

THE RIDE

Tommy grabbed the backpack full of dope and headed out the door. His apartment was on the second floor, so he had to walk along a narrow landing before descending down the stairs. As he made his way across the landing, he noticed his cab had not arrived yet. With a sigh, he slowed his pace. Tonight's driver was running late, and that bugged him. Not that it was unusual for cab drivers to run late in this city. No, cab drivers were no different here than anywhere else. It bugged him because he was something of a frequent flier around here, a member of the Mega Miles Club. And he tipped big, because he always carried around fat stacks of cash. If that didn't make him a goddamned VIP, then what did?

Tommy had what you might call a "love-hate" relationship with the cabbies here in town. They resented the fact that Tommy used their taxicab service as a convenient, low-risk means of slinging dope. They hated the trips through the war-zone and the stops in the hood, too, although these were becoming less frequent as Tommy had been scoring some higher-class clientele recently. Business executives who took a balloon filled with heroin to work with them, where they endured a long afternoon of back to back meetings or sat behind a computer for hours on end analyzing data and typing up spreadsheets. Attorneys who came home after a long day at the firm, snorted a line or two of coke, then went down to the local titty bar for a lap dance or three.

What the drivers did love was the cash. Tommy only tipped in hundred dollar bills, handing out Franklins as if they were sticks of chewing gum. In the end it was that root of all evil – the almighty dollar – that suckered them into hauling Tommy and his dirty business around.

As Tommy reached the bottom of the steps he stopped and took a glance at his cell phone. Although it wasn't quite seven in the evening yet, it was already dark. He was still trying to adapt to the recent time change. It was early November now, and the days were getting shorter and colder. And as he stood there shivering he thought, damned if that didn't describe his situation to a T. His life was getting shorter and shorter by the day, his heart colder and colder.

It hadn't always been this way, though. Back in the day, he had been a standout football player with a bright future ahead. After an inauspicious youth, growing up in one of the city's roughest slums, he became one of the most highly recruited athletes in the state, eventually landing a full ride scholarship to play quarterback for Penn State. But halfway through his sophomore season he tore his ACL and lost his starting position. In the end the injury had been more than just a season-ender. The doctors had informed him that if he kept playing football he would have lots of limping to look forward to in the future.

But that was okay, he had a backup plan. He excelled as an occupational therapy student, eventually starting up his own business. The only problem was that not long after his injury there ensued a progressive addiction to pain pills, which eventually graduated to a heavy heroin habit. It all came crashing down on him one disastrous Saturday night. On his way back from a nightclub, called Le Groove, he stopped and picked up a hooker. A few minutes later the cops pulled him over, citing the fact he had crossed the center line on multiple occasions. Although he was certainly drunk, having downed 10 martinis and a pitcher of beer at Le Groove, that wasn't the reason he had had difficulty maintaining his lane. The real reason was the mind-blowing oral service he had been receiving, courtesy of “Pearls.” He was still trying to get his pants up when the police officer made it up to his window. Running a routine search of his vehicle, the cops found the bag of heroin he had stashed in the console, plus a bottle of prescription pills that had fallen out of his pants pocket during the act. They also found a small baggie of cocaine and a crack pipe that had been dropped on the floor, courtesy of Pearls.

In the end he was given a year's probation, which he failed to complete, finishing the rest of his sentence out in jail. When he was released he moved back home to his old neighborhood. So here he was, back in one of the seedier parts of town, slinging dope to survive. He had come full circle, back to doing what he did as a “troubled” youth, before he filled out and his athletic prowess kicked in. The only difference was back then he rode his ten-speed around slinging dope. Nowadays, he took a taxicab.

When the cab pulled in, Tommy smiled. It was “Fat Frankie,” as he affectionately called him. A pudgy, pale-complected man in his mid 40's, Frankie had a face that looked like a bunch of scrunched up dough, with raisins pressed in for eyes, and a long, crooked nose that looked like it had been broken two or three times. Any kind of physical task seemed a hassle for the man, causing him to go into fits of heavy, labored breathing, and it seemed a good chance there might be an early heart attack on the horizon to look forward to.

“Hi, Frankie,” Tommy said as he hopped in the back seat.

“Tommy, how you doin'? Where we headed?”

“21'st and Duncan.”

Frankie breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled out of the parking lot and out onto the road. “Ah, that ain't so bad.”

It wasn't so bad, which is why Tommy had decided to head there first. He wanted to get rid of a good chunk of his product before heading into the slummier parts of town. He had three rather affluent clients in this area, and would be able to dump off most of his load there. Although he was prepared for anything, and kept a piece on him at all times, one couldn't be too careful. God knew he had had his mishaps and, though it had been a while since his last, that one had nearly killed him. He had been shot three times at close range. Once in the right shoulder, once in the abdomen, and once in the back as he was in the process of running away. The shot in the back had been the worst of the three. The small .22 shell had careened off his back bone and had gotten lodged in his neck. The doc had told him it would be too risky to remove the bullet due to the number of nerves around it. “You're just gonna have to live with your little buddy,” the doc said, smiling unsympathetically. So he was left carrying around a little momento from the incident.

Frankie pulled off Duncan Avenue into an upscale apartment complex, then waited while Tommy ran in and did his thing. Half an hour later he returned with a fat stack of cash. As he got back in the cab he handed Frankie a hundred dollar bill. “Here's a Franklin for Frankie.”

“God bless ya, Tommy.” Frankie would have at least one or two more Franklins to look forward to before the night was over. “Now where to?”

“13th and St. Anthony.”

“Wonderful, Tommy. Just wonderful. My favorite part of town.” Frankie was being sarcastic, of course. Although 13th and St. Anthony wasn't considered the “war zone,” it was certainly on the periphery.

As Frankie pulled out onto Duncan and headed West he eyed Tommy, who was busy counting up his cash, through the rear-view. “Look, it's none of my business Tommy, right? But you know we've got to know each other a little bit so, I can't help askin'. How much longer you gonna keep this up? The slingin', I mean. I only ask cause I care, you know. I mean, I know your rakin' in the green but, don't you sometimes feel like it might be time to back off a little bit, take her easy? Maybe find you a good woman, put a couple babies in her, start up a family, you know. Have a couple-three little Tommy's out there runnin' around.”

Tommy sighed as he finished counting up the cash and stuffed it into his wallet. He was bracing for the inevitable lecture to come. Sooner or later every cabbie gave him “the lecture.” Now it looked like it was Frankie's turn. “I don't take pride in what I'm doing, Frankie. Don't get it twisted. But it's hard out there on a pimp. A guy's gotta come up somehow. Do I wanna quit this? Hell yeah. As soon as I get a few more racks put back, I'm through.”

“That's good to hear Tommy, cause I get concerned, you know. But only cause I care about ya, you know. You go to church, Tommy?”

“Not no more. Used to. Got sidetracked somewhere along the way.”

Frankie took a right on St. Anthony, heading North towards 13th. It was almost nine o'clock now, and Tommy was anxious to wrap this ride up and get off the streets. There was a winter storm advisory in effect tonight. Outside the wind was picking up, rocking the cab from side to side and blowing debris across the dimly lit street.

“Me too,” Frankie said. “Sooner or later we all get sidetracked. That's the Devil talking. He comes out of nowhere to pay you a visit sometimes, don't he? Comes along when you're weak and vulnerable, when you're most likely to make a deal with him. Sooner or later everyone makes a deal with the Devil. Like me, when I cheated on my ole lady. Or with food, that's another one. Doc says I need to start eating more salads and less salami. Says if I don't start scalin' back, I could be in for a real short ride.”

“Almost there,” Tommy said, changing the subject. He didn't believe in the Devil, angels and demons, or Heaven and Hell for that matter. It all seemed like smoke and mirrors to him, a bunch of silly hocus-pocus.”

“Right, right,” Frankie said. “I'm guessing these apartments up here on the left?”

“Yeah, that's the ones. Pull in the North entrance, Frankie.”

Frankie pulled in and parked on the far side of the first row of apartments, as Tommy instructed him too. “Give me twenty or thirty minutes,” Tommy said, throwing his backpack over his shoulder as he stepped out. “I've got three stops to make over here.”

“Right,” Frankie said. “Try and make it snappy, okay Tommy? I ain't feelin' the best.”

“Gotcha,” Tommy said as he shut the door.

The first two transactions went smoothly. He was able to get rid of two grams of high grade China White and an eight ball of coke. It was on his third stop that he ran into some trouble. It was a new customer, referred to him by what he thought was a solid source. When the door opened a man with a thick Spanish accent, introducing himself as Jesus, invited him in. Tommy introduced himself as “Tiger,” one of a handful of different street names he used, depending on what part of town he was in and who he was dealing with.

Shortly after they shook hands, Jesus felt around Tommy's chest, running his hand back and forth and giving him a thorough pat down. Tommy jerked back a little.

“Easy, easy man,” Jesus said. “Just checking for wires. We gotta make sure you ain't the police, right?” He smiled crookedly then, allowing Tommy a strong whiff of cheap tequila.

“Right,” Tommy said. He was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable about the situation. The apartment was hot, he felt crowded. The thick stench of tequila and cheap cigars was making his stomach turn. The place was dimly lit, and he thought he saw two or three indistinct figures standing back in the shadows.

“Bust out the perico,” Jesus said, showing him to a small table. “Let's see what you're working with.”

Reaching into his backpack, Tommy fished out a small baggie and set it on the table. Jesus picked it up, rolled it around between his fingers, sniffed it. “Can I have a taste?”

Tommy sighed. “Suit yourself.”

A couple of the others had come forward now, watching the transaction with curiosity. Instinctively, Tommy felt along the lining of his coat pocket for his nine-millimeter. It was still there, right where it belonged, a reassurance that temporarily eased his nerves.

Jesus dipped his finger in the baggie, brought it up to his mouth, licked it. “Mmm, tastes good, man. Better than pussy even. You like to eat pussy, Tiger?”

“Sure,” Tommy said. His patience was growing extremely thin.

That's when Jesus pulled out the knife, smiling crookedly as he turned it round. In the glare that the dim light provided, Tommy could see that it was a very big knife. “What else you got in the bag, gringo?”

Tommy reached for the baggie on the table, and that's when they rushed him. He took several blows before stumbling back against the door and slouching down to his knees. But the backward stumble had allowed him just enough time to arm himself. When he stood back up he was wielding his nine, holding it out where all could see it.

Jesus and the others put their arms up and backed away. “Okay, Okay man,” Jesus said.

Tommy reached back with his empty hand, turned the knob, let himself out. Once out the door, he moved swiftly back in the direction of the cab, cursing as he took occasional glances back behind him. Everything seemed so surreal. The apartment building, the parking lot, the vehicles, all seemed painted against some dark, ghostly canvas background. It was beginning to sleet, and the whipping wind blasted him with icy pellets. Up ahead, through the haze, he could see the vague outline of the yellow taxi cab.

As he neared the cab, snapshots of the incident flashed across his mind. How could he have let that situation go down like that? His first instinct had told him something wasn't right. He should never have reached for that baggie of coke in the first place. They could have that. And in the end, they got it anyway. He made it out with his backpack, and that was the main thing.

When he reached the cab he opened the door and dove across the back seat. “Step on it, Frankie. We gotta blow this place.”

“What's the rush?” The voice from up front, which wasn't Frankie's, said.

Confused, Tommy examined the driver. In the dim light of the cab he could vaguely make out the man's features. As the driver looked at Tommy through the overhead mirror, his face looked weathered and worn. It was a face that looked a lot like some of the old bums he often saw panhandling out front of the Quicky Marts downtown, or sitting around in dark alleys passing a bottle of liquor back in forth. He had long, black hair that fell past his shoulders. A small animal skull, perhaps a cats or a raccoon's, dangled lifelessly from a chord tied to the overhead. It appeared to smile at Tommy in death as it swayed back and forth pendulously.

“Uh, I must be in the wrong cab,” Tommy said. “Where's Frankie?”

“Oh, ahem,” the driver muttered, clearing his throat. “Frankie had him a little emergency, I guess. I'm to be your driver from here out. Name's Dexter.” He pronounced it “Dexta,” in his thick Brooklyn accent. “I heard your some sorta VIP, so I come quick.”

“What do you mean he had him an emergency?”

“He musta had a hat attack,” Dexter said. He laughed heartily then, before going into a wheezing, coughing fit.

Great, Tommy thought. My driver's been replaced with some back up schmuck. I'm stuck with an old wheezer behind the wheel, and in the middle of a wicked winter storm. “Alright alright already,” he snapped, “let's roll.”

“Okey dokey, Smoky,” Dexter said. Then he put the car in drive, swung around till he found the entrance, and made a right turn onto St. Anthony. “So what the heck happened back there? Get yourself in a bit of a jam or what?”

Tommy sighed. “Something like that.”

“With whom?”

Tommy sighed again. He was tired, and not really in the mood to replay the melee that had occurred back there. “Some guy named Jesus.”

Dexter raised his eyebrows. “Jesus?” he said, pronouncing it with a J. “He come back already? What a shame. Did you put a cap in his ass?” With that he erupted into another laughing-coughing fit, even slapping his thigh a couple times.

“No, No,” Tommy grumbled. “Jesus, with an H. He was Mexican.”

“Ah,” Dexter replied. Outside, the sleeting appeared to have died off. The city seemed dark and dead. Nothing out the windows but the vague outlines of tired, worn down houses slouched back in the darkness and the crooked, overgrown trees that lined the boulevard.

Tommy eyed Dexter, suspiciously. “Do you even know where you're going?”

“South,” Dexter said, bluntly. “I've got a couple more stops I gotta make before I drop you off.”

“Hey, look out!” Tommy shouted. “The light....”

Dexter didn't flinch. He cruised right on through the red light as if it wasn't there.

“You gotta watch it, pal,” Tommy snapped. “I'm riding dirty here, you know.”

“Whoops, did I scare ya? Where I come from, Tommy boy, red means speed up, not slow down.”

They were getting close to Tommy's neck of the woods now, one of the roughest areas in the city. Dexter slowed the cab down to a crawl. Tommy sighed. This guy either drove too fast or too slow, nothing in between. “Why you slowing down now?” he griped.

Dexter grinned at him through the rear-view. “We're coming up on my favorite part of town.”

“Which part is that?”

“The bad part. The part where the hookers and the hoodlums hang out. The high crime area, where rapes, robberies, and murders far outnumber good deeds. The part littered with broken homes, where the divorce rate is off the charts, and high school drop outs far outnumber graduates. The part where churches and places of worship lie empty or abandoned because Jesus is nowhere to be found. The hopeless part. It means I'm that much closer to home.”

Tommy sighed. This guy was definitely off his rocker, if not all the way crazy. As they cruised slowly through the war zone and the red-light district, Dexter hummed merrily to himself while he took in the scenery. The man really did seem to enjoy the slums.

“My turn's coming up,” Tommy pointed out.

“I know, I know. You were born right here in the middle of this shit-hole part of town, weren't you Tommy? Tommy Donaldo, eldest child of Tony and Terry Donaldo, and their only boy.”

Tommy gasped. “You knew my parents?”

Dexter nodded. “Why of course I did. Your father was a worthless drunk. A deadbeat who couldn't hold down a job and who used to beat your poor mama purple, and little Tommy too. Fucked your little sisters too, both of 'em. It's a wonder they ended up the way they did. One's a hooker, the other a whore, which I guess makes them equals, hey?”

“You know you got a fuckin' mouth,” Tommy growled.

“Ah, the truth hurts, don't it Tommy?”

“Hey!” Tommy hollered. “You missed my turn.”

Dexter's eyes appeared in the rear-view, and for the first time Tommy noticed they seemed to have a reddish tint to them. “Did I? Well I guess we're going to be taking what commercial airline pilots refer to as an 'alternate route.'”

“An alternate route?”

They entered what appeared to be an industrial district, though everything looked unfamiliar to Tommy. The buildings were dark, and most looked abandoned. “Where the hell are we?”

Dexter grinned. “You said it, Tommy boy. You said it exactly.”

“Turn around,” Tommy demanded. The old fool was taking him on some sort of crazy joyride at his expense, and getting a kick out of it. “Turn around I said, or stop and let me out.”

“Okay,” Dexter said. “Here you go.” He pulled the cab to the side of the road, just before the next intersection. Tommy squinted out the window, trying to identify where he was at. The old ramshackle building next to them read “ZOZAX,” in bold black letters. Not much help there. Looking up the road, he struggled to read the street signs. Apparently they were at the intersection of Lartnec and Oiho. But as he studied the street names a bit more, a strange realization dawned on him. The street names were spelled backwards. They were at the intersection of Central and Ohio. He felt the chilliest of chills run up and down his spine then. He tugged on the door latch. It was locked. “Unlock it,” he demanded.

Dexter smiled, did nothing.

“Unlock it!” Tommy shouted, pulling out his pistol and pointing at Dexter's head.

And that's when Dexter began to change. His eyes turned bright red, glowing like searing hot embers. His hair began to shrivel up and wilt, before falling to the floor in clumps. His face melted away, exposing the raw, fibrous flesh beneath. The flesh was grayish red and vascular, crisscrossed by a busy network of huge, pulsating veins. Here and there flesh sizzled and bubbled up like some molten hot, volcanic landscape, or a slab of raw meat cooking at high heat. The thing that had been Dexter snorted and snarled, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth, long as nails.

Tommy screamed. The gun he was holding suddenly grew white hot, scorching his hand before he dropped it to the floor. He pounded on the door in desperation, screaming all the while, as Dexter hit the gas and took off. Nondescript buildings and signs raced by in a blur as the cab picked up speed. Faster and faster now, the buildings flew by, only now they were on fire. Everything was burning.

“What do you want?” Tommy cried.

“Your soul,” the Dexter-thing said. It was a deep, dragging voice that rumbled the cab. “I want your soul, Tommy. It's gonna burn. Everything burns where we're going. We're talking crispy critters. Ha ha ha.”

It was a horrible, vile laugh. A ridiculous laugh. The kind of laugh that would make even the bravest of men turn around and run. The laugh a psychotic killer wielding a bloody knife makes after walking out of a room where he'd just stabbed his wife and children to death before chopping them up into a bunch of itty-bitty pieces. The laugh of a man who has just witnessed a horrific accident, where dozens of innocent civilians had been brutally slaughtered, and found it incredibly satisfying and amusing. The laugh of a madman.

The cab went faster and faster and grew hotter and hotter, until it began to deteriorate. Everything began to deteriorate, piece by piece, till there was nothing left. The cab, the Dexter-thing, vanished. Everything became a white blur. A blur that slowly congealed into a room. He was in a hospital, surrounded by men and women in scrubs.

“What happened?” he mumbled. “Where am I?”

The doctor smiled. “Back to the world of the living, thank god.”

“What happened?”

“You were found in a parking lot outside of some apartments downtown. You'd been stabbed multiple times. But thankfully they got you here on time.”

Tommy looked down at all the tubes and machinery he was hooked up to, at his bandaged-up wounds, and realized he might be here for a while. Plenty of time to reflect on his strange cab ride and his mysterious driver, who had called himself Dexter. Who was Dexter, really? He was going to be thinking about that long and hard, probably for the rest of this Earthly ride. But one thing he was certain of, he was never taking a taxicab again, and you could put a fat stack of Franklins on that.