The Water Taxi Driver

She tried to avoid the area south of Houston because a lot of buildings had fallen there and squatters had taken over the wreckage. Instead, she preferred the waterways around Central Park, where she knew every obstacle as well as the lines on her own face. Plus, she liked to park her skiff near the hotel on the southeast corner and eat lunch at the diner inside. Having read all the Eloise books as a child, it was easy to imagine a time when the place had been glittering and vibrant, back before brackish water had flooded the lobby.

Around 11 in the morning she picked up a young couple, well-dressed, from a hotel near the Natural History Museum. They stepped aboard gingerly. The man helped the woman by offering his arm. They had a long list of properties to see, starting with a brownstone on the east side.

“We’re looking to invest,” the man explained, as they motored across the park. “We need someplace that doesn’t require too much upkeep.”

“Everything requires upkeep,” the taxi driver explained, as she avoided an old bicycle rack that lurked just beneath the water’s surface. “The foundations and the first floors need to be reinforced all the time, otherwise the walls will collapse.”

“Do you have property here?” the woman asked, eyeing the hula girl bobblehead at the helm with obvious disdain.

“Oh no,” the taxi driver answered, shrugging. “Most of the people who work here commute. Very few people live in the city full time.”

“I see,” the woman replied, peering over the starboard side into the bright swirls of oil. “I’m sure you think we’re crazy to buy now.”

The taxi driver denied it; she had nothing to gain from sharing her real thoughts on the matter. In truth, she didn’t understand the idea of half-sunk property as an investment. If you didn’t even plan to live in the place, what was the point? Buying a submerged property with the hope of turning a quick profit seemed like a dangerous gamble. In fact, she’d ferried plenty of passengers who’d suffered big losses. Structures crumbled and, with them, hopes and dreams.

Still, every day she met people who came from landlocked cities—Chicago, Nashville, and Las Vegas—wanting to own a romantic apartment with canal access in historic Manhattan. Unlike Venice, which was built on wooden stakes and platforms, New York’s landmarks had been engineered using traditional methods and submerged later. This made ownership an expensive and risky prospect, requiring loads of contractors, architects, and, in the case of highrises, a team of government lobbyists to sidestep safety regulations.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your budget?”

“Oh, it’s modest,” the man answered. “15 million.”

“But we could go as high as 30 if we find a gem,” the woman added, wiping something invisible from her pinstriped skirt.

The driver waited outside as the couple toured two different brownstones. She fussed with the heart-shaped locket around her neck. The clasp was broken, so she worried that the picture inside would get damaged from humid air. Her daughter had given it to her ten years ago, back when they still spoke.

Recently, the daughter had cut off contact. Because of that, the photo inside the locket could not be replaced. If it got damaged, it would be lost forever. Better to fix the locket than to risk it. The taxi driver saved her tips in a mason jar. She nearly had enough money to repair the clasp, but she still needed a few more weeks before she’d have the jeweler’s fee ready.

The couple came out of the second brownstone laughing.

“Hideous,” the woman chirped. “I wouldn’t live there if you paid me.”

“We’re not going to live there, though,” the man said, shaking his head.

“My point exactly.”

He frowned at her as he stepped onto the boat. “I wish you would be more practical.”

“‘I’m practical where it counts,” the woman responded. “Are you hungry?”

The taxi driver had missed her lunch. By the time she finished ferrying the couple around, the deli would be closed. She sighed.

“Let’s stop and get New York-style pizza,” the man suggested.

The couple ordered a large pepperoni pie and ate it in the boat, the oil from the cheese dripping between their fingers and onto the deck.

The taxi driver’s stomach rumbled.

“Where to next?” she asked once they gobbled the last slice.

“Hell’s Kitchen,” the man said. “Take 56th.”

The boat darted between collapsed highrises and the husk of Carnegie Hall. The roof of the famous concert venue had caved in on one side, and the rows of seats lay open to the elements. The fabric on the chairs, which used to be red velvet, now looked mossy and green.

“How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” the man began, abandoning the joke as he gaped at the wreckage.

“Can you pull over here?” the woman asked. “I’d like to take some pictures. It looks like a fairy tale.”

The couple scrambled out of the boat and onto a set of stairs that led to the hall’s grand entrance. The taxi driver fastened her skiff to the makeshift dock with a well-worn line.

“Actually, do you mind taking some photos?” the man asked, turning back to the boat. “I’ll give you an extra tip.”

“Glad to,” the driver answered, “As long as you’re quick about it.”

She followed them into the lobby, and then towards a set of double doors. With the lights off, the bowels of the building felt eerie and the smell of mildew nearly made her sick.

“Why do you think they let this go?” the woman asked. “I mean, it should have been preserved.”

“They tried,” the taxi driver interjected. “The city spent millions and private donors raised almost a billion on top of that.”

“I guess it didn’t pay off,” the woman muttered.

“There was a performance hall in the basement, so it was one of the first buildings to go down.”

“Because of the basement?” the man asked. “I don’t get it.”

“The floor we’re standing on has the structural integrity of swiss cheese,” the driver explained.

The woman ran ahead, holding her scarf to her nose. “I want a picture on the stage.”

They entered one of the halls, but the far end of the room had been mostly demolished.

“Don’t worry,” the man said. “We’ll find a stage for you.”

As they exited the hall, the taxi driver heard a moaning sound. She glanced back to the couple, but the noise hadn’t come from them. For a beat, there was nothing. Then, a slow creaking sound filled the silence.

“Oh crap,” she whispered. That’s when everything started to slip.

When she regained consciousness, her mouth was filled with dust. Sputtering, she tried to spit and failed. Grittiness coated her teeth and her tongue. Bringing her fingers to her eyes, she felt dirt there, too. She heard screaming in the distance, although she couldn’t tell how far away it was.

Trying to speak, she coughed and wheezed. The rubble around her shifted as she moved. Blinded, she crawled towards the sound of the yells. Her hand moved unsteadily over the rocks, and then she felt warmth and fabric. A leg. A hairy leg. She must be touching the man, she thought. A hand reached over and yanked on her own. He’s alive, she realized. And the screaming must be coming from the woman.

“We’re here,” the taxi driver huffed, her teeth crunching on burnt gravel. “We’re alive.”

The next thing she knew, she felt wet fabric against her face. The woman was wiping her eyes and cleaning out the inside of her mouth. “I thought I was alone,” the woman sobbed. “I thought I was going to die alone.”

“Turns out,” the man said, wryly, “We’re going to die together.”

Once they got their bearings, the taxi driver and the couple discovered that a small cavern had formed. It was the size of a large room. One side of the room contained two feet of standing water, and the other half of the room was dry. They crouched together on the dry side, atop an island made of wood and plaster and metal pieces.

“We can drink the water if we’re desperate,” the man said, “but it will probably make us sick.”

“What about food?” the woman asked.

The taxi driver felt for the crackers in her jacket pocket. They were there, golden brown and stuffed with cheese spread, in a plastic wrapper. She said nothing.

“I don’t have any food,” the man said. “What about phones?”

No one had a phone with service.

The taxi driver rubbed the heart-shaped locket between her fingers. She played with the thin strip of metal that was loose. Inside the locket, her daughter. Her finger traced the texture of curlicues carved into the 14 carat gold.

In the darkness of the hollow, the taxi driver couldn’t see the faces of the passengers. She heard them breathing, and she smelled them. They reeked of ham, sweat, and fear. The woman started crying softly, then her sobs turned into hiccups.

The taxi driver wondered what her daughter would say if she were able to get a phone call through. The current circumstances improved her odds. If she was ever going to be forgiven, now was the time.

“Where would you be right now,” the man asked, “if you could be anywhere?” Since the woman was still crying, the taxi driver knew that he was talking to her.

“I’d be in a casino playing the slots or maybe roulette,” she said.

“That sounds like fun,” the man said. “Although I’ve never been one for slot machines myself.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” she said. “To me, it feels good because you’re not losing much, at least not all at once.”

“See, that’s where we differ,” he responded. “I like going all in. I prefer poker for that reason.”

“And you like gambling with real estate,” she added.

“Sure.”

“Too slow for me,” she countered. “I need to know whether I’ve won or lost right away.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” the man said. “Right now, none of us are winning.”

The last time they’d talked, her daughter called her selfish. That was fair, the taxi driver knew. She had stolen, and lied, and failed to get better. In fact, after all the rehab and therapy she’d completed, she still dabbled with daily scratch-off tickets and regular trips to Atlantic City. Now, even with five months of sobriety, she knew it wouldn’t last. It’s true that she had $300 in her mason jar. But in the back of her mind, she still yearned for some excitement. As soon as the locket got fixed, there was no telling what she’d do.

What she would have done.

“Is the baby going to die?” the woman asked, sniveling.

“If we get rescued, our baby will be fine,” the man said. “And if we don’t get rescued, it doesn’t matter.”

The woman erupted into more hiccups. The man patted a slow rhythm on her back.

Meanwhile, the taxi driver felt the smooth packaging of the crackers in her pocket. She wondered if her daughter would call her selfish, even now.