Taxi Ride To Hell

“Where to?”

That was a good question. I tried to appear decisive as I scrambled to remember where I lived. That last vodka and raspberry was a mistake. I saw my limit, toasted it anyway. Now I was suffering from a severe case of space brain.

“East Richmond,” I said. “Plenty road.”

The driver wasn’t wearing an ID badge. This I noticed because I was inherently paranoid; I assumed the worst in people before the good, a trait my therapist concluded as “an unhealthy distrust of humanity.” Dr. Singh had advised me to humanise the people around me, imagine their pets, families, good deeds. Instead of picturing my bloody murder, I pictured this man, this unidentified human, with a wife and two little kids, a boy and a girl, whom were waiting for his shift to end so they could reunite and do whatever it was that healthy functioning families did (I wouldn’t know. Hence the therapist).

We were stopped at a red light when I felt his eyes on me. I crossed my legs and tugged at the hem of my skirt. I told myself it wasn’t unwarranted. I had intended to be attractive tonight. I had worn my best underwear, my tightest navy sweater and pin skirt combo, my good make up that cost more than my rent. Now, at the end of the night, it felt like an exhausted effort and a small part of me relished this man’s attention, even as his eyes bounced away from the rear view when I caught him.

The light turned green. He nudged forward, into the left lane. A squat delivery man on a bicycle peddled alongside us, his skin flush with sweat. On his back was a pizza bag and my stomach clenched hungrily.

Mmm.

“Yes?” the driver asked suddenly. His voice was very deep, almost deceiving of his very slight form. When he turned his head, the sharpness of his cheekbones caught the dashboard lights, casting shadows over his eyes. He was also balding in odd clumps. I could see patches of his bare skull among his limp dark hair.

“Nothing,” I said, then feeling flushed, “Do you mind if I crack open the window?” I was already jabbing the button but the glass wouldn’t budge. I waited for him to release the locking mechanism and allow me control but he didn’t move. Both his hands remained on the steering wheel, fingers as bony and unsettling as the rest of him.

“The electric system is faulty,” he said. “I will turn on the AC.”

An uneasy feeling welled up inside of me. Wife and two kids. Not a murderer. I picked through my purse anyway, finding my phone. I was momentarily distracted by the flood of messages from Annette, who had gone home with an Italian man who promised to hand feed her pasta.

He’s actually making pasta! She had typed. Also, his apartment is immaculate. 10/10.

I smiled, genuinely pleased for her. We had very different taste in men, therefore we never found ourselves competing. She liked exotic, nomads, creative souls. I liked sharp and spicy, corporate types, ambitious with a private soft side.

It only occurred to me to glance up when the car stopped again. My heart skipped hard; the driver was turned and facing me, unsmiling, with such cold intensity that my lungs seized up. I stuttered, “w-wha?” and he turned back, showered in the sinister red of the stoplight.

“Do you play the lottery?” he asked abruptly, his tone deadpan despite the conversational prompt.

Confused, I replied: “sometimes.”

“Do you ever win?”

I tapped my phone. 10% battery. Just enough. “Does anyone?” I jested uneasily.

“Life is like a lottery,” the driver said, and the light turned green. He drove unhurried, slower than I preferred. Even as the cars overtook us, he kept on. “Death is random. We don’t realise how little we can control.”

I said nothing, muted by his randomness.

Then he said, “Did you have a good night?”

“Yes,” I said, but it is rapidly going downhill.

The driver turned his head once more, as if to listen closer, but this time he was smiling. It wasn’t at all comforting. “Do you remember all the faces?”

“Faces?”

“Tonight,” he elaborated, still smiling. “Did they stick with you?”

I unlocked my phone, subtly, while replying: “Not all of them.”

He turned a corner. We were still on route, about twenty minutes from my apartment. Still too far to walk.

“I wonder,” the driver went on, “if your face stuck with them.”

“I’m sure I did,” I said, with careful confidence. “In fact, I’m sure they remember me. They saw me leave.”

“They?”

“The…faces.”

After a heavy silence, he said, “Interesting. I don’t believe you will remember my face. But I will remember yours. Why do you think that is?”

I glanced at the door handle, considering. Could I tuck and roll at this speed without serious injury? Was I being overdramatic? Was my distrust unjustified like always?

“I don’t know,” I said.

“It’s because I’m the only one looking.”

And he was, his eyes pinned to my body in the rear-view mirror, above a sharp hawk nose and thin smiling lips. I saw his fingers clench around the steering wheel. I squirmed, sensing he was enjoying it.

“I think I’ll just get out here,” I said, as sober as I ever felt. I touched the door handle but the car didn’t slow.

“We aren’t on Plenty road.”

“I enjoy the walk.”

“It’s dangerous,” he said softly. “Death is random. People kill other people to control death, to overhaul the random lottery which we exist.” His eyes bounced to the road, then returned to my panicking ones. “You don’t win the lottery.”

“Please,” I said with faux calmness. “Let me out.”

“You are safer in here.”

“Please.”

He didn’t slow. If anything, he sped up, the sound of the engine throttling like a siren to my untimely death. I wrenched the door handle to no avail. He saw me do this; his eyes, somewhat warm with a sinister pleasure, watched my struggle as he said, “electric fault.”

We screeched around the corner. I saw my apartment and wondered what investigators would discover once I was reported missing—a bunch of dirty clothes, a half-finished novella chronicling my struggle to function as a twenty-one year in the city, a sad goldfish, a collection of vinyl records, another half-finished art project by Annette, who insisted we write affirmations and tack them up on the wall. My affirmations were: I am worthy of good things and Trust the process. It should’ve been: Don’t listen to stupid doctors!

I was frantically punching in the number for the police when the taxi came to a jolting stop. I was thrown against the seatbelt, jarred back into my skin. We were on Plenty road, underneath a street light. I was in a state of fear so profound that I couldn’t cry, only pretend.

The driver extended one arm across the passenger seat and twisted his body to face me again. “Plenty road,” he said. “That will be $35.”

I stared at him, then dove for the door. It opened and I slipped over the lip of the sidewalk, scraping my knees. I collected my purse, left my shoe in the gutter, and tossed a handful of money into the open mouth of the taxi. Then I scrambled to my feet and ran.

I fired Dr. Singh the next day.