it’s 4:30 a.m. i leave todd’s apartment, where i’ve crashed for a few hours after the debate at lolita. i walk out the front door of the building, turn right. up half a block, i’m passing an SUV police cruiser. at the intersection i look right, look left, and stick out my arm to hail a cab.
“hey, lady!” someone yells. i try to ignore it, and search what little oncoming traffic there is in the predawn darkness for the roof light of a cab. “can i ask you a question?”
i glance around, mostly to identify the source of the yells in case i need to take evasive action. but it’s early, i’ve barely had two hours of sleep and three guinness before that, so i’m clumsy. there he is, about fifty feet to my right, next to a northbound yellow cab. i make eye contact. shit.
he’s of an indeterminate age, medium build, dark greasy hair. his skin has an unhealthy sheen under the street lights, and what i can see of his face is blistery and pocked. his clothes look like he’s slept in them for a week. none of these details are reassuring, and he’s started to make a beeline toward me, continuing to yell. i feel the beginnings of an adrenaline panic.
but a southbound cab pulls up, and i half-stride, half-jog across the street to get in the back. “penn station,” i say, settling myself in on the passenger side.
before the cab can pull away from the curb, the door behind the driver opens. “lady, i just wanna ask you a question!”
he’s standing in the street, holding the door open with one hand. i notice that he’s got a folded stack of twenties in his other hand, and feel a completely irrational wave of relief dampen the panic signals in my brain.
because deranged psychopaths don’t carry around that kind of cash, right?
“c’mon, lady, i just wanna talk!” he gets in the cab with me, closes the door. there seems to be an eternity before i realize what he’s doing. this can’t be good. my nose is suddenly filled with liquor and stale cigarettes as he leans toward me. time snaps back, and i don’t even say the first thing that comes to my mind: “what the fuck, man? get your own damn cab!” instead i open the door on my side and get out. the slamming door muffles his voice.
the northbound cab is still there. hack light is still on. i run across the street heedless of traffic, arm out, flagging him down. my sandal catches on a manhole cover, wrenching my ankle, and behind me the guy’s yelling again. “lady. c’mon, lady!”
crap. he’s crossing the street a few paces behind me. it isn’t even five in the morning. i’m not thinking straight. i have a train to catch. what the hell?
i get to the cab, jump in, pull the door shut. “penn station,” i bark, “and lock the damn doors!” the guy is mere feet away, reaching for the door. i slam my hand on the lock button. i can’t tell if it’s locked. i slide back from the door, over to the other side of the bench seat.
the cab pulls into the street, and the cabbie glances at me in the rearview. “crazy, hunh? i just dropped off that guy and his girlfriend. she went upstairs, wouldn’t let him in. then he goes after you!”
yeah, crazy. we turn down FDR drive and i watch the 59th street bridge go by as my heartbeat returns to normal. manhattan. no, thanks.
