The Cab Ride
Julia first heard the story from Anders, who heard it from his cousin Olga. He was slow to mention that Olga had not actually ridden in the cab, but had apparently found the story on Reddit; a thread for people immigrating to New York. According to Olga, there had been hundreds of posts on this thread, telling tales of a silent cab driver who didn’t take you where you wanted to go but where you needed to go.
One swore that he believed the cab had taken him to the “wrong” grocery store, until he learned that the one he was trying to go to had caught fire when he would have been there.
Someone else said the cab driver had dropped her off at her best friend’s apartment instead of her ex’s.
Another had said the cab had taken him to the wrong bar, but he had met his soul mate there.
Every single one of them had said that the cab driver had never said a word, that they couldn’t see his face, and that they had felt remarkably calm despite those first two things. They hadn’t given him the address to where they ended up, and they didn’t end up paying for the ride.
Julia had her doubts. She was fairly sure that if there was a supernatural mind-reading being driving people to the-wrong-but-right destinations around New York, someone would have done something about it by now. She wasn’t sure if “something” met “news coverage” or “government kidnapping” but either way—something.
Anders had brought it up late one cold night when they were both standing outside a bar, and Julia’s phone had died before she could order a ride. Anders had pointed to the dozens of yellow cabs idling at the curb in front of them and told her maybe she’d get lucky. She’d snorted, then when Anders clarified he’d meant magic not sex, she’d outright laughed. He had been a little hurt, maybe—he and Olga still believed New York City was magical. It was, in its own way, but Julia had never seen that kind of magic.
In the end, her cab driver that night had been a very talkative man who claimed to be the only born-and-bred New Yorker left. Julia had nodded and tried not to throw up. She had arrived exactly where she’d asked to: Her apartment. She had forgotten Anders’s story by morning.
This night was like that one, down to the nearest train being closed, the evening being cold, and her heels being too painful to walk in. That was the only reason she even recalled the whole legend. At least this time she wasn’t drunk and wishing that Anders would kiss her. Instead, the sun was setting on a rough day at work and she just wanted to go home, turn on the television, and drink wine straight from the bottle.
Once she was willing to admit that her phone was dead and so was the external charger, she gave up and knocked on the window of one of the yellow cabs. The driver waved her in. She slid in and gave the driver her address, then immediately slumped down, sighing deeply. They pulled gently away from the curb.
She woke suddenly with the disconcerting feeling that she had slept much longer than she should have, considering her apartment was only a fifteen minute drive from the office. The driver had already pulled the car over to idle quietly. There was no music playing, and he wasn’t saying anything.
“Sorry, sorry, how much do I owe you?” Julia said, sitting up. “I swear I don’t normally fall asleep in cabs…”
He wasn’t answering.
Julia looked out the window and realized—they were nowhere near her neighborhood. This looked like Queens, which meant she really had slept a long time.
“Where are we? Where have you taken me?” She demanded. She started to sweat, and her heart raced.
In the front seat, the cab driver said nothing. She watched as his gloved fingers tapped on the steering wheel.
She looked around again, and tried the door handle. It opened. She gasped and began to throw herself out of the cab. She looked wildly around her, and finally recognized the building they had stopped in front of: Her nana’s retirement home.
“This isn’t the address I gave you!” She said, her voice high pitched and wild. The driver shrugged and began to pull away from the curb. She snatched her bag out and slammed the back passenger door closed. He drove away slowly.
Julia took a few deep breaths. Had she given him this address? She had been thinking about her nana—she was turning 95 soon. Was she so tired and stressed that she’d given him an address in Queens instead of her own apartment in Manhattan?
She checked her watch. It was 6:30 pm, so there was still another hour for visiting. She was already there.
Julia strode inside to the reception desk. They informed her that her nana was upstairs, getting ready for dinner.
“Perfect,” Julia smiled. She walked up to room 213 and knocked. A gold plaque with Christine Brodeur engraved in curling letters was on the door. When Julia was called in, she was happy to see her nana sitting at a vanity and putting on earrings.
“Julia!” She exclaimed. “I haven’t forgotten you were coming to visit, have I?” She asked, her eyes narrowed. Her accent was still heavily French, but Julia barely noticed it anymore.
“No, no, I’m surprising you.” She gently wrapped her nana in a hug. She smelled like Chanel and baby powder.
“Okay, merci! I am very surprised!”
Julia laughed. “Have you eaten yet? I thought I could take you out to dinner.” Her stomach let out a perfectly timed rumble. Christine laughed and got her coat.
As they left, the receptionist beamed at them and passed Christine over a little baggie of pills she needed to take with dinner.
“I’ll take them when I get back!” Christine exclaimed.
“I won’t be here, and Ryan is too forgetful, Christine! Just take them.” She waved the little baggie and Christine snatched it out of her hand with the energy of a woman thirty years younger.
They walked to the little Italian place on the corner. Julia would have called a cab and taken them somewhere fancier, but she was still feeling unsettled from the strange ride over. Though Christine still radiated energy like a woman in her sixties, the walk to the Italian place was slow. Julia didn’t mind, and listened raptly as Christine told her all the gossip of the retirement home.
It wasn’t until after they sat down that Christine finally turned her attention on Julia and asked how she was doing.
“Oh you know, the usual, working a lot. I’m thinking about adopting a dog.”
Christine banged her hand on the table. “Ma puce, you must stop working so much and go live more! When I was your age—“
“You had already had my dad?” Julia interrupted laughing.
Her grandmother sighed a very French sigh. Julia loved it—no one sighed like French women sighed. She was not ashamed to admit that as a teenager she had spent hours in front of the mirror attempting to emulate it, but had never really succeeded.
“Yes, of course I had, and Alain and Cecile were already in grade school. No, I was going to say when I was your age I was having adventures!”
“You were?” Julia found this hard to believe.
“Of course! It was 1955, the war had been over for ten years, the Allied occupation of Germany was finally ending, things were getting back to normal. Victor and I, we left the kids with my parents and we went to Le Mons that summer. It wasn’t a good summer to go to Le Mons, you know, but we went! That was also the year Lolita came out in France, tu sais, and Victor knew someone at the publishing company, so we went to the party. Such a funny little party it was, mostly porn writers and the author nowhere to be found. But we drank a lot of champagne and toasted the book they were sure was going to sell out.”
“Did it?”
“Of course! And then it was banned for two years, but it was too late by then. The story was out!”
The server came over then, and Christine ordered two glasses of their nicest French Chardonnay for the both of them.
Julia wasn’t sure if Christine was really allowed to drink. Thirty minutes later, she was certain she wasn’t allowed a second glass but Christine had done it anyway. “This time red, it’s good for the heart, ma puce!” Christine had smiled.
Julia had ended up asking her about what she’d done during WWII and how she’d felt when they had immigrated to the US in the 1970s. They stayed until the restaurant closed around 10, then made their slow way back to the retirement home.
Christine tried to teach Julia a French kids song, one she had sung as a child, but she couldn’t get the words to stick in her head after two glasses of wine.
Julia had left her phone charging in Christine’s room, so after she got her grandmother settled back in, she called herself a shared ride and went home to Manhattan. The earlier ride that had brought her there was mostly forgotten.
“Quelle surprise, merci Julia, thank you for visiting.” Her grandmother had said softly before she left, a hand on each side of Julia’s face. Julia had beamed at her, before kissing her on both cheeks.
The next day, Julia took a long look at her calendar. Queens was so far, but maybe she could start making it out there more often.
But a day later, her father called. Alain Brodeur did not call if he could text, so Julia immediately knew something was wrong. She could hear it in his voice before he’d even said anything: Christine had passed.
“It was quick and peaceful, in her sleep,” Alain said. Julia wasn’t sure if he was reassuring her or himself.
The funeral was a few days after that, and at the wake Julia told the story of when she’d last seen Christine, just earlier that week.
“You didn’t tell me you were going out there,” her father said quietly. He seemed happy about it, though.
“I didn’t know I was until I was there,” Julia shrugged. She remembered, finally, about the strange cab ride. She didn’t feel like telling anyone about it though, unsure they would believe her. Plus, the story would only scare her mother.
But after the funeral, Julia stood in her apartment and scrolled through her phone to find Anders’s number. They hadn’t spoken in over a year, but she still considered him and his cousin Olga friends.
After a few rings, he picked up. “Julia! Long time no talk, how are you?”
She opted for honesty: “I’m okay, Anders. I just got home from a funeral. By any chance is Olga with you? I have a story I think the two of you would really love to hear.”
Prompt
You can use this prompt to write your own story, draw something, sing a song, whatever you like! I will (probably) use it for the next story!
You're in the woods with a friend. He runs off as a joke. To search for him, you yell out, "Marco!"
At least twenty voices respond, "Polo!"
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Valorie