Cab Fair:
part I

Lackawanna Terminal, the sun is melting on the crooked skyline. He can almost hear the city song through the spectrogram-shaped cutouts of the buildings. So he hums as he sips on his coffee. This is his time to stand perfectly still, before his shift begins. 

The routine stop started long ago and quickly turned into a tradition; the tradition into superstition. It’s been that long. All he knows is that he wants to get the last drop of daylight before his journey through the night. He leans over the white handrail and watches the seagulls rest on the old wood pier foundations, right out of the station on the way to Jersey City. Skeletal remains of another time.

It reminds him of the boardwalk down the shore. He must have gone there once when he was young for he gets glimpses of greasy funnel cakes and cheap souvenir stalls. He’s not sure. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’s never sure about his memories.  

He watches the city glass towers turn orange, mirroring the sun setting in Newark and turning it into a fiery pit of hell. Meanwhile, the ferries come in the Hoboken clock tower, delivering the herds of commuters returning home. Maybe they’ll stop for a drink first, or slip into their running shoes and hit the ‘cadam to sweat out the remains of a stressful day. 

He’ll start driving then, until dawn. He doesn’t want to see the new day break though, no, that’s not for him. He finds the colors dull. In truth, the richness of daylife can be overwhelming at times. It takes enough out of him in the quietness of the night. So he leaves it for the other driver. The one he shares the cab with. The name on his badge is worn off, and he doesn’t bother to ask him. Not again. He must have asked him before. After this long, it’s awkward. He should know his name. So he just calls him ‘Solar’. And the day guy calls him ‘Moonbeam’. Solar must have forgotten his name too. Not that they talk. They leave notes on the steering wheel. ‘gas empty’, ‘changed oil’, ‘gatta scratch from a gaddam bike messinger’. They pick up and drop off the car at the same place without ever seeing each other. 

He prefers to rise and go to sleep with the moon, hence the name. The first birds chirp when he hits the pillow. He drifts off while the air is still blue, right after the city has its one single moment of stillness. It is so brief no one knows it exists. People think the city never rests, but it does. One fleeting instant before dreams evanesce, shorter than the gasp of a first kiss, as eerie as one’s last breath. Right there... the city sleeps. Everyone always misses it, but not him. He wants to be there for that. He wants to feel the city say ‘three, two, one…’

He can’t recall when he first came here any more than when he started driving at night. Or how he got the job in the first place. He just does it. Every night. He can’t imagine… not. The thought alone seems ludicrous, and never fails to make Moonbeam laugh up his sleeve. All the life stories that buckle in his backseat, they get mixed up with his own sometimes. Most of his memories come and go in flashes, not unlike the beams of passing cars on the FDR drive.

His passengers, they talk to him. They tell him about the things they did, but the ones they need to let out most are those they should have done. The lovers. The chances. The travels. All the ones they took and the ones they wished they had. 

Moonbeam has traveled too. Every block of this city, he has. Or almost. He reckons there’s always more to uncover and discover for each of those blocks has a whole universe inside of it. A lifetime won’t be enough to get to it all, but he is happy to try. He read once that no man steps in the same river twice. It works for New York City as well. Except it is a flow of thoughts, hopes, dreams, heartbreaks and desillusions - sometimes all at once - and it makes the whole place shake. You have to want to feel it though, let it go through you. Most people do not. It can be a fight to swim against the current. It’s always a lot to let it immerse you. Many a gentle soul have drowned under the flood of New York. 

​

*

“Are you available?” The man leaning through the back door.

Moon didn’t see him draw near. He was too busy rubbing his eyes. He must have stared at that sunset too long this time. The light still flashes into his retina. He shakes it off.

Regardless, he doesn’t like it when they open the door without invitation. He puts his empty cup down, and looks at the man until the discomfort breaks his inquisitive gaze. Raising an eyebrow to unveil a hazelish green eye, Moon swipes his empty car with an open palm, and shrugs. He shouldn’t. The passenger is not responsible for his migraine. He attempts a redeeming smile and adds a weak ‘please’.

“Right.” The man rasps. 

The smile must not have been convincing enough. 

“Well, there are no other silver checkered cabs on this crossroad anyway, so you’re stuck with me, I suppose.” He says as he gets in. “Hum. So, how does this work? I tell you where to go? You tell me where I’m going or…”

“Or.” And Moonbeam starts his engine. 

“Oh goodness! It’s so quiet for such an old car. Impressive.” He touches the worn leather as his eyes scan around. “Vintage? It’s charming. Is this the meter?” He chuckles, and takes a breath. He’s not asking anymore than Moon will be answering. “Forgive me. I don’t usually talk this much. Or do I?” He exhales loudly. 

“T’s a’ight.” Moon now thinks he should make it up to his passenger somehow. 

“What’s your name? I can’t make it out on your card there.”

“Moon.”

“A night driver called Moon. Fortunate or ironic? Unique either way.” The passenger’s lips smack into silence, but his fingers start talking, ever so slightly tapping on the leather seat. “By the way, my name’s…”

“Belt.” He cuts. No names, never names. 

“Oh yes, of course. I’m so absent-minded. It’s been a lot, getting here. I think?” He trails as he buckles in. 

Moon adjusts his mirror to take a better look. The passenger is trying to remember what he was saying, but there are many trailing thoughts in here. Moon slowly turns around, and opens his hand out to the man whose eyes are open as round and wide as fat question marks. 

“Oh, the toll! Yes, the toll of course!” He says as he knuckles his forehead and pats his chest pockets. He eventually raises the fare above his head victoriously - it must have been what he was trying to remember, right? -, then drops it in Moon’s palm. 

As the cab glides off, Moon proceeds to turn the radio on. It is playing city sounds. Sirens, traffic, hauls, honks in a rush, tired exhaust pumps, and in the distance a saxophone, an occasional whistle or a shout. Layers upon layers of urban life on a single bandwidth. 

“I think I’ve heard that tune before!” He snorts. Moon does not engage. He may drive the cab, but they drive the journey. And he still needs to change that mood of his. “I love music. It soothes me, always has.”  The passenger is not deterred. “Er... any idea where we’re headed? Truth be told, I’m a little anxious to find out.” 

“Not yet. When we get there, it’ll make sense. Always does.”

“I hope it’s near a bar… or subway station that would take me to one.” More snorts.

Moon knows people laugh when they are afraid to cry sometimes. The man does not want to laugh, and he does not want to go to a bar either. Moon could tell him that he doesn’t have to pretend here, but he knows he’ll figure it out on his own. Just as he’ll see he doesn’t really want to go to a bar. 

“Are these the only two options that would make you happy?” Moon asks.

“I don’t know. It seems like something people would say. Call it small talk.” He pauses. “‘Happy’ is kind of a big word though, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Always seemed to be so utopic to me. Evasive. ‘Happiness’. So unreachable. So…” He inhales through his teeth. “Intimidating. You don’t strike me as the intimidated kind though. Must be nice to be wise and so sure of yourself. You got the meaning of life all figured out, don’t ya?” He smiles, biting his lower lip with envy. “And are you?”

“What?”

“Happy?”

“I’m not the passenger.”

“Perhaps. Well, tell me then, what are all the other options? It’s hard to know for sure where you want to go without a map, isn’t it?”

“A map can’t tell you how to get anywhere if you don’t know where you are.”

“You are one cryptic fella.” He sighs. 

Moon doesn’t like this part, but he adds “It really isn’t.”

“What that’s?”

“A choice.”

“It’s not?”

“Not at this point.”

“Was it ever?”

“Many times. And all of them have been made.”

“By whom?”

Moon’s golden eyes squint and wrinkle his dark brown freckles. The rider knows; Moon is waiting for him to get it.

“Oh, me.” The passenger’s eyes forget to blink a moment too long.

“Everything preludes the next.” Moon whispers to bring him back. “The shoes you chose to wear that made you slip. The vacation you decided to take. The dinner you attended after all. The toast you added jam to and made you cross the street just a minute too late. Everything is prelude to everything else...”

In the mirror, Moon can see the man’s expression coagulate around the edges of a frown that is neither young nor old.

“Is this… another prelude?” The man’s hands wave back and forth mimicking the road.

Moon lets out a single amused sniff. It’s not his place to say, even if they all ask. He’s just the driver. He’s learned to let them, however. He doesn't know as much as they think he does, but they need to trust there is a reason, a system, a plan. And they want to know they are in good hands. His hands. The ones on the wheel, steering them to a destination so they can let go. He wishes it were, but it isn't always. 

“Possible.”

As they dive into the tunnel, the man says that it looks darker than he remembers, then gets in a deep state of reflection as most passengers do when they cross the Hudson. The deeper below the surface, the deeper the thought? It could be the fluorescent tubes of lights or the repetitive clunk under the wheels. They are hypnotized, entranced even. The heavy flow of the river gently weighs above their heads  and flushes the clutter of their minds. The white noise of the vents, the funneled air stream, the engines steadily rolling and bouncing off the curved walls, all channel the angst out of the cab. However, it can wash them away entirely if Moon is not careful. So he punctuates the humdrumness with well chosen words.

“Good night for a ride, ain’t it?” He says to snap the man back.

“‘Xcuse me? Yes. Yes, indeed. Lovely night.” He shakes his head. “I don’t mind the subway usually, but, not tonight. Everything sparkled out there. The city. The stars…” He pauses. Glassy-eyed, his smile freezes and slowly fades. “I… I really had to go. It felt… It felt like the right time to go. That party. It was so loud. Crowded, but empty too? People crammed against one another without connecting. Laughing, not enjoying. Hearing, without listening. Or maybe it was me who felt empty.”

Their eyes meet in the mirror.

“Don’t get me wrong, there was music and champagne. That’s always a good time, but it’s better to go before it dies out, right? Before you see the gaping hole. It was fun though. Some of it.” He paused. “I guess I could have stayed a little longer.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I got tired, I suppose. And I didn’t want to be the last one to go. Plus, I never get to leave holding the hand I really want to hold, so...”

“So?”

“I leave before anyone notices. Before I notice.”

“Why not?”

“Why not what?”

“Why not hold the hand you want?”

He sighs. “They wouldn’t understand.” The passenger looks emptily at his open palms.

“We all have our own hands to fill.”

“If it were that simple…”

“In this cab, it is.”

The passenger blinks his eyes around.

“It’s a ride for one with no room for luggage.” Moon offers. “Might as well ride without…”

“Guilt?”

“Regrets.”

“True. It wasn’t all bad. I did sing. People often say I emote well. At least, I emote somewhere.” He sighs, then stays quiet for a while.

Clunk clunk, clunk clunk. Eyes transfixed on the bright dotted line.

“Did you say goodbye at least?” Moon does not want to lose him. “After the party?”

“I don’t like goodbyes. They’re either awkward or emotionally charged.” He shivers.

“That’s because people think of ends as final.”

The passenger slivers his eyes, then puckers. He probably doesn’t see it the way Moon does. Eventually, he says “Out of all people, I didn’t think you’d be one to...”

“There is always more than we limit ourselves to understand.”

The man seems to think on it for a while.

“D’ya ever get tired?” He asks.

“I sleep during the day.”

“I mean tired of doing this.”

Moon smiles with tight lips in the rearview and a steady ten two grip on the steering wheel. He knows what the man meant.

“42nd street…” The exhale is melancholic. “If I’m being honest…”

“Now’s the time.” Moon says.

“I’ve always loved the theater. Not just the show, the lights, the stage. No. Theater is so much more, It’s the perfect twilight between reality and fantasy. The emotions are real, the words unobstructed between mouths and ears because people pay attention. The space is alive, the vibrations wrap around to the point when you can touch the story, the song, the magic.”

His eyes are wet and fold under the weight of his memories. He is breathing the wood of the stage, while his fingers run on the velvet of the folding chairs. 

“I’ve admired the sets and costumes all my life, yet tonight… tonight, between the empty flutes and the hollow words, I realized that I’m the one who was disguised in the dark this whole time. Isn’t it tragic?” He huffs. “I’m the one who’s been acting, more so than the ones on stage.”

Silence falls between them until the reverb changes. The cylindrical tiled walls are being pushed away, and the delicate stitch of the pale green tunnel lights seems to abruptly break ahead into a blaring golden glow. It is not daytime. It is the city. It has its own hue; the same way it has its own soundtrack and a pace like no other. There is no mistaking that tune. It grips the gut deep and low. 

Coming out of the tunnel spout spreads a Medusa of lanes with slithering traffic which demand quick decisions and mastery. Luckily, Moon can do that with his eyes closed. Before the passenger asks, the cab knows. The checkered girth zips West on 42nd. The passenger looks through the back window towards the Broadway lights. The passenger sighs, and whispers “I hoped it would be Broadway…”. 

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“My whole life is on these few blocks. My real life. My heart.”

“Passion?”

“Might as well call it obsession.”

“Happiness?”

The passenger’s eyes are looking inward. He smiles. 

“Definitely, yes.”

Moon swerves up Tenth Avenue. 

“Let’s make a detour, I think I saw road work ahead.” 

“There was no….” Then, the rider understands.

The cab turns again on Forty Eighth without stopping. Another left. Broadway… The passenger’s graying temple against the glass, he is steaming the window like that of a kid in an ice cream parlor. Moon doesn’t open it though. He wonders if the man is thinking of stepping out. Not that he can, but it is better if they don’t try. Passengers should only get out where the cab stops. The man in the back seat seems content just humming the show tunes of each theater they pass, boasting about his Playbills and tickets collection. Moon is not concerned; the man is reminiscing. He talks about the shows he saw alone, and the ones he shared. The ones he saw multiple times, the ones he knew by heart, the ones he played on the piano at home. The ones he missed.

Back on 42nd, Moon heads back West.

“Thank you.” The passenger wipes his cheek as his head leans back.

The silver cab purrs on through an endless slide of green lights to the West Side Highway.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this.” The passenger notices after a while.

Going cross town without once hitting the breaks. No one has ever. Never. What stuns Moon - he still does get stunned on occasion - is that the green slide is what passengers ask about. Not the fare, the ride, or him. Always the green slide. Maybe the rest is beyond questions. He shrugs. It’s been ages since he’s seen a red light. 

They reach the highway and make a left, southbound. There are no mammoth cruise boats docked tonight. Moon always wonders how those monsters even float without tipping over, or fit on the river without getting caught on the silt bed of the Hudson for that matter. There’s thick, murky molasses mixed with wrecks, fish, and other used-to-be-alive things down there, below the deadly currents. From the cab though, the Hudson is magnificent. It runs through the city’s veins, giving it life. Bucolic is the word Moon is looking for. The river is bucolic, like a Renoir guinguette scene. Bucolic and full of joie-de-vivre. With a jazzy grit. It was at one point anyway, maybe it would be again.

He drifts away from the river on 34th Street, a layer of metal rust and indigo blue hovers over New Jersey behind them, as if the tug of war between urban lights and night sky left the horizon undecided. The cab turns again on 11th Ave, and stops after a block. 

“Where are we?” The passenger asks.

He points to the left.

“I don’t understand. You said it would make sense.”

Moon lets him make it.

There are three shadows by the fence. Tall, hunched, they have no faces and their clothes are shredded remains of what they had once been. Perfectly still, hovering, they are staring at them.

“Who are they?” The passenger asks as he backs up against the opposite door. 

“The Mole people.”

“What… what do they want?” His Adam's apple is taking too much space in his throat.

“They only give.” Moon replies. 

“Can we go somewhere else? I don’t want anything from them.”

“Mole people will take you where you need to go.”

“Please.”

Moon doesn’t answer. He will wait for him to be ready. 

“Shall I go up then?” He asks as his breath steadies.

“Depends on you. And them.”

“Are you saying the Vessel also goes down?”

“I’m just the cab driver. Our journey together ends here. Yours… ” He points towards the metallic structure.

“Do you ever complete any sentence?” His laugh is too tight. He is stalling. 

“Not unless I have to.”

“Have other customers to tend to?” 

“The night is young.”

The passenger’s hand grips the handle, yet the door remains closed. Moon never rushes them out. They paid. Getting out is as much part of the fare as getting in. There’s a sigh, then the door cracks open. He never knows for sure who pulls the handle, the passenger or the shadows. A chilling breeze sneaks in, brushing Moon’s neck. He tries not to look. He knows the Mole people are here already. He hopes the best for the man, but he also has to mind his soul.

“I made some mistakes and I do have regrets; all that I cannot change. My heart was never complete, I’m afraid. But I got some joy though. I did. A few. Not as much as I could have had with the truth, but I’ll take them with me. The rest I’ll leave here, if you don’t mind. I hope that’s enough. It’s been a ride. Thank you.”

The door slams shut. A window opens. He’s gone.

Moon does not look in which direction the Mole people took the man. It makes no difference what he thinks and it can be easier not to know. After all, the rain can’t get him wet as long as he wears a raincoat. 

​

**

He breathes the night air, and pulls away. Moving on is never easy. So he focuses on what happens next, or better yet, who happens next. He’ll get back to Hoboken through the Holland. He doesn’t feel like using the Lincoln again. He doesn’t want Broadway man’s sadness to go through him. Not yet. He needs to take a lap. So, he continues South along the banks of the West side taking in the peace of the moonlit sailboat silhouettes jiggling on the water, then veers in towards Christopher street. 

A coffee and a smoke will help to reboot. A slice maybe. Plus, there’s always life near the subway. A mouth that eats, digests and spits people out. At this time, it has a lot of joyful souls full of high expectations. It’s entertaining, and he needs a distraction. He sits on his hood and watches. The tired suits, the clacking heels, the laughs heading for a night out, the embraces rushing in.

As he finishes his bagel - too early for pizza -, the back door clunks and cracks again. He locked the car before he walked to the corner cart, the door cannot be opened again unless he lets it this time. He dawdles around like a gull caught in tar. Someone is trying to get in his cab. A narrow frantic frame, a big dark blue eyes buried beneath bangs and disheveled short hair. A kendama sitting on a pointy chin and thin neck just about to drop. 

Regardless of the fact that he is on break, he IS in the city. Rules are rules: no pick ups on this side of the Hudson. Did Solar give him the rules? Still, he studies her for a moment. He walks over to the bin at the end of the block to trash his brown paper bag.

“Hey!” Her scream reverberates in his head, and the echo punches his sandbagged migraine. “Hey, come back!!!”

He does, taking his time. To inspire calmness - is it for her or for him? -, or to make a point? Probably both and if he were perfectly honest, he would admit this whole thing seems like something he does not want to deal with. Migraine and all. Still, he leans on the door of the driver's side next to her, without a word.

Over arms crossed over his chest, below a soft-arched brow, masticating a minty toothpick, he looks at her. Through revving engine breaths, she manages to look back when the large silver pendant of her necklace savagely attacks the back of his skull with the reflection of upcoming traffic. He moans and covers his eyes. 

“Uuugh…” He rubs.

She doesn’t notice, too embalmed in her own confusion to register.

“Listen, I… I need to go back.” The young voice pleads.

“No can do. And if you came in THIS cab” he thumb-points “you already know that.”

She bites her lip, her nails, and rubs her arm with uneased vigor. 

“You lost or sum’in’, kid?” He asks, even though he knows the answer.

“I was! I was. Bbbbut I’m not anymore. I swear. I get it now. I don’t want this.” She’s so young. Fifteen at most.

“I only cross one way.” He says so low he’s not sure which one of them it is meant for. Darn it, he should have taken the Lincoln! At least, the thought of the Broadway ride was a sadness he could handle, and Moon will take melancholy over gloom any night. 

“I know, I know.” More biting, more rubbing. “I don’t want to be here! I made a mistake, ok?! I’m sorry!” She grabs his arm, and her tiny fists hurt him more than they should. “I… the pain all the time, and I... I didn’t know what else to do! I just wanted it to stop for a little while, just a little, catch my breath, you know? Please take me back. Try. Please. I’ll do better. Just try again.” - again? - “Pretend you didn’t see, alright? I’ll sneak in the trunk or something. You won’t get in trouble. We’ll both be ok. I’m so sorry. I’ll make myself small, I know how. I’ve done it my whole life.”

Moon doesn’t know the shivering girl. She is not one of his passengers. Didn’t drive her, never met her, yet he sees her so clearly. Her face, covered in running makeup, resembles that of a melting doll, and her skin has no other vibrance than a vague purplish undertone. 

If she rode in with Solal, she has no more token. There is nothing he can do. Solar should be more careful with young passengers. Especially a hesitant one. He should be sure. He’ll have to leave him a note about it.

“The Hudson won’t let you, kiddo. I’m sorry.” He pauses. “Look, the river has been crossed. You must make your way forward from here.”

She stares at him, unsure of what to say to change his mind. Tears are swelling at the edges of her eyes without oozing over. So he waits. Suddenly, she grips the door handle with two hands, and fights it up and down in a roaring moan using her foot as a lever. She kicks and punches the cab. Moon slips his hands back in his pockets and allows her to work through it. Cab will be fine. When she’s done, she’s breathless. No more tears, but she sniffles and her arms dangle by her sides like two lumps of wet clay. She nods her head up and down. The surrender lands in the droop of her bony shoulders. 

“Can you…” Her lips flap all the air out of her lungs. Inhales. “Can you tell them I’m sorry?”

He won’t, but blinks anyway. She needs to have that comfort. Why he cares, he’s not sure. He should walk away. He has his job to do, but he stands there.

“I don’t even know where to go.” Sniffles. “What should I do now?” She asks.

“The Mole people didn’t show you?”

She shakes her head no. “They walked away.”

Walked away? That can’t be right. Did she run? She seems so scared. Resistance never stopped them before.

“You said you always made yourself small? Don’t. Make yourself the biggest you can be. That’s the right size. The only size anyone should ever be. Give yourself space to be. Take it. All the space you need to find you. Then you’ll know where to go. It’ll make sense.” It always makes sense.

“I was actually trying to find… you. Well, the car. That’s the only thought I had really.” 

The projection of her hope stings. He can’t. She will get it. She does.

She looks at both ends of Christopher Street. The right foot lifts then drops, the left freezes in mid air and back up, neither convinced on which direction to commit to. Then, she looks at Moon who keeps his eyes on her. He won’t look anywhere else, because it’s not his to choose. Wherever he looks, that's what she’ll choose. So he does not. She lets go of her bottom lips, and nods with a hint of a smile. There she is.

She gulps in a lungful of air and holds in it. Eyes closed, she twirls a few times, then turns East. There are no goodbyes. Moon watches her walk away, however. Left on Hudson. North. Good choice. She be alright. Yeah, she be ok. He exhales, apparently he was also holding his breath. Time to head back. 

He does not like feeling all the feels. He likes it better steady, poised, even. Not heartless, he’s private. The rides are not about him anyway. The sunset is. Or he likes to think so. He’s a better driver for it, and driving that’s what he does. He’s the vehicle. People, they get in; he drives, they get out. That’s the relationship. They trust him to get them where they need to go. He needs to focus on that. Rollercoasting emotions, whichever they are, distract him from responsibilities. 

Riders often get confused. They lay it all out on the upholstered leather. They confess, they realize, they cry, they remember. They forget too. They all want someone to reassure them, to care about what they go through. They want to know they made a difference, that it wasn’t all for nothing. They want to know if they did good. Or if they didn’t, if it was worth it. But Moon does not open doors, the cab’s or others. He does not absolve or punish. Moon just listens, and steers.

The girl. Ugh. Why is she not fleeting like the rest of them? He hopes she finds her way. He shouldn’t. Worry is excessive bagage. He shakes it off, and starts the engine as the subway vomits yet another full meal of people. 

Moon’s uncomfortable. There is an itch he can’t scratch between his shoulder blades. He takes his jacket off, and makes his way to Varick to catch the tunnel entrance. As he drives down, he hits the breaks. There’s a red light… He hasn’t seen one in so long. He laughs. He never gets red lights, he almost missed it. He looks around, almost expecting Solar to tell him he pulled a prank on him. A red light. What an odd night.

​

***

Back in Hoboken, he walks out to Pier A. Some fresh air with a view should do him good after this. He can clearly see the silver cab parked over on Sinatra from where he is. He wouldn’t want his next rider to wait. No one yet. The waterfront is deserted. Rare nowadays. Didn’t used to be. So many families live here now, and they sleep at night. It’s quiet. 

Moon likes it quiet. Sometimes when you get tossed around in a whirlwind and you don’t know what to do or where to go, standing still to take a beat is how you get the furthest. Keeping your head on your shoulder is important. The skyline is soothing because it never changes, even if never the same. It is a sturdy place to hold onto, peaceful no matter what. It has dropped its orange gown since he watched it earlier, and put on its coat of blues and sparkles, ready to embrace the night with all its jazz and swagger. 

When he looks back to check on the cab again, there is an agitated silhouette hovering around it. Another gentleman. This one is wearing a three piece suit, tailored with a maroon silk square in his chest pocket. His hair is shiny and slicked back, his face close-shaved. His expensive leather-wrapped foot is taping the asphalt, and kicking the tires. This one does not like to wait. This shift just keeps on giving. 

He walks back at Moon-pace, and stands next to the driver’s door as per usual. Before he can say a word, the man tosses his token at him, and darts the backdoor with his eyes. He wants Moon to open it for him. Moon chuckles. This night truly is something. Moon opens his own door, and sits down. The new rider eventually concedes, opening the door himself with a grumpf. What else is he gonna do? He paid. The ride has already begun. Can’t go anywhere but in.

“My Ferragamos are not made for New f… g Jersey. I might as well get rid of them after this! Burn them to get rid of the filth!” His body shakes an exaggerated shiver of disgust. “I don’t know how you run your ‘business’, but VIPs require higher standards. What kind of trash can on wheels is this?!” He barks.

“VIP?” Moon bites his lip not to add on.

“Do you know who I am?!”

“My second passenger tonight.”

The man huffs. 

“All riders are the same in this cab… ‘sir’. So is the driving. Only thing variable is the drop off, and that… Well, that is entirely up to you.”

“Anything out of this dump would do, but take me to Del Frisco’s. I’ll get a more competent driver and a proper black car from there after a drink and a steak. Go!” He whistles and clicks his tongue. ‘Be a good boy.’

“You misunderstood me.” Moon says.

The suit eyes him for a moment, then reaches into his breast pocket, and throws a pile of bills on the front seat.

“I like your style, now get me out of this hellhole.”

“This is Hoboken, sir, the port. Hell is somewhere else.”

After an interminable second of silence, the suit bursts into an explosive spray of roaring spitlets through a wide open set of sharp teeth. But Moon knows sharks contend with fear the same way squirrels do.

“What I’m sayin’ is, your destination is not up to either of us.” He lets the stack of bills fly out of the window. “ And money has no value here. You can’t buy, talk or bite your way to anywhere else but where the cab decides. Now, if you would please fasten your seatbelt.”

The rider does not respond, neither does he buckle his belt. He taps his thick gold ring, stamped with Greek characters, on the armrest long enough to be purposely aggravating. He wants Moon to feel his frustration. But Moon isn’t bothered, so the man stops. He fixes his cuffs, checks his tie, runs his palm on his rigid hair, and stares at his watch. Moon hears tapping followed by a groan, and through the rear view mirror he sees the passenger putting his watch to his ear.

“Everything alright?” Moon asks as he slowly cruises Sinatra Drive North, along the Hudson.

“I’m here what’dya think?!” He pulls on his collar and loosens the tie. Another grunt. “My watch has stopped. At this price, you’d think it would work through lava.”

“It happens.” Moon wants the man to understand where he is sooner than later. He can hear impatient breaths behind him. The man wants to know where they’re going, but he won’t ask anymore. At 14th street, Moon turns left, and left again on Washington. Soon, the cab seeks the cobblestoned back-alleys that run between buildings' back doors, where rusted garbage bins effuse months of musky trash juices and stale rain water. In the mirror, Moon can see the man’s face crisps into a deep eleven frown as the cab parks right back at the end of Pier A.

“Is this a joke?!” The passenger is done with the charade.

“You have reached your destination, sir.”

“I paid for transport. That’s point A to point B! Not A to A, you idiot!” The tone is rising. “You owe me point B! I paid to cross the Hudson! You get me across, that’s the deal!”

“You handed your coin to be taken where you deserve. I guess this is it.”

“How dare you?!”

“Think about it.” Moon won’t rush the suit.

“I could have you… I could… I…” 

The passenger’s breath comes in and out of his nostrils like a bull ready to charge. No one treats him like this; he always gets what he wants. Moon has read this story before. The grabbing, groping, degrading, the power-seekers and grudge-holders, the voracious and capricious, selfish and insatiable, bound to never find what he needs drowned in what he thinks he wants. The empty quests that go nowhere. So he does the same. Not the first, won’t be the last. Moon lets him brew it over while he grabs another toothpick in the glove compartment. 

The cab lifts a weight off, and the door slams. The suit stands at the hairline of Pier A, his chest pulsing up and down, he screams. 

At first, Moon thinks he’s getting it, but the suit breaks into a run to the rail in his leather shoes, silk tie and tailored-jacket. Moon opens the window, leans his elbow on the steering wheel, and whispers ‘don’t do it’. He watches the Ferragamos’ sole slip on the wet grass, landing the man’s knees and elbows deep in mud. 

Enraged but undeterred, he gets back up and jumps over the rail. Without ceremony, the river washes the suit right back up onto the dock. There is no swimming across. The Hudson does not care where you were born or the price of the watch on your wrist. 

While he throws up river water on the pier and seethes over the loss of his shoe, three shadows appear from the clock tower. He rolls and kicks like a flapping fish out of water, when they grab him. His shriek is higher than the standards he demanded. Moon winces. The Mole people, unphased, drag him towards an opened manhole. Below the river, where mud, rusted abandoned bicycles and decomposed things live, that is where they are taking Suit. 

Hands clenched on the wheel, Moon looks down at the pedals. It’s been a while since the last Sewers.

​

****

A gentle knock on the window, jolts him up.

“Good evening, mister… mister? I apologize I cannot read your name.” The woman says.

“People call me Moonbeam.” He releases his lungs and smiles. 

“What a lovely name.” She says. “Well, Mr. Moonbeam, I believe it is time for my ride.”

“Happy to oblige.”

The face of the woman looking at him through the glass glows in the moonlight. Her smile is graceful, and her eyes content. Her hair is set in long, thin and tight white cornrows, her skin a smooth shimmering dark brown. She’s elegant, refined without being ostentatious, and her presence so large you cannot but be in awe or wait to be touched by her divine. She sits weightlessly holding onto her cane. A light white porcelain stick topped by a jade sphere and covered in subtly carved, deep yet delicate, black and green ink. An entwined pattern of magnolias blossoms on vines, and neon graffiti words. The royal staff of poetic steampunk, if there ever was one. 

She pulls the door closed, and while doing so encloses what feels like all the wisdom and knowledge of the world in Moon’s car. He is calm by nature - no, by experience rather - whereas she brings serenity to air itself. 

“Are you ready?” He asks.

“As I’ll ever be, child.” She answers, handing him her coin with two hands and a warm squeeze of his fist.

He smiles because she thinks she is older than he is, and starts the engine which unfortunately does not cover the ruckus outside.

“Does he need help?” She says clicking her belt, and pointing in the direction of the Suit.

“He is being helped. Just doesn’t know it yet.” Moon replies. “How do you feel about the scenic route?”

“Is that allowed?”

“I could use it.”

“Well, in that case, that sounds lovely. Thank you.”

Moon drives through Weehawken and Edgewater, along the river, and crosses the Washington Bridge. She asks for the Lower Level. More intimate, she says. Under the low ceiling, sandwiched between the trucks above and the water below, it’s cozy. Moon takes the right lane, so she can see the city. It’s such a clear view, she swears she can see the Statue of Liberty. She probably just remembers it. The tattooed-cane woman asks if they can go by the FDR drive next, for a sight of Brooklyn. 

“Oh the Bridge would be such a treat!” she says as she presses her hands on her chest.

Moon has no objection, her fare allows it. This woman must have done something right.

She says she’s never been through the city this fast before. She used to live here, back in her ballet days. Before the accident. Not much to say, silly really. Shoved in the crowd, subway stairs. She sees the bridge and smiles. She says her husband kissed her for the first time there. It was sunset, winter. The light was beautiful, the snowflakes candy pink, she remembers like it was yesterday. He was such an amazing musician. He played piano, she danced. A photojournalist, so brave, handsome and wicked smart. Oh, how she loved that man. He went too young. Got sick, the fumes of the towers when he covered the aftermath for months. 

She says, “Would he have known, he probably would have done it anyway. But you know, if he had died at a hundred, it still would have been too young. He barely got half of that.”

Moon thinks he’ll leave a note for Solar to ask if he remembers him. 

“What was his name?” Moon eats his lips. A name?

“Oscar.” She smiles out the window. “That man found the beauty in everything and everyone around him, and he gave it right back to the world. I couldn’t dance anymore, but, dear Lord, Oscar made my heart dance every day.”

Moon stays silent to let her enjoy the echo of Oscar. Unless he is still in shock of having asked for a name.

Staten Island ferries, Battery Park, and back up on the West Side. She asks if they can stop at the Memorial. Step out for a moment. Moon abides, and gets out to lend her his arm. They walk in silence. He leaves her by the Reflecting  pool for a moment, staying at a respectful distance. There is something meditative about watching the worker lapping back and forth as he maintains the site pristine, the water clear, and the souls alive. Hour after hour, one foot at a time, the dedicated Sysiphus of memory paces the pools. 

While Moon admires the contemplative resolve of this paragon, he thinks he sees something at the corner of his eye. A bright light, a familiar frame watching him from afar. Unlikely. But then again, he never gets red lights either. Until tonight. Mole people? They never speak. He feels a light shiver down his spine.

“Psst!” That sound again.

He turns around. There! Under the scaffolding. Always scaffoldings in this city, like bruises on a boxer. The same energy, the same strength, the same feistiness with the same scars and broken bones all over.

“Come out. I won’t bite.” 

The delicate silhouette, backlit by what appears to Moon’s burning retinae as the most vivid street lights, carefully peaks out of the naked concrete corner.

“You again?” Moon recognizes the girl from Christopher Street.

“I promise I’m not following you. I just… I don’t know, I’ve been going where my feet take me, like you said. Just happens to be where you are.”

“Haven’t you found somewhere to go yet?” He asks with a squint.

“I guess not. It’s ok. I like walking. Makes me feel more? ... Awake. There’s always something new to discover, even if you walk the same block every day, right? It’s like I’m playing a game of spot-the-difference!”

“What about the Mole people?” He asks.

“What about ‘em?” 

“Haven’t you seen them?”

“Here and there. They watch me walk by for the most part.”

“That’s it?” Do they not know what to do with her?

“Yeah. I tried asking them. You know their faces are like smoke? Surreal.”

“Hu?” She tried to talk to them and they let her go. He rubs his eyes and forehead. It throbs again. Nothing makes sense tonight.

    “Hey there, sweetheart, are you alright?” The lady with the cane asks as she approaches.

    “That has to be the coolest crutch I’ve ever seen!” The girl exclaims.

    “Thank you, my dear. It was a gift from my husband. Most precious to my heart. Although, my leg feels oddly light and capable at the moment.”

    “It looks like Japanese cherry blossoms meet Philly street art. So cool, right?” She elbows Moon.

    “Very.”

    In the halo of her tresses, the lady’s smile is full of tenderness for the girl. Or maybe for the cane? The memory of love lost?

“I think I’m ready now.” She tells Moon from a wilted heart. 

He nods, offers his arm which she gracefully threads her hand around.

    “Can I come?” The girl asks. 

    “Absolutely n...” He slaps.

    “It’s alright.” The lady cuts him off ever so softly. “The poor thing is shivering. Come here, baby.”

    Moon looks up at the lingering Mole people. Are they waving goodbye?1 There is nothing Moon can refuse the woman, the token is clear on that. So the doors open, and the cab swaddles the three of them in. Ok then.

    “Can I hold your cane? I want to see it closer.” The girl says from the front seat. Moon just noticed how her bob hair looks so straight and shiny now. Her eyes are such an intense shade of blue, they seem purple. “I used to draw, you know? Made me so…” She hesitates.

“Complete?” The lady suggests.

“Yeah! That’s it! All of me was there, together and… and like… nothing was missing. Kinda how I was meant to be. T’was the only times though. I liked sitting in museums, and drawing the statues. It was so quiet outside my body and inside my head. The ceilings were so high, and the light so… soft. Yeah, like the way I imagine ‘happy’ would be like. There was space and air and peace!” She sighs. “I could breathe.” She unfolds her chest wide. “Everything else in my life was dark, but that… that was good.”

    “I know the feeling, love. I used to dance, I told Mr. Moonbeam. Oh the bliss on and off stage. In the studio. Ballet during the day, salsa, tap or jazz the night away. There was never enough.”

    “What made you stop?” She touched the cane.

    “Life is full of turns, dear. But then I discovered another bliss. I became a nurse. A nurse who loves music.” She smiles. “It fed my soul, so I could care for others.”

    “Weren’t you sad not to dance anymore? Angry that it was taken away?”

    “I was for a time, yes. But, sweet child,  sadness and anger are too heavy a burden to bear, and there is so much joy out there for the pickins. I knew I’d find more. Oscar knew. And if I can tap my foot, snap’em fingers and clap my hands, I can dance! Let the rhythm carry me forward and fill my heart. Oh yes, I can!” And the woman does.

The girl frowns, and drops in reflection for a while. Moon is listening. She opens her mouth to say something else, but the car slows down to a stop. 

 

“Oh baby, look, I’m home.” Every pore of the woman shines bright. They got off the highway onto 125th street, and Moon pulled up in front of the theater on 152nd. 

“The Dance Theater of Harlem, how glorious! What a gift…” She doesn’t seem to believe it. “Oh, lil’ sugar pie, can you see this place?! It’s my heart. Oooh that’s so kind Mr…. Mr… what is your name again?”

“No need to thank me. It was all you.”

“I think your name should be Gerald.” The girl giggles.

“It’s not Gerald.”

“Could be.”

“It’s not.”

“How do you know? You probably don’t even remember.”

“I remember it’s not Gerald. People call me Moonbeam.”

“Yes, that’s it.” The woman says. “Mr. Moonbeam, I’m going to rest in bliss here.”

“Something tells me you would be anywhere, miss...”

“You can call me…” She hesitates. “You can call me… That’s funny, I… can’t seem to…”

Moon thinks the names fade away to free the stage for the essence.

She laughs.

“I’m sorry.” She laughs. “It must be the excitement of being here.”

“Must be.” He smiles back.

The Mole people are here. Like a delicate mist, they open her door.

She drops a gentle kiss on the girl’s forehead, a warm hand leaning on Moon’s shoulder. The door closes quietly behind the graceful swan with a broken wing. Moon drives away before she reaches the doors.

“Shouldn’t we wait until she’s inside?”

No need.

“Oh no! She forgot her cane!!” The girl screams.

“She won’t need it.”

The girl is holding on tight to the cane. The woman left an impression. Although Moon suspects she must have often done so. 

“Since I can’t seem to shake you off tonight. You have a name?” Might as well.

“Name is… er…. My name is....“ 

She already forgot. But he already expects that.

“How about we find you one?”

“Hummm, why can’t I…” She frowns again.

“How about… Midnight?”

Her warped mouth tells him she’s considering it.

“Midnight? Yeah, I like Midnight.”

“Alright then, nice to meet you Midnight.”

“Mr. Moonbeam, delighted to make your acquaintance.” She offers her hand to shake and as he reaches for it, amused, a horn blares ahead. He grips the wheel again with two hands. What was that?! 

“It’s nice what you do. It’s important for people. It means something.” She says after a while.

“Driving? There are more cab drivers in this city than there are rats in the subway.”

“I don’t mean driving. I mean I do, but not only that. You… I don’t know how to explain it. It’s more than ‘drive’, it’s… hum… ‘lift’. That’s it. You ‘lift’ people.”

Moon’s never thought of it that way. He does like to listen; it is true. Every single life story who has been through the cab is like a precious artifact to him. Every one of them equally. There are no two identical gems anymore than there are two identical souls, and every experience is a new priceless lesson learned. He likes to collect those. He also tries his best to receive them fairly and openly, for it’s not his job to judge. Sometimes they leave things behind. A cane, a hat, a photo, a broken heart, amends, unsaids, buried secrets, gratitude. All tokens of memories. That’s what matters in the end, doesn’t it? Memories. There have been so many passengers, however, that he sometimes forgets which memories are his and which are theirs.

​

*****

The cab coasts southward on West End, sailing past block after block like islets of an archipelago in the middle of the ocean. Midnight looks out the window; she is cruising in her own thoughts. He doesn’t want to upset her again and wonders where to take her before returning to Hoboken, when she points at the Highline on 30th. She asks if they can take another walk - ‘You know there’s a park up there.’ - like they did at the memorial with the caned-dancer. So many rules broken! but then again everything about this night is. 

The cab allowed two passengers, one of which boarded in the city. He got a red light. So what’s one more thing? No, he should get back, no more unsanctioned stops. He might have riders waiting. Solar would not appreciate a backlog. Plus, Midnight is not his passenger. The rules clearly state: no token, no ride, no pick up, no returns. 

The rules…

What if all the rules were nothing more than words left on a post-it note? Did Solar make the rules? Did Moon? The rules he’s been going by since… since… when?

He looks at her. Midnight's face is still pale but the possibility of her smile makes her cheekbones seem higher. He notices now that she has wiped her make up clean. It makes her features more delicate, her eyes wider. She seems to relax, sitting there in his cab. Her safety is comforting to him. Familiar even. 

His wide and protective paw extends to pat the top of her head, creating statics on her fine raven hair and zapping his fingertips. What the… When he turns to face the road again, he’s blinded by car lights and swerves to the side. His hand reaches to the right, across Midnight’s collar bone to stop her from crashing into the windshield. Hitting the breaks, he ends up halfway on the sidewalk between a mailbox and a newspaper stand. Not a scratch.

“What was that?!” She yells.

“The car! It was coming straight for us!”

“What car?! There was no car!”

“The lights… You didn’t see the…” There were lights, weren’t there? 

“Are you ok?” She asks.

“You know what? I think we should take that walk.”

The cab extracts from the curb. They drive away on the slow lane, then get off at 14th street into the Meatpacking district. The old cobblestones, remnants of another time, when trains crossed town with a horse in front to make sure no pedestrians got run over. A quick change of scenery to flip the  mood.

They park by the Gansevoort, and walk. A proper spot. Usually, Moon could leave the cab in the middle of the square, no one would pay attention. Tonight, he’s not provoking fate. They walk up the stairs of the old train line. Midnight is as wobbly as a toddler in need of a nap. He doesn’t want her to fall, so he puts his hand on her shoulder. Midnight’s entire body stiffens. 

“Did you hear that?!” She sieves through hushed intensity.

He hears nor says nothing. 

“The train?! Can you hear it?”

“No.” He carefully removes his hand from her shoulder. Her eyes roll in every direction, ears up like a dog on alert.

The park is closed at this time, and no one is here. They resume walking - if Midnight’s three-hundred-and-sixty steps can be considered walking -, taking deep inhales of the night air. Moon’s exaggerated breaths are meant to lead by example, and Midnight’s lungs catch on before she does. He needs it too after the curb smash. He’s going to have to explain that one to Solar.

It is beautiful up here, the city pace has muffled to a slow motion reel, like a lazy river above the avenues where you let yourself float adrift. She follows close behind, using Moon as a shield.

“I thought they had cleaned this place up.” The girl says, throwing her arms at branches only she seems to see. Moon looks at her then looks around, the Highline is a long thoughtfully curated boardwalk, sprinkled with modern design plants and benches, overlooking the Hudson on one side and the city on the other. There is no overgrown flora to fend off. Not since the track rehab project. Midnight shakes her head, blinks her eyes. She sees it now. She looks around, then at Moon.

“Oh, wait. No, it’s… I could swear it was…”

She grabs the sleeve of his jacket, maybe to reconnect to reality. Or at least, his reality. Moon himself is not sure what is happening. Could it be a sign that she’s not where she should be?

“Can you feel the ground?! It’s shaking.” She says, squatting as if the floor is about to crack open.

He doesn’t feel anything, but his throbbing skull. She puts her hands on the ground.

“Somethin’s coming.”

Moon sees nothing. Feels nothing. Again. Everything is perfectly calm and quiet, until Midnight turns around, throwing her arms in front of her face and falling backwards in a screech. After a few seconds, she opens her eyes panting.

“The train! Where is the train?!” Her chest is heaving.

“Midnight, there is no train.” 

“There was! There was a train, right here, coming right at us. The lights, and the whistle, the steel. It hit me!”

“Midnight, there hasn’t been a train here since, I don’t know, the 80s?”

“There was! There was. It was coming right at us and then… then… it disappeared… The tracks were right here. I was crossing like when…” She stares at the ground. “It was you.”

“We should head back. This ain’t doing you any good.”

“Yeah, yeah, ok.” She is still shaking, and trips on a planter. Moon catches her - she’s so small - and holds on to an arm so thin that it fits between his thumb and forefinger, even through the pulsing pain in his eyeballs.

Why is she here? Why the lingering? He thinks that the stillness he loves so much is not always quietude. It can easily slope into staleness. It serves no one. Even air and water go putrid without movement. 

He reminds himself to stick to the script next shift. This one is off. At this rate, he may even end up with a parking ticket! The absurdity of it makes him laugh. Midnight does not notice. She’s pinching her lip like she has a word on the tip of her tongue but can’t quite remember what it is she’s trying to say. A ticket That would be the night. He needs to craddle his head on a pillow and get to tomorrow. 

As they get closer to the car, he knows he can’t let her back in this time. Things have been going sideways since she first tried, on Christopher Street. Letting her in is not helping her. And apparently not him either. Dawn will be here soon, and he has to get the cab back in its spot before that, and she needs to find her way. For her own sake.

“Listen,” he says, “I have to get the car to the day guy. You know I can’t take you across.” Her shoulders collapse. “It’s just not where you need to be.”

“What if it is?”

He sighs. “It’s not.” The rules.

So once more in one night, he has to let her go, and once more it feels all wrong. He doesn't know why it’s hard. He asked too many questions and broke his own rule. No questions, and never the names. Never the names. Names carry a life. Why did he give her one? Now, she’s Midnight, she’s hurt and scared. And she could use a helping hand. He has two of those. Ugh, he’s doing it again. The two hands are for the wheel. Every time he lends her one, it does not end well for him. She’s someone else’s job. Like all the others. He needs to get back now. Get to the pillow before the sun rises. He can already feel it creep up in Brooklyn. He needs to reboot before sunset. Forget about all this. 

He grabs both her shoulders. A jolt runs from his fingers to his hair, prickling his eyeballs shut for a second but he shakes it off, he needs to get it done. He gives her what he hopes is an encouraging yet commanding smile, and gets in the car. Nothing else needs to be said. It’s done. He doesn’t want to look back. If he does, he knows he’ll let her in. He can’t. One rider, one ride, one way. Who made those rules?!

He drives. Fast. He gets in the tunnel, but doesn’t find it peaceful. When the cab emerges from the glaring tunnel into the night sky, he feels relief to see the large letters announcing his return to Hoboken, painted on the beams of the overpass. Soon, he will be able to put the long and odd night behind him. He parks, and leaves a note for Solar. ‘Rough shift.’ 

He barely remembers getting home or entering his quaint one bedroom apartment that seems foreign to him tonight. The blinds are always closed because he never looks at the view. Doesn’t he? What is the view from here? He comes here to rest. He doesn’t care about anything else in here besides falling asleep. He always pays attention to the drifting, the weight of the body sinking down, the relief…

​

******

Moon wakes up exactly where he dropped in what feels like a moment later. The low piercing sunlight of the late afternoon landing on his face with surgical precision tells him otherwise. A sliver of his blind was left open. He sighs. The sleep was short and the dreams too vivid even though he does not remember them. Some sirens and more lights. He usually doesn’t dream. He’s late. No sunset coffee from Jersey City tonight. 

He gets ready in a giffy, and runs out the door. Hopefully, he makes it before the first passenger of the night. The crowd hurled out of the Path train slows him down. Like a salmon flapping against current, he pushes through with difficulty. By the time he gets to the spot, he’s in a mood and walks past the cab. He doesn’t turn around; he slowly walks backwards. How did he miss it? 

On his usual spot is a cab. Not his cab, is it? It is his checkered cab, but the color has changed. Did Solar do bodywork during the day? Without a note? Around the tinted windows, the skeleton is now of a deep smokey blue with what can only be described as a ‘glimmer’.

He pats his pockets. No keys. He forgot his keys? But before he considers running home, the door swings open. Someone is inside. On the driver seat? Is it Solar? Moon probably wouldn’t know if it were him. However, he feels sure that it’s not. The fram is small, topped with a short black bob. It can’t be.

He gets in. He’s never sat anywhere but the driver’s seat before. He’s not sure how to feel about it.

“How did you get here?” He asks her. “Did Solar take you?”

She does not respond, so he leans towards her and cups her shoulder. He wants to say “Midnight, how did you cross the Hudson?”, but instead he hears the sirens again, the car lights, rain flooding the mad city traffic. He’s behind her, his hand reaching for her shoulder because she’s running into the flying motor beasts. He gasps as he lets go.

Midnight adjusts the rearview mirror to look at him. Slowly, she turns around, smiles and opens her hand.

“Token?”

​

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