Leo hated taking flag down fares; it was the sheer unpredictability of how the ride could turn out that made him anxious. This was not New York, where a partition separated driver from customer. This was PVD, where because of simple proximity, a fare was privy to your world, and vice versa, for however long they were in your cab. Twelve hours a day spent in the same taxi, night after night, can make it start to feel like a private sanctuary, despite having to split it with strangers throughout the hours of 6pm to 6am. Most business came in via telephone calls to the dispatcher back at the garage, who doled them out to the team of drivers over the two-way radio. These calls felt predictable; they felt safe. There was an assigned start and end point; many were regulars.
He hated taking flag downs, but this one felt different from the onset. It was early May and a driving rain had dealt the city a persistent deluge since morning. Business was brisk, and Leo was making a killing between the after-work crowd rushing home and the emerging nighttime denizens of bar hoppers and party goers. The sun had long since set and the public buses had certainly stopped running by the time he spotted the elderly man standing under the dry shelter of a RIPTA kiosk in the city’s Smith Hill neighborhood.
He was at least eighty years old but not shriveled or hunched over; instead he stood proud and alert at well over six feet tall with leathery skin that spoke to his true age. Many would not have given him a second glance, but closer inspection would reveal he was not as lucid as first perceived. He wore a long flannel robe and what appeared to be pajamas underneath. Leather slippers topped off the fresh-out-of-bed ensemble.
Leo studied the architecture looming behind the old man for a moment and was beginning to understand. The sprawling, brutalistic design behind him, lurking in shadows amid a cluster of trees, was the Elmhurst campus. Leo knew this because in younger days, he worked there as a security guard. It was dedicated to elderly care with seven different units serving varying stages of assisted living.
Two of those units stood out as unique, however. One was the hospice unit, specializing in end of life care to terminal patients. The other was a locked ward where staff entered a four digit code to exit and enter: the dementia unit. Leo deduced immediately that this savvy old man had figured a way out of that unit. He knew this because on many nights in the past, it had been his very job to track down and lure back “eloped” patients who had managed to slip out from the very same building.
“The buses aren’t running,” Leo called out, slowing to a stop and sliding the passenger’s side window down a crack.
“That’s why I flagged you down,” the clearly confused man announced nonchalantly. “Take me down the street, would you?”
“Where?”
“I can’t remember the address but I know the house. It’s only a few blocks. My wallet is there. I swear it; I’ll pay.”
“You live there?”
“My boy does. Please; it’s his birthday today. If I don’t get to see him, I won’t forgive myself.”
It was a gamble, Leo reasoned. While it was clear this ride would not be profitable, he could at least perform a simple favor for somebody. It was endearing, really. The worst case scenario was that he would simply drive the old man back to his facility afterwards and make sure he got back in safely. “Hop in.”
As he drove, his passenger reminisced fondly from the backseat every so often, more to himself than to his driver. “I used to push him on the swings in that playground,” was uttered at one point. “We used to go sledding down that hill.”
Slowly, Leo became privy to a lifetime of stolen moments; he was both voyeur and silent participant somehow. The old man’s past came alive in vivid detail as they sliced across the working class blocks of Smith Hill. “Turn here,” he finally directed. “Left.”
They drifted down a desolate dead-end with only four houses, two on each side.
“The blue one at the end,” he went on to say. “Pull into the driveway and hit the horn.”
“It’s almost one in the morning,” Leo countered cautiously. “Are you sure about that?”
“He won’t mind. Please.”
Leo complied and they waited for a while, seated in silence while the passenger sighed heavily and the driver wondered at the passenger’s actual ability to recollect. Eventually a porch light flickered on, the front door cracked open and a forty-ish slender man in a blue bathrobe stepped out squinting.
“That’s him,” the old man exclaimed. “Wait here.” He darted out of the backseat and did a quick trot through the rain to meet the man face to face. They instinctively embraced, holding each other for a while. Leo discreetly slid the driver’s side window down a bit in order to make out snippets of conversation.
“Dad, what are you doing here,” the younger version asked in disbelief.
“I woke up and saw the time. I remembered it’s your birthday! I had to see you.”
The son sounded suddenly taken back. “You remembered that, huh? I am proud of you, Dad.”
“Me? I am proud of you. I love you!”
“I love you, Dad. Come in for a cup of tea. I’ll call the home and drive you back after.” With that, the robe-clad son did a short sprint to the taxi. “Thank you so much for bringing him. What do we owe you?”
Leo feigned ignorance and disinterest at what had just played out but was quietly moved beyond words. “No charge,” he said with a wave and proceeded to pull away. He hated flag downs, but every so often, they were worth the effort.
The character of “Leo” the cabbie has appeared previously in the pages of Motif, as well as in the author’s novel The Thaumaturge of Providence, available on Amazon.
