Where To, Sir?
“Where to, sir?” Said the cab driver.
Staring outside the window, I was still mustering a response. No, truthfully, I was instead deeply lost in the surrounding cityscape–these towering skyscrapers, the bustling streets, and the people who walked them. I used to walk among them. Here. Perhaps now was the last time. Regardless, it has always come to mind: “Will these people ever be aware of one another?” Countless stories sprawled along these roads, yet rarely do they, if at all, cross. Rarely remembered by one another. There was something to this. It had never bothered me necessarily–just a constant, pestering question at the back of my head. One with an answer I have no care for, yet I still crave to know.
Who would remember–
“...Sir, where to?” He cut in. Sharp eyes gazing into mine in the rearview mirror.
For a moment, my vision sheepishly darted around–uncertainty lingering–until I timidly blurted out, “Ah, just… Just take me to the train station. That would be fine.” With a loud sigh, the driver pressed down on the pedal.
The entire ride was silent, the singular noise looping in my ears the humming of the vehicle’s engine. In retrospect, it seemed quite old, or perhaps just worn. Many journeys that were left by time. And it was just a car. Just a car. Thus, although it may seem odd, I wonder just how much more this man had experienced–this grizzled, middle-aged man, an intimidating demeanor, rigid and serious, a default to his expression… Why? What was his story?
He slowed down at an intersection, patiently waiting for the red light. Nothing to do, I was tapping against the window to mark the seconds passed. A few moments had gone by. Easily, like that. This long stretch of emptiness, counting, began to weigh on me as I pondered. Once I reached the train station, what was I to–
“So, if you don’t mind me… Where exactly are you heading, mister?”
A little startled, I barely made an answer, “I’m not–I’d rather not say, really.”
“Not a problem,” He faintly nodded.
Fidgeting with my fingers, I turned away with a muted breath–gnawed by exhaustion–as the light flashed green. The car moved steadily down the road, and thus did my lips.
“How long have you been driving this?”
The man raised his eyebrow, “Eight or nine years now and counting, most likely.”
“I see… That is nice,” I muttered.
“Not quite,” He quickly added.
“Ah? How so?”
Patting the wheel, the man explained, “Just one of those things you do to get by.” And with a slight, dry chuckle, “Eight to nine years and counting.”
My eyes softly expanded, head tilting under the blanket of a strange curiosity. I crossed my arms, a mouth left agape from doubt. Stomaching my uncertainty, I gently commented, “I understand.” A short pause was taken–hesitant to share–until I gradually added, “I had this… Dream. An absurd dream. Dreamed of making things different–leaving my mark.”
“I did a lot of things, one might say even everything, just to reach it. Journalism, engineering… Arts as well. Then a bit more, as I recall. Perhaps I bit off more than I could chew, but I truly adored these things. I was reaching new heights. I had opportunities. I did… For a time. Before I knew it, despite all that I got and gave, it only took a few… Things to happen, to go wrong, and… I was forced to cut corners–mundane, repetitive work–things so beneath my hopes… Now I’m…”
“And now you’re here?” He chimed in.
“...Yes.”
The man hummed, “You’ve some serious talent regardless.”
“I… Thank you. I appreciate it.” I mumbled.
A rough exhale through his nose, he then noted, “You remind me of back then… A painter, right–you know, pal, I wanted to be a painter.”
“A painter?” I exclaimed.
Replying with a faint curl of his lip, “Doesn’t seem to suit me, right? I get that a lot.”
“Every day, a new canvas, trying to get better… Rarely finished any. I was a bit of a perfectionist–might still be.”
“I tried running a lot of things as well–my own business, commissioning, and whatnot. Anything to keep close to my passion, yeah? Hardly lasted. Turns out you don’t succeed by just being passionate. I was down in the dumps, no ‘proper’ job, money emptying like water down the drain.”
He chuckled blankly, “Those times… That desperation. Bad times. It forced me to sell everything I had for painting just to stay afloat. Abandoned it entirely. Not long after, I had to get into this since I was out of options, and… Here I am.”
“Ah, I see…” A heavy sigh emerged as I sank back into my seat. Blinking my eyes shut, I was washed by this odd sense of relief–even if only for this moment, I could let my worries slip and let the weight upon my shoulders free as I indulged in the story. To where I began to think of my own.
Nights spent musing on what had already been done. Imagining where I believed I should have been, the dreams I would have fulfilled, the people I could have met. That could have changed everything. The hefty burden returned upon my back, worse. An unbearable discomfort–just enough to disturb at all times–fled into my mind, and the question that had long been buried beneath it. The countless stories that walk the earth seldom cross.
Who would remember mine?
Who would remember my struggles? Who would recognize what I was trying to achieve? What would it mean if no one recognized my intent?
The station–the train, where I will go… Is it truly the best choice to take?
Carrying this on my own…
One person. I need just one.
I felt a bead of sweat race down my neck, suffocating at the tightness of my own throat. My hands clasp together, I think to pray–hoping that whatever may occur at the train station, I will be able to find…
“If you don’t mind me asking, sir…” I voiced out, adjusting myself so I could–for the first time–look him in the eyes through the rearview mirror. I witnessed eyes of tired ash that lingered within a white ember. Familiar. I felt the moment they connected with my own
“Do you… Still look back?”
I witnessed as the lids widened subtly, how his gaze faltered for a split second before they urged to focus on the road ahead, tens of cars in traffic as we moved slowly through. With each fleeting second of quiet–broken by the occasional blare of a rushing car, now more apparent–apprehension drowned my lungs whilst regret lurked at my tongue for having asked such a direct question. I had no right to. Yet, I had to know. I needed to.
The man then looked toward the rearview mirror once more, firm. However, the smile beneath his face as he spoke betrayed all sense of severity.
“It’s the worst part…”
Left unable to utter a sound, my expression froze as I wallowed in those words. Then why would–
“...Because that’s all you’ll ever really have.”
“Just you and your sweet, sweet delusions.”
“After all, you’re the only one who can understand.”
“...Isn’t that for the best?”
I did not answer; rather, I failed to. More importantly, there was nothing more to answer or to ask. Through that, I had remained silent for the rest of the ride, counting the remaining seconds away beneath the overwhelming dread clouding my vision. Although, was it truly dread that plagued me? It is different. A similar pressure–a different taste. Akin to wonder. A vast wonder. From that point of view… The breaths I take are at ease, able to muster the will and gaze outside the window.
The streets are quieter, intimate in these parts of the city, resting places of humble comfort for the people who walk. Countless stories that rarely cross. Rarely remembered by… One another. It is something terrifying. And somehow pleasant. Neither absolutely. Just is. But what I feel about this–maybe I want it to be a sense of satisfaction.
I realized we neared my destination. A minute left at most. It was then that the past conversation flooded into my mind simultaneously, in hurled fragments as though rushing to maintain this and its… Undeniable value. That brimming anticipation as the car slowed down offered a bizarre clarity. A clarity that I rarely sought, and had always offered respite, nonetheless. It was strange because I knew it. Very well.
“Finally here,” announced the man.
Peering at the train station outside, I reached for the handle tightly–and of course, found myself unwilling to open. Not until my eyes lay upon the grizzled man in the rearview mirror.
Mouth curving into a frail smile, “...Thank you, truly,” I said.
“Not a problem.”
Yet, just as I was to leave the car, the man would suddenly blurt out, “Actually, just a moment, lad.”
“I think we deserve to know each other’s names.”
My brows raised, “Ah… Of course.”
“It’s Isaac. Yours?” He smirked.
“Hans.”
He appeared to take a second in order to ingrain that name in his memory.
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Hans... Until then, sir.”
I pulled on the handle, “Yes… Until then, Mr. Isaac.”
After stepping out, I stood there to the side–watching the car drive off. Blurring in the stretching distance alongside the other vehicles, deep within, I held a strong impression that I would never again meet that man, Mr. Isaac. I understood every bit of why, regardless, it is… Difficult to let sink in. Our stories had crossed, with great meaning… I am sure. But what then? Crossed. For mere moments. To that, had it truly borne any value?
What would be of value?
Through the time? Or how it was spent?
Perhaps what it could have been?
The man did not seem to know either, or at the very least, lingered on the boundary of a hundred different answers, to bear no commitment and every commitment. So do I. And if that is the case… It must not have been the point of it all. Never did it need to be.
I see.
The city does look beautiful.
