Space Taxis

The agent’s amber eyes focus on the bright planet rotating on her screen. “We have a lock on him now, sir.”

The image expands through the cloudy atmosphere, revealing a large green land mass abutting a blue ocean. A further magnification reveals a city of tall buildings and roads teeming with vehicles. Closer still and a street comes into view. A human male, with a flat cap is helping an elderly female into the back seat of a yellow vehicle.

“He will be apprehended the moment the retrieval craft arrives.”

August 16th, 1977, Brooklyn.

Mike Redolfo pulls up his yellow Checker cab. “There you go, sir - Euclid Avenue. That’s three bucks.” He looks into the rear-view mirror and watches the passenger put on a pair of reflective sunglasses and run his fingers through his hair.

The customer gets out of the cab and moves towards Redolfo’s open window. He checks his pockets and shrugs. “Sorry bud, but I could have sworn I had my wallet on me.”

Redolfo is used to customers trying not to pay but in the stifling humidity, he’s finding it hard to be patient. “Oh man, not another wise guy. You think I’m dumb? You’ve got the money, just pay up.” The cabbie senses danger as he sees the man reach into the inside of his jacket. “Look, fella, I don’t want any trouble, so just hand over what you owe me, and we’ll both go on our way.”

“Mike! Mike!” A female voice on the cab radio cuts in. “Boss says you’ve got to get your ass back here. He’s not happy. It sounds serious.”

“Okay, I’m on my way - once this bozo’s paid me his fare,” Redolfo says into the handset. I should’ve just stayed in bed today. He looks up and bangs his steering wheel with frustration. His passenger has run off.

Redolfo enters the cab office and tilts his cap to the young radio operator. She smiles back at him. His boss, Mallinson, is in his usual position at his over-sized desk, which Redolfo always thinks would look classy were it not for the explosion of paperwork covering every inch of it. Mallinson points to the seat opposite him. As Redolfo sits, he sees his boss jab at a paper with his pen.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you these days. I’ve told you before, this is a business, not a charity.”

Redolfo’s heard this line from his boss more times than he cares to remember, but what’s he supposed to do? Some of his elderly passengers would never get out of the house without a cab. People in the neighbourhood are poor. Sometimes he has to waive a couple of fares just so he can sleep at night.

“Remember that guy you bust up? He’s pressed charges. You think you can treat the company like some sort of goddamn vigilante outfit.”

“So, you think I should have just left that woman to get knifed?”

Mallinson ignores the comment. “And it’s not just that. The bullet holes in your cab - why’re they still there? It looks bad, Redolfo. You think that cab belongs to you? It’s the company’s.”

Redolfo’s proud of the bullet holes in the back door. They date back to a time when he’d used his Checker as a shield to protect two innocent pedestrians. He’s always good at sensing trouble and on that occasion realised a gang shootout was about to break out. The bullet holes are like a trophy to him. He’s no intention of getting them repaired.

Mallinson’s fierce look softens. “Look, Mike. I know you mean well, and the customers like you, but the company can’t continue to support you. I’ve got no choice. I’ve recommended the commission suspend your cab license, at least until you sort yourself out. It’s out of my hands now.”

Redolfo feels like he’s been kicked in the guts. He can barely pay the rent for his apartment as it is. Without a job, he’ll probably end up on the street.

He looks around the office with its greying paint and cracked glass partitions. It may be a ramshackle outfit, but he loves it. It’s his home. He notices the concerned stares of the office girls. They’ve always tried to look out for him.

“So that’s all you gotta say to me, Mallinson? You know how I need this job. Ten years of service. I’ve worked my goddamn butt off for this company. My pa built this place up, working all the hours, and he never got any thanks. This place would’ve been nothing without him. What the hell am I gonna tell him?”

“Hey Todd, can’t you give Mike a break?” the radio-control girl protests.

Mallinson silences her with a glare.

“Okay, I get it, Mallinson. I’m outta here. I’m the best goddamn driver you’ve got, and you know it. I’ll just find someone who does appreciate me.”

Mallinson gestures to him to hand over the keys. “We’re taking that bullet-ridden junk-heap to finally get it repaired. Another driver’s going to need it.”

Redolfo ignores the demand, adjusts his cap and leaves the office. He returns to his cab, ignoring the parking attendant who has begun to write a ticket.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Mallinson appears at the door, bellowing furiously. “Give me the goddamn keys, Redolfo! That cab’s ours.”

Pretending not to hear him, Redolfo starts up the engine and speeds off.

Redolfo pulls up the Checker at Brooklyn’s Ferry District. His father Alfonso sometimes took him there when he was a kid. He’d told him how it had once been an important cargo port. The place now looks like a disused wasteland, but it’s still a great place to view lower Manhattan.

He opens the glove box, pulls out a bottle of whiskey and takes a large swig. He loves this skyline, carved from the tallest buildings in the world. There’s no better place in the world to watch the stars roll behind the skyscrapers until morning.

As the liquor begins to pervade his mind, he traces the outlines of the buildings with his eyes. When he was younger, he watched the construction of the World Trade Centre’s twin towers with fascination as they rose from the ground to eventually dominate the skyline. New York’s my home, even if I don’t always fit in.

He turns on the radio and hears a newsflash, “Police in Memphis Tennessee are reporting that Elvis Presley died this afternoon at the age of forty-two at his Memphis mansion, possibly of a heart attack. America is in mourning...”

Redolfo takes another big swig from his bottle. “Goddamn it! As if this hell-hole day couldn’t get any worse! The King, man? No, this can’t be right. Goddamn it! I know you’re not dead...I can feel it!”

“...this is the last song he performed live...”

Are you lonesome tonight?...

Tears roll down Redolfo’s cheeks. He joins the singing…

...sorry we drifted apart?

His mind wanders. He sees Mrs. Moeller, his fourth-grade teacher, shaking her head as she says to his mother, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Redolfo, but unless your son changes his attitude, I don’t think he’ll ever make anything of himself.”

...heart filled with pain?...

His eyes cloud over. Through his haze, he becomes aware of a bright light surrounding the cab. He sees his mother shouting at his father, “Alfonso, tell that good-for-nothing son of yours how you worked your ass off so we could have a roof over our heads - and this is how he repays us?”

The song changes…

...Your old tie-dyes away...

The light surrounding his cab intensifies, forcing him to shield his eyes with his hands. He feels the cab begin to shake. “Goddamn cops! Why can’t you just leave me alone here?”

It feels like his Checker is lifting into the air. “I’ve got cab-spin, man!” he slurs, leaning out of the window. Through the brightness, he can see what looks like sliding doors opening to reveal a gaping hole in a panelled metal structure above him. “Damn cops. What’s this, some kind of tow-truck?”

…You’re moving out todayayay.

Everything turns black.