Cab Ride

by Murray Dunlap

Leaving Miami airport, Camille and I hail a cab driven by a very small man with skin the color of oiled mahogany. He looks to stand five feet tall. We've flown Blue in, and to our surprise, he greets the dog first. The man scratches behind Blue's ears and says Jambo! Hujambo, Toto. We lift our bags into the trunk while the man nods and smiles at Blue. He opens the front door and Blue hops in. Camille and I take the back. Inside, the cab smells like Old Spice and pine needles. The man's ID card reads: Casimiri Kapinga.

Camille takes a guess and says, "Jambo."

Casimiri cranes his neck, "Yes, hello! Where you go today?"

"Econolodge," I say. "Jambo."

He offers a genuine smile and nods as he turns back to face the road. He reaches across the seat and massages Blue's shoulders.

"Good dog," he says.

"Very good," Camille says. "Do you have a dog?"

"No. I have," Casimiri pauses. He holds his hands up, ten inches apart. "Paka. Paka. Eh, cat!"

"What's his name?" I ask.

"Name is Usiku," he says. "Usiku mean night."

"Usiku," Camille says. "She's a black cat."

"Yes," he says. "All over."

As we reach the last section of outdoor airport parking, Casimiri stops the cab. A pickup truck filled with mountain bikes reverses into the exit. The driver wants to back in and claim the last parking place in the lot. Casimiri doesn't seem to understand this and has pulled within inches of the truck's bumper. The driver of the pickup is white and shirtless and bald. Both nipples are pierced. He jumps out and motions for the cab to back up. Casimiri still doesn't understand. "I have right-of-way," he says.

Another shirtless biker approaches the cab. All the windows are down. This biker looks to have been waiting on the pickup truck for his friends and his bike.

He says, "What the fuck is wrong with you, nigger? Back that shit up."

Casimiri says, "You move, we exit."

"We can't do nuthin until you move this cab. Stupid nigger, go back to your country. Start swimmin' man."

The driver of the pickup continues to motion for the cab to back up with his hands. His shaved head gleams in the sun. Casimiri looks left, then right. Then he raises as much of his tiny body out of the window as possible.

He crunches up his brow and shouts, "Is this how it be? Is this how it be in you country? Nenda kutomba!"

Camille and I slouch down low in our seats. Blue begins to growl.

"Easy, Blue," I say.

"I thought we were past this in the South," she says.

"We're not in the South," I say. "We're in Miami."

The biker steps closer. He stands six feet from the window and I decide he can't be more than sixteen. He's got a tattoo that says Ride Hard on his pale muscled chest. Camille turns her ring, still unsized and loose, such that the diamond faces her palm. The biker takes another step and cuts six feet to three.

He tugs on the button of his cut-off jeans and says, "How about you suck my cock, you little nigger. Just back yer fucking cab up. We ain't going nowhere 'til you back this shit up."

He continues to slide his waistband up and down and side to side. Blue barks and growls. Camille grabs his collar with one hand and squeezes my arm with the other.

Casimiri says, "So this is how it be. So this is how it be in your country. You the nigger, you a baiskeli kuma. Mama yako ananyonya mboo ya farasi!" Then Casimiri sighs and backs up the cab a few feet. The pickup maneuvers into the free space. We squeal through the exit with Casimiri, the biker, and the pickup driver all flipping the bird. ***

Six months ago, I dreamt that Camille lay next to me in bed. I told her I loved her, that I always had, and that I wanted to put things back together. In the dream, Camille had seven identical pink-skinned children and a wealthy husband, but was soon to be divorced. She would give up custody, all seven, to the immensely capable father. He brushed their blonde hair, all parts on the right, with manicured hands. Each child said, "Thank you father," with a smirk.

Camille lifted her chin and said, "I can't live here anymore. I should move back to the South. I don't belong here. I should move back to Alabama."

So I said we should both go.

Camille pulled her hair back and made a ponytail. Then she pulled the rubber band out and shook it free. "I don't know," she said. "Things were bad last time. And I still won't have your son."

In the dream, I smiled at her. I sat up and whistled for our dog, Blue, who jumped into the bed. "We've got Blue," I said. "That's enough."

Camille drew her tongue across her lower lip and said, "It's never enough. It never will be." Then Camille's face changed. She became Audrey, and then Heather. She even became my mother, and then, for a startling instant, she became me.

When I woke up, I poured a glass of scotch and wrote a letter. A very long letter to Camille explaining all the reasons she should forgive me. That I had already forgiven her. Then, I threw it away.

So, I poured another glass of scotch and wrote a different letter. It looked exactly like this:

Dear Camille,

How is Blue? I miss him. I miss you.

Love, Ben

I mailed that letter to an address I found on the internet. San Francisco, California. In three weeks time, Camille wrote back. The letter said only this:

I miss you too.

Beneath the words, an actual paw print. The ink, of course, was blue.

***

Now out of the parking lot, Camille lets go of my arm. I close my eyes.

Then she asks, "What's that last thing you said?" "No no." Casimiri shakes his head. In the rearview mirror I see that his eyes are dark as coal. "Very bad, what I say."

"Come on," she says. "You can tell us."

"Okay." He smiles and grips the steering wheel. "I say his mum suck the horse's cock."

We all laugh and the spell is broken. I fill my lungs with air.

"How do you say 'dog' in your language?" I ask.

"Dog is mbwa"

"Mmbawa?" I say.

"Mbwa, yes." Casimiri says. "You stay in Miami?"

"No," Camille says, smiling. "We're driving to Key West tomorrow. We're getting married."

"Very good, very good!" Casimiri smiles wide. He has beautiful teeth.

"We say in Kenya, chanda chema huvikwa pete." Casimiri says. "A handsome finger get the ring."

We reach the hotel and I pay Casimiri. I give him a twenty dollar tip.

"I'm sorry," I say.

He nods, folding the money into his pocket.

"Have good sexy weekend," he says. Then he bends his knees and shakes his hips while singing the first line of Marvin Gaye's, "Let's Get It On."

Camille laughs and leans forward to high-five Casimiri. I watch him stare down her shirt. I wish I'd kept my money.

Then he opens the door for Blue and scratches behind his ears.

"Good dog," he says. "Good dog."

Blue wags his tail.




"Cab Ride" will also be published by Shelagh Watkins in an anthology called "Forever Travels," containing work from writers all over the world, coming this spring.

© 2011 Night Train and respective authors/email support AT nighttrainmagazine.com