The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

HEY, TAXI!

The illuminated clock on the pavement before the brightly lighted lunchroom said five minutes to twelve. It was beginning to rain harder, a cold February rain, which threatened to turn to snow. Mixed with the black rain fell a few sodden snowflakes. The lunchroom was nearly empty. The after-theater crowd had come and gone, leaving behind it, on the wide arms of the armchairs, stained plates, empty bowls and cups with spoons in them, crumpled napkins flung on the floor, wet newspapers. Even in disorder it was colorful and picturesque; and it was warm. The bowls of fruit on marble counters, the salads and pies arrayed richly in glass cases gave an almost tropic air of luxury. O’Brien, a taxi-driver, who was finishing his bowl of cornflakes and cream and a cup of coffee, looked sleepily about him. He liked it—the warmth and color almost put him to sleep. He was so tired that he could hardly eat. A hard day; but profitable; he would be glad to get to bed. A steady succession of short runs from noon to six o’clock; and then, one of those freak fares, a man at the Touraine who wanted to go to Plymouth and back in the six hours before midnight. Judas! what a night. It had been an exhausting drive, pitch black, everything drowned in rain. The windshield wiper worked frantically, worked overtime. All that the headlights showed was a ghost-dance of rain, swirling, mixed with snow, and an unending inferno of puddles, rivers, and mud. His eyes ached. He wished to God he didn’t have the drive to the garage ahead of him—a mile and a half.… However, after that it would take him less than fifteen minutes to hit the hay.… He shoved his ticket and the change over the cashier counter, turned up his collar, and went out. Twelve o’clock.

He had left his muddy taxi, flag down, in a deserted alley round the corner from the lunchroom. There was no time-limit there, the cops wouldn’t bother him. Judas priest, what a rotten night! He stepped into an invisible puddle, cold water came through his shoes. Squelch, squelch. Hell’s delight. He crawled stiffly into his seat and pushed the self-starter. Nga—nga—nga—nga—nga—it didn’t start. Dead as a door-nail. Spark on—gas on—he pushed it again. Nga—nga—nga—nga—nga—nga nn! What the hell—cold probably. He primed it and was about to try once more when a girl, who must have come up from behind, made him jump by suddenly saying into his ear, “Hey, taxi!” Her hand was on his sleeve, and she laughed when she saw him jump. She seemed to be slightly drunk. Laughing, she showed, under the street lamp, several gold teeth. Her hat was sodden with rain, the fur piece round her neck was bedraggled, her wet pale face glistened.

“What the hell,” said O’Brien and, disengaging his arm roughly, again pushed the self-starter. Nga—nga—nga!… No response. He heard his door slam, and, turning round, discovered that the girl had got in. He was furious. “Well, I’ll be—” He banged on the glass and shouted, waving his arm. “Get out of there!” She didn’t move. He could hear her laughing. “Jesus Christ!” he muttered. “What’s the idea?” He sat, puzzled, for a moment; the problem seemed almost more than he could cope with, fantastic, horrible. It merely revealed to him his abysmal tiredness. He crawled out of his seat and opened the door. Rain struck his cheek, the door-handle was wet.

“Come on, Liz,” he said. “Get out.”

As she made no reply he put his head inside and stared at her. A smell of wet face-powder. She sat still in the far corner, smiling, showing a gold tooth.

“Come on!” he repeated. “You can’t ride with me.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to ride with you, did I?”

O’Brien was taken aback.

“Well, what’s the idea? Are you kidding me?”

She gave a peal of laughter, lifting up her feet from the floor in delight.

“Sure I’m kidding you,” she giggled. “All I want is to sit down!”

“Oh, you do, now! You just want to sit down and have a nice little rest in popper’s taxi!”

“Sweet popper!” she cooed. “Come on in and sit down. You’re letting the draft in.”

“You come on out before I drag you out!”

“Oo! Isn’t he rough!”

“One—two—”

“If you touch me I’ll scream, I swear to God I will!… Don’t you dare!… Ow, you dirty dog, let go of my arm! Let go!”… She screamed, as if experimentally, her blue eyes uninterruptedly bright with amusement. He dropped her arm, astonished. Then, while he stared, silent, she added, taking off her wet hat and giving her bobbed yellow hair a shake, “You shouldn’t be so rough, Charlie—that’ll make a bruise on my arm.… And now that you’ve come in, for God’s sake shut the door! It’s cold.”

“Are you drunk?” He sat down, as if merely temporarily, on the edge of the seat, wondering what to do.

“Sure, I’m drunk. You got to feel good sometimes, haven’t you?”

“Well, you oughter be ashamed of yourself.”

She slapped his cheek lightly, by way of administering an affectionate reproach. He seized her wrist and twisted it savagely. She screeched. Her face became hard and furious.

“Say, what the hell are you doing!”… She yanked her hand away, put her wrist to her mouth, and sucked it, absorbed, as if utterly forgetting him. In the silence he heard the rain pattering irregularly on the taxi roof. A shower of needles. He felt as if he were going to fall asleep, stared at her uncomprehending, shivered a little.

“Come on, kid,” he said, altering his tone. “You know you can’t stay here. I’m taking the boat round to the garage. I’m dog-tired and I want to hit the hay.”

“Who’s stopping you? I’m not stopping you!”

“Where do you live, then?”

She eyed him distrustfully, with a hard childlike guile.

“What do you want to know for? Bah, you make me sick.”

“If it’s on my way, I’ll drop you there.”

“Oh, you will, will you! Very kind of you, I’m sure.… Not a chance, Charlie, I’m wise!”

“What the hell are you talking about?… Come on, now, be a good kid and get out.”

She looked at him, smiling. She leaned toward him, smelling of perfume, and smiled ingratiatingly, tilting her pale face a little to one side. She put her hand, with a very large wedding ring, on his knee, and gently squeezed it.

“Don’t you like me, Charlie?” she chirruped.

He put his arm quickly around her waist—she was soaking wet—and picked her up bodily. She screamed. “Let me go, you devil! Let me go, or I’ll break every damned window in your cab!” She struggled. As he tried to drag her toward the open door she struck his face, kicked in every direction, and finally had the brilliant idea of beating him over the eyes repeatedly with her wet velvet hat. Rain-water stung his eyes, blinded him. He dropped her on the seat again. Her fur piece had fallen off, and her dress, pulled up to her knees and twisted, showed a pale blue satin petticoat and gray silk legs, mud-splashed.

“Oo! How strong you are, Charlie. Regular caveman stunt. But don’t try it again, let me tell you! or I’ll smash your windows for you.” She drew away into the corner of the seat again, panting a little, and smiling apprehensively. Then she added, “Oh, gee! look at my petticoat!” She giggled, and gave a flounce to her skirt in an unsuccessful attempt to cover her legs. “You don’t mind looking at my legs, do you, Charlie! They’re easy to look at.… Say, my skirt’s awful wet—I think I’ll take it off and hang it up to dry.…”

“What are you trying to do, get me pinched?” O’Brien pulled the door shut and sat down. “You’re a tough baby, all right!…” He leaned back and for a second closed his eyes. With eyes shut, he saw a long road swarming at him with sparkling puddles, rivers running, and a spotlight full of rain.

“Sure, I’m tough. I’m so tough, I spit brass! Ha, ha!” She was immensely amused by this, and rocked back and forth, laughing, and looking at him with cunning blue eyes, sidelong.

“Well, you oughter be ashamed to say it, a young kid like you!… And all boozed up like an old war horse.… Judas!… Where’d you get it? Who gave it to you?”

“None of your damned business who gave it to me. I’ve been given worse things, let me tell you!… It was a friend of mine gave it to me.” She was coarsely defiant.

“Well, he must be a crumby kind of friend, getting you all tanked up like this on rotten whisky and then leaving you out in the rain like an old cat! Some friend.”

“When I ask for your opinion of my friends, you can give it!…”

“Oh! Is that so!”

“Yes—that’s so!… And my friend’s a cop—you can put that in your pipe and smoke it. You make me tired.”

“A cop!… Tell it to the marines.”

“A cop, I said! Do you understand English?”

“Now and then.”

“Well, I guess this is one of the thens.… Say, Charlie, you haven’t got a cigarette, have you?” Wheedling, she slid her arm under his and put her cheek against his shoulder. He looked sleepily at her, unmoving. They remained thus for a moment, hearing the rain on the sides and roof of the taxi—a delicate irregular pricking of needlepoints. Now and then a snowflake, large and heavy, veered past one of the windows.… Recollecting himself, pulling himself back again from the verge of a dream, he fished out a cigarette for her and struck a match. Puff—puff. The match, flaring once, twice, showed clear blue eyes, pupils narrowed, under pale golden eyebrows delicately arched like the feelers of a moth. The white nose slightly cruel, rather fine.

“Thanks, Charlie.… Nice boy!… Snuggle up, let’s be comfortable!” She gave a little wriggle, sliding her arm further under his. Her left hand, with its ring, fell upon his, which lay on his canvas coat, and bending her fingers she thrust them delicately, exploringly, up his sleeve. He did not move, merely swayed slightly.

“Sure, my friend’s a cop.” She went on, equably.… “Don’t you believe me?”

“Oh, I’ll swallow anything!” He smiled.

“But I didn’t see him tonight.… I couldn’t find him.”

“You went looking for him?”

“All around—everywhere. Damned cold and wet, too! I’m soaked.”

“What did you want him for?” He suddenly realized that his eyes had shut and that his chin had dropped onto his sheepskin collar. The rough touch startled him.

“I wanted some money. I’m strapped—absolutely not a thin dime tonight.… And the landlady took my key away this morning.”

“Oh! she did, did she! You didn’t pay the rent?”

“No, you poor simp! It was because the other lodgers complained.” She tittered. “The old man in the next room to mine watched me like a hawk. I guess he thought—ha, ha!”… She blew a cloud of smoke. “I gave him the cold shoulder, you see, and last night when he found my friend was there with me—he went down to the kitchen with the glad news.”

“Say, kid—you ought not to do it! You’ll get into trouble.”

“Mind your own business, Charlie!”… Her tone was friendly, but sharp.… “I’m no chicken.”

“You said a mouthful, Queenie!… How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen—and an alley-cat!… Judas.”

She slapped his face. He smiled stupidly, and she slapped it again.

“You shut up! You can’t say things like that to me!… Not much.”

She smoked, staring at him. She seemed to be examining him appraisingly, resting her blue eyes in turn on his mouth, his nose, his chin, eyes, canvas coat. Her eyes were close to his, dark-pupiled, her cheek still rested against his shoulder. He returned her gaze, somber and expressionless. He blinked repeatedly, the lids falling slowly, involuntarily, and his head at the same time nodding forward in jerks. With each nod and blink the road rushed at him, a soft interminable torrent, sparkling and seething. Each time, opening his eyes again to exclude the vision, he smiled at the girl’s face, so startlingly near, smiled apologetically.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Flora, Flora des Neiges.”

“Oh! You’re a Canuck.”

“Do I look it?”

“No—you don’t.”

“My mother was Scotch. That’s where I get my yellow hair.”

“I guess you got it out of a bottle.”

“Like hell I did! That’s fourteen carat. All gold to the roots.” She shook it against his cheek, smiling, showing a sharp golden eye-tooth.

“Well—when did you come down here?”

“In October. I ran away. My pa’s got a farm in Vermont.…”

He appeared not to be listening. He was looking out of the window, under the street lamp, watching the swirling of snow and rain—there was more snow, now. All of a sudden, turning, he said:

“Well, Flora, what’s the idea? Where are you going to sleep tonight?…”

“Me? What’s the matter with this?”

“Oh! And supposing some cop happens to come down here? That’d look pretty, wouldn’t it! It’d sound nice to the judge, wouldn’t it!… Yes, it would not!”

He was derisive, but at the same time profoundly inert, relaxed. The warmth of the girl’s body was pleasant, and the clasp of her thumb and finger round his right wrist had a curious effect on him. He did not stir, did not feel like stirring. His money was safe enough. She couldn’t get it without waking him. Supposing—supposing—he might give her a couple of dollars to go—but where would she go? Not to his own room. No … nor a hotel. She was too young-looking.… Supposing—supposing—what was it he was thinking of? Out into the country? Concord or Framingham? Brown rivers cut off his view, and he stared into a vast red-edged spotlight filled with rain.… The girl was saying:

“There won’t be any cops here till five o’clock. We could go for a little drive in the parks before that. Out to Jamaica Pond or something like that.…”

“Sure.… Wake me at five! If you’re waking, call me early!”

He would have to explain at the garage. A breakdown somewhere. Hanover Four Corners.…

“… My friend, the one I ran away with I mean, worked in a drugstore in Cambridge, shaking sodas. He gave me the slip. I didn’t care much, because he paid my fare down here, and that was the chief thing. Oh—he had a swell line of talk! Couldn’t he sling the syllables!…”

“Those funny guys make me tired.”

“Don’t be such a gloom, Charlie!… Anybody’d think this was your dear mother’s funeral.”

“Ah—you make me tired.” He gave a long shiver, shutting his eyes.

“Going to sleep, darling? Put your head down, there! That’s right.”

He rested his cheek against her head, felt her hand pass across his forehead. Hanover Four Corners was a queer procession of stilted sandwich-men. They stepped briskly, wheeled, waving their long stilts, their longer and longer stilts, their stilt scrapers, a babbling forest of stilt scrapers, very very tall, and high up among them, invisible were the small white faces which said Hanover Four Corners, Hanovorners!

The girl extinguished her cigarette on the window-sill and composed herself comfortably, keeping her arm locked into his and her hand on his wrist. For a moment she gazed, broodingly, straight ahead through the front windows, into the rain. Her lower lip drooped slightly, relaxed and sullen. Jesus! she thought. Jesus!… snow on the taxi roof like a wedding cake!… After a moment she too was asleep.