Let Me Drive
(continued)
By Chris Martinez

"Judging by the look on your face, the going-out clothes, and the fact that you're alone, I'd guess you either just ditched or got ditched by a date," said a shaggy-haired guy also standing by the curb. His clothes tried their best to be handsome, but there was no fooling me: all bought or stolen from discount or Goodwill stores, from the black pleather sneakers to the frayed, gray tweed blazer. This nosey jerk looked to be in his early-thirties. His wide mouth, big square nose, and bad facial hair reminded me of a hyena, and his smug grin made me want to reply, "No hablo Ingles, Senor."

I stared at him blankly for a moment, hoping he would see the lack of amusement in my face. But he just kept smirking, then shrugged his shoulders. "Well, which are you, the dumper or the dumped?"

I figured he had no luck with women, had himself just been ditched on a date, and was now taking out his frustration on me. "I always do the dumping," I lied, "and from what I see, you're always getting dumped. Now if you'll excuse me..." I turned to walk away, then suddenly remembered I had no means to get home. Brandon, you little bastard! I repeated in my mind, looking down the bustling downtown street. Even worse, I could feel Joe Jerk still watching me.

I looked over at one of the cabs, idling with its lights on at the curb, no doubt waiting for upscale socialites to emerge from the same restaurant I left behind - waiting for a laughing, smiling couple to glide merrily through the glass revolving door, onto the plaza, the dapper man calling for the taxi driver to "get the door, please" before escorting his lady into the back seat with a gentlemanly smile. Joe Jerk must have seen me staring at the cab like this, because he immediately chimed, "And now you're stuck without a ride?"

Blood flooded into my face. My stomach welded itself to my ribs, bracing itself for verbal war. I unleashed a searing monologue about the horrible evening, then found myself unable to keep from escalating into a full-blown screaming tirade about, well, everything. I went off about Brandon and his sophomoric lies and vanity, about how he turned out to be 18 years old, about how infuriated and crestfallen I was as I stormed out of the place, about my never-ending awful goddamned luck with men, about John and Travis and Greg and Kevin, about every man who seemed to care more about himself than me, about how I had left my purse in the restaurant with Brandon, and finally about how now even total strangers won't just leave me the fuck alone!

When I finished, I felt bewildered and out of breath, like I had just awoken from an awful dream, trembling in my green silk dress. But it was real, and now a small crowd of passers-by were staring at me from the plaza, mouths agape as though watching a skyscraper come down. Joe Jerk was silently staring at me, too, no sign of the smirk left. He took two steps over to a parked taxi and opened the back door, telling me that he was the driver and that the ride was on him tonight.

I sat in the back as the cityscape whirled by, leaning my forehead against the partially-open window, letting the wind mess up the long black hair I had so perfectly styled earlier in the day. I zoomed home in that taxi with the shaggy-haired jerk at the helm, not such a jerk now, just quietly taking me back to my apartment, free of charge. I let my anxieties about men, dating, beauty, relationships, witty banter, and everything else just drain out my window during that ride like the smoke from the driver's cigarette.

The only thing he had said as we pulled away was that his name was Jack, and he was sorry if he hurt my feelings, he didn't mean to. I said nothing. At a red light in midtown, we watched a couple cross the intersection, arm-in-arm, kissing passionately even as they crossed the street. Halfway across, when their young faces finally came apart, the woman looked over at us with a radiant smile. Jack chuckled to himself, saying that he gave those two a ride the week before, and that they screamed at each other about the bar tab the whole way home. The light turned green the instant they hit the opposite sidewalk, and the taxi lurched to a start, the wind once again pulling the worries and smoke out my window like unwinding yarn.

I hardly thought about Jack for an entire week. At Glamour, a new assignment came in: design an "Are You an Optimist or a Pessimist" quiz. I dug in right away, working with a zeal I never even knew I had. My favorite question was the first one: "You would best define your boyfriend as: (a) A vain little brat, (b) A lying weasel, (c) An arrogant jerk, or (d) I don't have a man, they're all vain, lying, arrogant jerks." For those with the most resulting "points," the optimists, I provided the following synopsis: "You masochistic little girl, you probably still believe your mommy when she says you'll find a rich, handsome, nice man some day, or that you can somehow change a man who is otherwise, given enough sexual techniques and cooking tips. Why you keep looking for trouble and pain in the weaker of the sexes, only a licensed therapist can tell you." To the readers with the least points, I wrote, "You're either 40 or a quick learner. Now that you've seen the truth about them, go get yourself 18 cats and a gallon of chocolate ice cream." The quiz took me only one hour. I spent the rest of the week pretending to proofread it while I played Jeopardy online. It was the best week of work ever. When I tossed the quiz on my editor's desk, she waved me away without looking, as if slashing a red line of ink across my face.

That night, I wandered over to Rizzo's Hot Subs. I hardly ate there, but I was hungry and out of microwave lasagna. Rizzo's was one of those beat-up little Italian eateries on a side street, with the hard little booths of mismatched colors, the old cash register that still goes "ka-ching!" and the homeless guy in the corner, waiting to get kicked out.

"Hey, anybody in there know how I can get a paper out of this machine? I put my change in, but it's jammed or something," he called from outside with that loud, confident rasp. No word from the customers. The adolescent cashier shook his head. Then, Jack suddenly shouted out, "Hey, is that you, the girl I gave a free ride home last week?" I winced. "It's gotta be you, I definitely recognize that long, black hair." His voice was loud - inhumanly loud - almost sounding like it originated within my ears.

I seized my hot sub and asked the cashier if there was a back door. He said no. Jack stepped into the eatery, attempting to look like an old friend. I tried to shove by him without having to look at him and his hyena face. "Hey, hey, not even a hello?" he said as I squirmed by.

"What the hell do you want?" I growled.

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