the driver. piece of a story.

A piece of a piece I am working on… peace and love luscious cult of word junkies!

the driver

Traveling in a small pack is effective until the show starts, then your three set splits to separate corners and each individual focused on is convinced you’re there alone. They’re convinced you’re their best friend when you say things like ‘That’s that shiz’ and discretely pinch your pointer and thumb to crack a bag with a scent that would lift the whole room if you didn’t close it just as quick.

And then you name your price.

David, Rebecca, and Jerome know their respective markets – and they trust each other. That rare trust is what made and broke the trio. Rebecca with her perfume trail and Prada briefcase beckoning a gaggle of money throwers feeding multiple addictions at once – addictions to awake, addiction to her.

Jerome knew the way to convince movers like they got deals. He spoke in a way that convinced he was on his way back to the corner, instead of into the Escalade outside. The one that knows what three separate blocks and ten-minute interval to greet each client… and those were the clients kept. The ones that called every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday and always pay in cash.

Inside each trip there was an awkward corner of invites that David covered. Scared little boys that knew someone who knew someone that heard where they could get something they probably weren’t ready for.

David kept a clean clipped crew cut that meshed with his hazel eyes to the extent of desperate seekers being left believing that the five bills they just gave him might go to a charity instead of a limitless supply of Cubans… they’re still hard to get, even in New York City.

And strippers can be costly.

The driver hasn’t heard anything about Rebecca besides, ‘You can’t miss me. I’ll be the only trustable looking broad on the corner of Madison and 92nd at 4.15am. You know it’s 4.15, right? Jerome’s first, he always has to be first.’

A nervous Columbian boy is thinking about how black leather feels beneath his thin shaking thighs scanning an unfamiliar block for a dreadlocked man whose only instruction was ‘If you’re a second past 4.05 I swear someone or something will be fucked UP!’ He’s surprised by the suit… he wasn’t necessarily expecting a Bob Marley t-shirt and baggy jeans… but… that must be him. He’s looking at you in a keep quiet way that quickly teaches you to know better.

‘You better hurry up son, Rebecca does not play and it’s 4.09 kid.’ Tyres screech up fifth and the sound of counting money faintly compliments hip hop radio. She’s standing on the corner, looking at her watch, and with no words other than ‘4.15 and thirty, you got lucky bitch, David would have killed your ass…’ she’s talking to Jerome. Focus on the road.

Lost looking bar patrons are standing on each corner with bleary eyes praying for an empty cab in the December chill. You could have been a taxi driver, that’s not why you’re here though… you’re here so you can be anything.

David puts two hundred in your hand without hearing the sigh of relief that escapes your bit bottom lip at the stroke of 4.19. ‘Early… you’re a fast learner, I think we’ll keep you.’

In a rear view are three strangers that you don’t realize are family in their own way. You can’t see what’s between them. There’s no predicting the next six months…

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