Terror In A Taxi
By Ann Favreau
A taxi ride will never again
be an ordinary experience for me after that fateful night in 1993. Normally, a cab ride seems like mundane activity. One gets
in the car, gives the driver the destination, has a brief conversation, pays the driver and exits the cab. Not so, that night.
At this time, before cell
phones were commonplace, my husband was commuting from Massachusetts to Vancouver,
British Columbia, to work one week a month
as a consultant for a large company. He was eager for me to join him for a long weekend. He had made the flight arrangements
and given me $25 Canadian currency to pay for the cab ride from the airport to his hotel on English Bay. The airport was under renovation. and exiting to the cab stand was tricky business. I stood with my luggage in
tow and was shown to the next cab in line.
In a thick Russian accent the driver asked my destination as I settled in the
back seat for the ride that my husband had said would take about forty-five minutes. To pass the time I asked the driver how
long he had been a cab driver. “What difference does it make to you?” he answered gruffly.
“I was just curious,”
I responded. I decided I had better sit quietly and forget about engaging this man in conversation. As I looked out the window,
the dark landscape whizzed by. Then, I felt a change in the speed of the vehicle. It seemed to be slowing. It moved slower
and slower and finally stopped. I surveyed the scene as fear crept up my legs. The cab was beside the curb of what appeared
to be a residential section of the city, but there were no lights on in any of the houses. I knew I had better keep my wits
about me. I firmly asked the driver, “What seems to be the problem?”
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“Did you run out of
gas? What does the gauge say?”
“It’s broken but I know how many trips I can get out of a tank,” he said angrily.
“Well, something is
definitely wrong. What are you going to do about it? My husband is expecting me within the hour.” I felt if I kept on
the offensive, I would appear strong. Was I deluding myself? I was a petite five-foot woman. He was a burly, tall man with
massive hands and arms.
He reached forward to grasp a dark object. Was it some kind of weapon? Should I open the door and run? But it was
the mike of a two-way radio. The driver called his dispatcher to tell him about the problem and asked him to send another
driver to this location to deliver me to the hotel. He then turned to me and said, “It’ll be a half hour before
the other guy gets here.”
My nerve endings felt like antennae searching for clues to the motives of this
man. Although fear sat beside me, at least I was safe for the time being.
He called the dispatcher a second time to contact the
nearest gas station to bring him some fuel. I guessed he finally realized that he had miscalculated his mileage per tank.
The dispatcher called back to inform him that the gas station could not transport propane, but they would send a tow truck
to haul the disabled cab to the station. Angrily, he exited the car and proceeded to pace up and down the sidewalk. My fear
still crackled as I watched his every move. I would have loved to stretch my legs, but since the street appeared to be deserted,
I felt safer in the cab.
Within ten minutes the tow truck arrived. Now I got out of the cab to watch the proceedings. The cab driver took
my luggage out of the trunk and dropped it on the sidewalk next to me. “You can wait here until the other cab comes,”
he told me with a dismissive air.
“I am not going to wait here alone on this street,” I said loudly enough for the tow truck
driver to hear.
“What are you worried about? There is a church right there.”
I looked up to see a church spire. I envisioned
myself being mugged or raped next to a dark church as well as anywhere else in this vicinity. I knew that a woman standing
alone on a deserted street with a suitcase was an invitation for trouble. As I angrily told the driver I was not going to
pay him if he left me alone, the tow truck driver gave me a wink. Oh, boy, I thought. Now I have to worry about the intentions
of two men. I did not realize until some time had passed that one of these men was a gentleman.
The tow truck driver engaged
the cabby in conversation and appeared to purposely waste time hitching the cab to the truck. When a second cab pulled to
the curb, the tow truck driver quickly finished the job.
Now I was faced with a new dilemma. I had only the $25
Canadian currency to pay both drivers. As the new driver exited his cab and came forward to talk to us, I decided to be aggressive.
“My husband gave me twenty-five dollars for the cab ride from the airport to the hotel. I don’t know how much
further it is, or who has the longer trip. Here is the twenty-five dollars. That’s all you’re
going to get, so you decide how to split it,” I said forcefully, and began rolling my luggage to the waiting cab.
They must have settled the
fare between them because the next thing I knew, the second cab driver was putting my luggage in the trunk and we were on
our way. I’d like to say this was the end of the story, but the saga continued.
With adrenaline still pumping through my system,
fear seemed to roll itself down like stockings around my ankles, ready to be kicked off in the backseat of this new cab. Until
the driver opened his mouth. In a heavy Scottish brogue he began to warn me about all the fags, queers, and lesbians that
walked the streets adjacent to my hotel. As he vividly recounted the scandalous tales, I wanted to jump out of the cab to
get away from his sordid stories. I had started this night in the company of a stupid man and now I was with a homophobic
one. I couldn’t wait to be in the arms of my husband, whom I assumed would be worried sick about where I was.
Finally, we were at the hotel.
It was now more than two hours later than my planned arrival. The night receptionist was pleased to meet me since he knew
my husband from his frequent stays at this facility. He gave me a key and I proceeded up the elevator to my husband’s
room. I pictured him frantic and worrying about where I was. As I opened the door, the room was dark. Where was my husband?
I snapped on the light to discover him sound asleep on the bed. While I was dealing with the terror of the night, he was blissfully
snoring.
Men!
[Ann Favreau is Director of the Suncoast
Writers Guild of Englewood, FL. Her prose and poetry has been featured in many magazines. She recently published Window
Eyes, in which she describes herself as a traveler who marvels at the awesome and finds wonder in the ordinary.]
