cab. It’s as if she had been waiting in a doorway for me to hail a cab for her. So I lose it. I’m like:
“Hey! Hey! That’s my cab!”
And she just gets in. Just opens the door, gets in, and reaches over to close the door. Ice is splashing me everywhere. My umbrella finally gags on its hairball and dies. My bags are beginning to tear. So I absolutely lose it. I scream, and I do mean scream:
“You fucking cunt … that’s my cab!”
And, all right. I don’t want this story to make me sound like one of those women, so let me tell you why I was in a hurry. Which only matters now to prove that I am not, whatever, a horrible person. So, my plan:
Step 1, at eight o’clock on Thursday night I would meet Arnie, with my bag packed.
Step 2, at eight-thirty we had reservations at Four Noodles, because we’d been warned to have one good meal before we left. Including by Rose, Arnie’s globetrotting grandmother Rose, who told us: “The first thing you do when you get to the island is go to a grocery store. They have avocados the size of my handbag there. You can eat them for breakfast, or lunch with cottage cheese and paprika. Because let me tell you, there is not one restaurant on that island you are going to enjoy.”
Step 3, by ten-thirty, get back from Four Noodles and go to bed at Arnie’s.
Step 4, at seven o’clock Friday morning, the cab comes to take us to JFK.
Step 5, by Friday at noon we are with my parents in San Jose, so that they can meet the man who fathered my cat.
Step 6, early Saturday morning, we leave San Jose for Hawaii, where neither of us has ever been.
Step 7, by Saturday at two o’clock we are on the Big Island, for Valentine’s week.
Notice that there is no step that involves me making bail for Arnie. But the point is, Step Negative One was to go to Soho to purchase a linen top and sunglasses and sandals. And nice soap, because who knows what will be in our condo on the island. And at five P.M., Step Zero was to get into a cab and get home and get packed. But instead this German woman is stealing my cab and closing the door on me, and so I’m screaming at her:
“You fucking cunt!”
Which is when I realize what the German woman is doing. She isn’t closing the taxi’s door on me, she’s pulling it in so that I can squeeze past the puddles and climb into the cab too. And what she says to me, from in the cab, with her Marlene Dietrich accent, is:
“I thought that we share the taxi, if you go uptown.”
Human kindness. She wants to split the cab. I am mortifi ed, because I just called her a fucking cunt. But what am I going to do? I get in the cab.
It’s an Israeli cabbie, or maybe he’s Russian. He’s sort of eyeing us, like, Who are these two nut cases? And, okay. Normally, when you sit down in a cab in winter and get out of the snow and into the heat, it’s like … taking a trip to Hawaii. A hot, mobile island. But in this cab? You sit down, and what you experience, before you even feel the heat, is the driver’s cologne. So heavy, you feel like it will give you a rash. Which is in addition to the rash I’m already getting just from the tension with the crazy German woman. Anyway, I tell the driver Lexington and 83rd. And the crazy German tells him she’s going to 65th at 3rd Avenue. Like, directly on the way, if we go through the park. How convenient, right? What a coincidence, right? And the cabdriver says: “I take 8th Avenue, is faster on West Side.”
So, 8th Avenue in a sleet storm. The cabbie is muttering to himself, but fine. The crazy German woman is eating her muffin and sitting there all prettily, like I didn’t just call her a fucking cunt. And just as I am getting ready to apologize to her, my cell phone starts ringing again. The call is from some unknown number, but it’s Arnie. So I’m like:
“Hey, baby! Where are you calling from?” And he says:
“Ah … a precinct house.”
“Oh no! What happened? Did you get mugged?” He’s offended:
“Me? Mugged? No, Jennica, listen, I’ve been arrefff.”
Because 8th Avenue has the worst reception for my phone. So I tell him:
“What? I’m not getting reception.”
The German woman? Cringing. The smelly cabbie? Cringing. Because of course I am being shrill. Of course they are thinking that I am one of those women. But Arnie is like:
“Fff arrested, and I need you to call David Fowler.”
“Arrested? For what?”
“Fff!”
“What?”
“Mff!”
“Murder?”
And the smelly cabdriver and the crazy German woman both cringe, in a different way. Because now they aren’t sure if I’m one of those women or if I’m a spoiled Mafi a moll.
“But Arnie? Who are they saying you … ?” And he’s like:
“Allegedly, Jennica, allegedly. Fff! Fff!”
“Arnie, I can’t hear a word.”
Which is awful. It’s like, is he all right? Is he getting out? Am I supposed to call Gran Rose and make bail? Am I supposed to call the airline and cancel everything? A minute before I had been worrying about, like, How do I apologize to the crazy German woman? Should I really have spent seventy dollars on that white linen top? Did I remember to give Julie the key so that she could feed the cat? Some worries are a privilege. And all Arnie is saying is: “Call David Fowler! Call David Fowler!” And, David Fowler? He’s a terrible lawyer. Look what happened the last time Arnie went to him. And that was only money, not, like, murder. I tell him:
“Arnie! I don’t want to call David Fowler. Let me call Gran Rose. She probably knows somebody who can …” But he says, totally clear:
“Do not you dare call Gran Rose! Call David Fowler!”
And at this point the taxi’s pretty much at Times Square. I realize I have to get out of the cab; I have to get to a ground line; I have to figure out David Fowler’s number; but mostly, I have to get out of this cab. So I say:
“Driver, I need to get out here, there’s been a change of plans. Arnie, if I’m going to deal, I have to get to a better phone. Tell me exactly where you are.” And he says:
“They say they’re taking me to … the tombs.” Totally creepy.
While he’s saying this, I’m splashing back out onto the sidewalk where the cab dropped me. Outside, everywhere, it’s sleet, and, just, cataracts of ice. But already I’ve spotted the hotel I’m going to make a dash for, and I’m strategizing how to deal with the concierge, what to tell him so he’ll let me use a ground line. And the cabbie is saying:
“Is okay, you two figure out money, is okay.”
I’ve got bags everywhere. I’m dripping all over the seat. But the meter is at almost eight dollars, so I give the crazy German woman
