You Talkin' To Me?

Robert De Niro is not driving. And it wouldn’t matter if he was. Because I am one red light away from going all taxi on my driver.

“Where, exactly, are we going?”

“Manhattan.”

“Nooooooo. Manhattan is back there. Behind us.”

I admit to being cartographically challenged. Two degrees and numerous test scores, however, prove that I am not stupid.

We are not going to Manhattan. If we were, it would be in front of us. Not fading in the distance through the rear view mirror.

It is past midnight and after nine hours of travel I have landed in a smoky cab that has alternated between breaking the sound barrier and dancing on the edge of disaster. I’m green with the apple threatening to make a re-appearance, and we’ve missed every green light since crossing the bridge. The first bridge.

We have been honked at, cussed at and cut off. My water bottle flew under the front seat like it was propelled with rocket fuel and at the last red light my seatbelt locked so tightly that it is now the last line of defense between my panic-stricken aortic chambers and the light of day. Or, in this case, the plexiglass wall that is the only thing separating the cabbie from the fist keeping him awake.

“I missed the turn. Gotta go ‘round.”

“You ‘gotta go ‘round’?”

“Lady, I had a long day. Stop kicking the wall!”

A long day. He had a long day. Did he promise a little girl that he wouldn’t die if the plane crashed? Did a little boy promise him that he’d take care of his sister when you’re gone? Did he sit beside a man knocking on the 100^th door who farted and whose knees danced up and down for five hours? No. He didn’t. But I did and I don’t really care how long his day was, because I want mine to end.

“I had a long day, too. And I would like it to end. You stop napping and I’ll stop kicking. Deal?”

That’s right, dude. You might think you’re Robert De Niro. But you’ve got Kathy Bates in the back seat.

And she’s not happy with the ending.