The Cabbie
You get to meet a fair few different people being a cabbie, even in a relatively small town like Bozeman. Many of them, I take out once, then forget instantly, as they blend into the general, faceless, sexless 'customer' that I drive around for a living.
But there are my regulars, like Mr James, who I take to the airport every Monday at 5.30am, where he catches a plane to Helena to work for the week, and pick up every Friday at 9.15pm, to take him back home to his wife and three kids. There's the four girls from the University of Montana: Pippa, Kate, Steph and Emily, who I pick up from town most Saturday nights (or Sunday mornings), when I do the graveyard shift, and are always laughing and joking and chatting with me as I drive them back to campus. There's Mrs Bozinski from the outskirts of the town, who's called for a cab every Tuesday at 8.15am to take her to do the weekly shop for as long as I have been driving this car – 12 years, if it's a day. She lost her husband of 47 years four months ago, and with it most of her spark – she was one of my most animated pick-ups, especially for a woman of 69; always complaining good-naturedly about one thing or another, never forgetting to ask about me and my family; talking enthusiastically about hers. Still, she's slowly getting better, and joked about something one of her many grandchildren said to her on the phone, and still remembers all my kids' names.
Then there're people who I pick up once, and never see again, but who remain with me for a long time. Like the girl I picked up from town the first Saturday night I worked graveyard, 12 years ago. Melissa, her name was. She had the greenest eyes, and blackest hair I'd ever seen. I'd just started this job, and already thinking about packing it in – people aren't very sympathetic towards traffic jams when they're in a hurry, and tend to take it out on the driver. She was the first nice customer I'd had – she talked about herself (she was 20, studying English at the University of Maine, but was back home for her younger brother's birthday), and asked me about why I decided to drive a taxi at stupid-o'clock (extra cash, when my wife and I discovered we were to be parents for the fourth time). Nothing particularly special about her, but it was the fact that she was so ordinary, so normal, so kind, and didn't even realise how she made my night, that made her stick in my memory.
And there was the couple this afternoon that I picked up from the courthouse. Strictly speaking, I had picked the young woman up about half a dozen times over the last couple of weeks, either fetching her from the hotel she was staying at, or taking her back from the courthouse, depending on my shift. Lindsay Monroe: native to Montana, lived about 45 minutes from Bozeman when she was growing up, now living and working in New York; back to testify about that horrific case from ten years ago, that I can't imagine ever forgetting. She was always polite, and chatted to me about anything and everything, but when and if she ever smiled, it never reached her eyes. She looked as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. I asked if there was anyone here for her – anyone special. The smile then: a desperately sad smile that did reach her eyes in a way I'd seen in Mrs Bozinski, and made my heart ache. There was no-one as such here, and anyone else was back home in New York. She'd alluded to a man, but said that everyone had to work – they couldn't take time off to fly across the country. I had an idea that she was the kind of person not to ask for help, if it means affecting someone else.
I wouldn't have remembered her, I don't think, had it not been for this afternoon, when I picked her up for the last time. The transformation was unbelievable – she walked towards the cab with her head held high, and a spring in her step, as my wife would say. Her brown eyes were warm and shining, and gazing in adoration and disbelief at the man she was holding by the hand and practically dragging to my car. The man who I'm certain had just as much to do with her transformation as the result of the trial that I heard on the radio.
He held the door open for her, a gesture that seemed unconsciously done, and made me smile - nice to know chivalry isn't dead just yet.
"Back to the hotel, Miss Monroe?" I ask once he's climbed in, and she has shuffled back next to him.
"I thought I told you to call me Lindsay, Bill," she says, grinning. I just shrug and start the car. "And no, I don't want to go back to the hotel just yet – I want to show Danny why this is called Big Sky Country. Can you drop us just past McInty's Farm?"
"'Course. How're you planning on getting back – you need me to wait?" The farm is about four miles out of the town, and at least eight from the hotel she's staying at, and they might have a hard time getting back if I left them. I glance in the rear-view mirror to see her biting her lip as she thinks something over.
"Well, I wasn't sure how long we'd be – I was thinking of just walking for a while. Y'know what it's like being cooped up in one place for ages," she says with a smile. I return it and nod emphatically.
"Sure do. Well, my shift is over in ten minutes, so you'd be my last customers, and a walk sounds like a good idea. I can drop you off down this little track I know of – there's some great Montana views from there – " (for some reason this makes her fellow give a snort of laughter, which she glares at him for, effectively shutting him up, though he still smirks) " – and I can stretch my legs, read a bit of my book, then take you back when you're ready. Oh, and this is on me too." They both begin to protest, and I raise my hand. "It's the least I can do, after the couple of weeks you must've had with this damn trial. Congratulations on the result, by the way."
"Thanks, Bill. I – we – really appreciate it," Lindsay says kindly, settling back into the seat and the man's arm, which he has slung casually along the back of the seats.
For the first part of the drive, through downtown Bozeman, I listened to Lindsay telling me animatedly about New York, and the New Yorker currently sitting in the back of my cab: Danny Messer, who occasionally interrupts with odd anecdotes and to tease Lindsay. Or Montana, as he seems to call her.
"What's with the 'Montana' thing?" I ask when I can get a word in edgeways. "You afraid of forgetting where you're from or something?"
"No, that's Messer's idea of annoying the new girl," Lindsay replies, smiling up at Danny, who frowns back.
"I'd never annoy you – " he starts, and is cut off by mocking laughter.
"Yeah, sure, whatever."
"Well, if you want me to stop…" The question hangs in the air, and I glance in the mirror again to see if she will answer.
"Don't you dare," she whispers.
The last few miles, through suburbs, and scattered properties, then finally countryside, were done in near silence, as conversation peters out in favour of whispers and stolen kisses. I felt as though I was escorting two teenagers back from prom night, and when I pulled up next to a coppice they were still absorbed in each other: I had to clear my throat a couple of times before Danny looked up sheepishly.
"End of the road," I quip.
"Sure is," Lindsay replies, and I had a feeling she was referring to more than just the literal road we were standing on. "Thanks so much for this, Bill."
"Ah, it's no problem – I'll be here, stretching my poor old legs till you get back."
"Thanks, man," Danny says, as they clambered out, hugging their coats to themselves in the rapidly cooling evening. I waved as they turned and walked hand-in-hand to the entrance of the field, over a small rise.
"Pay attention, cowboy: now this is what a view looks like…" I hear, as they disappear from view, their shadows momentarily blending and stretching across the field to the horizon.
AN: Another little one-shot that insinuated itself inside my mind a month ago, waiting to be written. So here it is. Reviews are always greatly appreciated, if you'd like to let me know what you think. Thanks.
AN 2: Disclaimer: insert witty comment about how I do not own the characters from CSI Original characters do belong to me, however. So there.