Disclaimer: I don't own PoH.
Rated T for language and some violence.
Two of a Kind
Truth be told, Chris Gardner needed the eleven dollars and fifty-two cents he had to bring home what dinner that amount would buy him and his five-year-old son that night, not to mention he didn't have the due nineteen dollars for the fare anyway. Slowly, he planted his wallet back into his pants' pocket and slid out of the cab, doing his best to go unnoticed. It did not take long for the driver to perceive his intentions, however.
Before Chris could really think his actions over more thoroughly, he was rushing around the car to get ahold of his bone density scanner on the other side, ignoring the driver's shrill roars of, "HEY!"
Chris shoved the driver down onto the hood of the cab, then was swift to grab his device and hightail it through a park just ahead, remorsefully shouting, "Sorry! I'm so sorry!" as he took off.
Chris had been doing a lot of running those days for sure, but this sprint had a more dangerous cause attached to it. He ran for his life as the threats of how he was a son of a bitch who was going to get his ass kicked faded the farther he got away.
He was halfway through the park when the cab driver caught up with him at a distance to his left. They were speeding nearly parallel to each other, Chris on his dashing feet and the driver putting a good portion of his weight on the gas in his taxi. Chris made a turn towards a barren street at the end of the park and continued sprinting without looking back once. His chest began to ache, as did his legs and feet, and these working shoes were certainly not meant for a marathon like this, but he literally could not afford to care—not now.
"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" Chris could hear him boom. "I AM GOING TO KEEEEEL YOU!"
Sweat began to soak through his blazer once he reached the end of this street, and that's when he decided to try to lose this guy by making a run for the nearby forest where the irate cabbie wouldn't be able to venture...with his car, anyway.
The growled protests of the portly taxi driver slowly died in the wind as Chris entered the woods, the last ground-out holler to spank his eardrums being: "ASSHOOOOLE!"
Keeping his fingers crossed, Chris prayed that the cabbie wouldn't dare veer into the woods after him. He judgmentally doubted that he would be able to catch up with him on foot, for that probably would've been the most exercise that the overweight man had gotten in his life, he would guess.
Nonetheless, he kept on going and wouldn't stop until he felt in his heart and soul that he was in the clear. His long legs must have carried him for nearly thirteen minutes before they could bolt no longer, nearly giving out on him. He was sure that he'd pulled and sprained muscles he didn't even know he had. Stopping in his tracks, he slumped against a willow a ways into the woods, choosing not to travel too deep in, mindful that he could not risk getting lost, for he had to pick up Christopher from the daycare center in just an hour and fifteen minutes.
As he caught his breath, he was sure that the thickset Arab-American had been on his way back from which he came with an accepting yet dejected attitude of aggravation. Chris truly did feel bad for not being able to pay the guy. Surely he didn't roll in the big bucks himself, and Chris understood the place more than anything else. Being poor gave one an empty feeling, like you are worth as much as you make, and in the cases of both Chris and Mr. Pissed-off cabbie, that was close to nothing.
The rookie stockbroker rested on a log that was previously propped up against the tree before he brought it down to use as an environmental seat. From the distance he could hear the coo of birds and the stream of the stream downhill. He was standing on a mild slope, catching his breath and stretching out his throbbing legs. Cooling down, he congratulated himself on that strenuous workout, though at the same time he was not so happy to see that his only dress shoes were worn-out at the expense of that exerting trot.
"Damn," he sighed, bringing himself back to his feet. Opting not to wait out here too much longer, a different route back to the road than where he entered the woods would be the wisest to take; anything to stay out of that mustached driver's path.
Just as he headed down a trail that led to the other side of the neighborhood, he could swear he caught sound of a distant shout. He decisively shrugged it off after ducking for cover behind a bush for a few minutes, in case the cabbie was nearby on the lookout for him. The cabbie obviously saw him run for the forest, but Chris could only pray that he didn't follow after him. His stomach knotted up at the prospect of the Arab hunting him down, a pocket knife in his clutch, his teeth bared and his reflexes more astute than what he'd inferred from taking a gander at him.
Still, he refused to wait around for this guy to pop out of nowhere, and soldiered on with positive thoughts and motivation. He'd be okay. He'd get out of these woods and back into the city, then he'd pick up Christopher, take him to the park (a different one from where he'd run from the Arab, of course), and he'd see if he could get his son some inexpensive ice cream somewhere. Chances of coming face-to-face with the cabbie seemed pretty low by now, the measly nineteen bucks he was owed probably in the process of going forgotten; he would just earn it back through some other paying passenger anyway, right?
Chris could only assume such as he trudged on, nearing the woods' exit. About half a mile from said exit, another bear-like roar spilled across the sky. This time, the call sounded closer than before. Panic coursed through him now as he quickened his pace. Hopefully, the thunderous groan in the wind was that of an actual animal rather than of Sir Mustachio, but Chris could only bet against the latter so much.
In his thirty-one years he'd learned to appreciate the things he did have, not to dwell on what he didn't, and most importantly, not to keep his fingers crossed all the time, especially for a dire time like this, where circumstances may not turn out in his favor. Yet, Chris had no interest in getting mauled by a raging, fare-hungry neanderthal anytime soon, or really ever in his life, so he had to hustle with reaching the forest's end, which at this point was approaching his view faster with each swift step.
When he was close enough to calm down and take it a little easy, he briefly paused to suck in a hearty breath of fresh air and remove his blazer. He checked the time on his wristwatch and spent some time admiring his surroundings. It had felt like many years since Chris had walked casually into the depths of nature. Taking moments out of his city-revolved day to hike through the copious trees and smell the earthy pine as he stepped through grass, twigs and fallen leaves was a highly pleasurable escape.
The experience was all great until the scuff of someone else's foot went heard from a short distance uphill. Horrified, Chris reluctantly looked to his right to see the cause to his fleeing, with an expression twisted in rage, charging downwards. Momentarily, Chris was too mesmerized to haul ass, but when he finally could, it was already too late. He ran no further than ten feet when he was struck by a substantial, powerful force from the side. The weight threw him off his feet and had him slipping down the steep slope of the hill just to his left, the bone density scanner inadvertently let go of. In a whirlwind, Chris and the Arab were somersaulting downhill, rolling over rocks, plenty of burr weed, incisive twigs and branches along the way.
Through Chris' state of delirium combined with apprehension, he could perceive growls from the other man who had his arms and legs entwined around him as the two tumbled endlessly. The cabbie's growled remarks were only of the filthiest of profanity, like the kind of talk Chris would hear his aggressive alcoholic uncle curse growing up.
Centuries had gone by to Chris before they reached the bottom of the slanted bank—to land in a sluggishly flowing crick. The cabbie had landed on top of Chris, and was not quick to remove himself; not quick at all. In fact, the enraged Arab held Chris down under the murky rushing water for at least ten seconds before jerking him upwards by his shirt's collar. As Chris coughed violently and fought to shove this maniac off of him, a payment was demanded.
"WHY DIDN'T YOU PAY?!" was screamed down at him, loudly enough to go heard by civilians if they were walking outside the treeline of the woods.
"I - I don't have the money!" Chris frantically explained. "I thought I had it when you dropped Jay off, but when I checked my wallet as you were about to reach my stop, I realized that I didn't have a twenty-"
"YOU LOUSY AMERICAN CHEAT!"
A sharp and menacing fist was flung at Chris' nose, a loud, sickening crack to ensue, signifying its immense damage. Chris howled out in pain as another fist met his upper lip at lightening speed and force, effectively busting it open.
"I told you, heh heh," the Arab in control chuckled. "I promised I'd kick your ass...and now I am! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!"
Another vicious punch from the cabbie greeted Chris' left cheek.
Then another.
And another.
And five more, right up until Chris' face was swollen and more bruised than it had ever been. The fights he'd endured as a child living in downtown San Francisco had nothing on this brawl here. The array of public schools' fair share of bullies and delinquents hadn't measured up to what havoc this ruthless, middle-aged taxi driver was wreaking upon him. This was hell at its finest.
The husky man's huffs of exhaustion were audible even to the zoned-out ears of the beaten, drenched man beneath. Just when Chris believed he'd be presented with a hot loogie on the cheek and a final whip of dissatisfaction before the attacker would be on his way, leaving him be, the cabbie instead rammed Chris' head into the running pool a second time, and held him under for the Lord himself knew how long.
Chris must have been on the brink of death by now. His pulse began to weaken, and his vision faded along with the already blurry view of the swampy water around him. His lungs were imploring oxygen after having none for a cruel, agonizing forty seconds. Consciousness began to slowly leave him as the cabbie yanked him back into the blissful air.
Was this how he was going to meet his demise? Once he'd found something that just might help him achieve the financial stability he'd long yearned and deserved, was he really going to die in a dirty old creek beneath the straddle of a cab-driving brute?
"Please!" Chris croaked, a trickle of blood seeping from his nostrils and bottom lip. Staring up at his assailant with swelling, half-lidded eyes, he reasoned, "I have a son! He's only five! He needs me!"
The cabbie loosened his death grip on Chris' collar, but his glare did not soften quite yet. "You are not one of the white-collar assholes I commonly pick up?" he surmised in a mutter, a concerned thick, black eyebrow risen on his tan forehead.
Chris nodded weakly. "My wife and I are struggling. We can hardly afford his daycare, and-"
"Quiet!" the cabbie growled, yanking his thief in closer to level his narrowed, glinted eyes with the other's. "I want proof so I know you are not just a lying cheap-ass. Do you have a picture of your boy?"
"There are some in my wallet."
Chris was allowed to withdraw the 'proof' from his slacks' pocket. The cabbie snatched the soaked leather folder and tore it open, fishing through its contents like he owned it. He produced three fading photos, one of a very young African-American boy giggling at the camera in his baggy pajamas, another showing a thin, attractive woman around thirty of the same skin tone, her smile weaker and seemingly less genuine than the boy's, and the last picture was a portrait of the three of them together, the man obviously the very one currently being held down in the mucky crick.
The cabbie frowned at his own hasty, self-righteous actions, suddenly realizing that he'd gone miles too far in seeking justice for missing out on a single fare. He was fairly penniless himself, but his daughter had grown up and was happy and financially stable with her fiance two States away. Letting his thoughts cloud in, he reflected on how he'd often have to resort to shoplifting small, basic items and work many hours overtime just to decently care for his now ex-wife and little daughter. Clearly the man underneath his weight was a younger version of himself. To ice the cake of guilt, the cabbie counted what little drenched and ruined money the fancily dressed salesman had in his wallet.
"That was going to buy my family dinner," Chris informed him in a bitter wheeze, sensing that the cabbie's inner conscience was beginning to bloom and take effect.
"I - I am sorry." The attacker awkwardly stumbled to his feet, finally relieving the victimized former passenger of the heavy pressure his abdomen had suffered from for roughly five minutes. He held out a helping hand for Chris, but Chris did not accept it, and rather, crawled to the forest shore without assistance. All he desired was to immediately be rid of this mad cab driver.
"I won't ever be seeking your services again." Chris coughed on his hands and knees, his energy so diminished he couldn't bring himself to glare daggers at the standing man. "So don't worry about having to see my face after today, and I'd prefer to never see yours, either. Now hand back my purpose for living, would you?"
The cabbie nodded frantically, scrambling to return his wallet and family. The normally tolerant and kindly Chris ripped it from his hold, sloppily stuffing it into his pocket, then inhaling deeply several times before slowly rising to his feet. He looked at the cabbie with curiosity. "What inspired you to refrain from killing me?"
"The only reason I chased you was because I thought you were just another stingy businessman, too good to pay a struggling taxi driver what bit he'll actually get out of your fare," he sighed remorsefully.
"Listen, I thought I had enough beforehand, otherwise, I wouldn't have even-"
"Forget it, let us drop this whole mess, eh?"
The last thing Chris wanted to do was just let this murder attempt go. His mind was pinned on reporting this madman off to the law, but on the other hand, Chris had broken a law himself by stealing a taxi ride. Chances were, they'd both end up in trouble neither would be able to break out of easily.
"Yeah, whatever," Chris mumbled resignedly, staggering his way uphill, keeping an eye out for his lost scanner. He prayed with everything he was that the dregs of contaminated water he'd gasped in wouldn't turn into pneumonia, as he absolutely could not afford a stint in the hospital, in spite of his likely broken nose.
"I have a daughter; that is why I couldn't go on," the cabbie explained, joining Chris. "I understand the hell of trying to raise a kid with scraps for funds. I couldn't even buy my Anna a Barbie doll for her seventh birthday. I am just so thankful she's better and much richer now at twenty-two."
Chris regarded the cabbie's second-to-last statement, comparing it to how he almost couldn't buy Christopher a petty basketball for his recent birthday.
"We should really just part ways, alright?" Chris said, inwardly fighting not to raise his voice and stoop to an even, justifying level by kicking the guy's groin with all his might. "You really went crazy down there, and I consider you a threat."
"Yes, I've got that. Just remember that I take it back…"
Spotting his fortunately still-intact machine, Chris limped over to where it had landed by a pile of twigs and lugged it up with him, his twinged arm screaming that he ought to drop it and move on to retrieve it later when he healed somewhat.
"Would you like me to carry that for you?" the cabbie offered, trying to make up for his ferocious misdeed.
A very alert pang sparked inside of Chris. The hippie had gotten away with one of these, and he sure as hell wasn't about to let this freak run off with one more. "No."
"Uh, is there anything I can do for you?"
"No," Chris answered curtly, utterly fed-up.
"Right, I'll be out of your bounds, then."
Chris welcomed a sensation of gratuity when the heavier man waddled upwards at a faster pace than he, his own injuries having greatly exceeded his attacker's. Minutes later, a beautiful sunset fused with orange and red tones greeted him outside the woods' exterior. The taxi was turning a corner up the road, blissfully distancing from the wounded father.
As he continued to limp towards the streets, his means of income in his shaking grip, he exhaled, at peace that he was alive, albeit bruised, soaked and violated. He would collect his son from daycare and see his wife, not having to wait in the afterlife for them, but carry on, performing to his best ability to bring them a better, stabilized life.
This experience, in some abnormal sense, awakened an optimistic part of Chris. 'What doesn't kill you makes you stronger,' he thought, and the saying couldn't have been more relevant at the moment. The stock-breaking try-outs would be a breeze compared to being beaten and forced to gargle water no cleaner than a swamp's. He definitely owed no dues to the cabbie who'd just had his hundreds' worth of merriment with torturing.
With a renewed, strengthened slate of mind, Chris limped on with terribly aching, twisted muscles, the worst headache of his days and a rattling, tight chest, prepared to permanently extinguish his indigent, invisible stance in society.