storyshell

 

Just a minute ago, the man Alfred had let into his cab did not have a beard. Now, he did. And, that was impossible. Because Alfred had not picked up anyone else.

He looked closely into the rearview mirror. The man who had sat down, just a minute ago, had a smooth face, like an egg. He was young, and though his tuxedo was a bit askew, and his movements a bit drunken, his face was clean shaven, and open.

Now, he had a beard.

Alfred shook his head.

“You have a beard now,” he said. “You didn’t have one when you got in.”

The man leaned forward. “What?”

“You have a beard now. Is that a costume?”

The man felt his beard. “I’ve had a beard for five months. What are you talking about?”

Alfred looked straight ahead again. What was he talking about?

“Nothing,” said Alfred.

The man leaned back.

Alfred made a right turn. The traffic was light, but moving recklessly. It was the hour where, now, if you were going to a party, you would be late. People were in a hurry. Rain fell lightly, the hems of angels in the night.

As he turned right, he glanced into the rearview to check for the traffic behind him.

Now, a woman sat next to the man. She was broad-shouldered and was hunched over her purse, her hands crawling through it.
Alfred’s breath caught.

“Excuse me!” Alfred said. “Who is she?”

The man looked up. His beard was gone.

“What?” he said. “Her? That’s my girlfriend. What do you mean?”

Alfred turned his head, then turned back to the front. “She was not there! She was not there before!”

The man looked at the woman. Then he shrugged. “Um, my man, I’m not sure what you are talking about. She got in with me. We’re going to the Waldorf. Do you remember that? Are you okay?”

Alfred’s mouth dropped open. The man had a British accent. He had no such accent three minutes ago.

Alfred felt sweat curling up from his collar. Was he blacking out? He looked ahead. At the next traffic light, he reached over for his water bottle and took a long gulp.

He looked in the rearview.

The woman was gone. The man, now black, was leaning into the corner of the back seat, his eyes closed.

“No,” said Alfred.

He pulled over to the side of the road. The man shook awake, his eyelids fluttering.

“What? Are we here? Is this the Rainbow Room?” said the man.

Alfred turned all the way around, his lips now stretched.

“What is going on here?” said Alfred.

The man straightened. He wore a green Ralph Lauren sweater, with a red scarf. He had a goatee.

“What do you mean?” said the man. “What is going on? This is not the Rainbow Room.”

Alfred pointed at him. “You are not the man who came in. It was a white man. In a tuxedo. And then, there was a woman, and a different man, and now, a different man. What. Is this trick?”

The rider scowled, then let his face go slack.

“Look, you picked me up on 5th. I’ve been here the whole time. I think I dozed off, but, I think you are still dreaming or something,”

The man reached into his pocket then, pulled out a twenty, and tossed it at Alfred.

“I’m getting out here. You have some issues, bro. Keep the change. Go get some help, or some coffee, whatever.

The man slid out, glanced back, and walked away, hunching in the rain.

 

At the cab dispatch, Alfred sat in the locker room, bent, his face in his hands. Ruddy came in. Ruddy had been here a few years before Alfred. Ruddy has big hands and used to work in the post office.

“What’s wrong, Alfred,” he said.

Alfred raised his head. “I go crazy,” he said.

“What’s the deal?”, said Ruddy.

Alfred took a breath, and bowed into his palms again. “I had one man. He changed to three men. And there was a woman. She disappeared. All on one ride. It’s not real,” said Alfred.

Ruddy sat down next to him.

“It all runs together,” Ruddy said. “You know. I was married for ten years on a Monday, then, on Tuesday, I met this girl. We dated for six months on Tuesday. She left me on Tuesday night. I met another one on Wednesday. We got married. Thursday, I woke up alone. Friday, I met another one for about a year. She was great, but she was too quiet. I left her on Saturday. Sunday, I was alone for two years. It all runs together, man.”

Ruddy pat Alfred on the back.

Alfred raised his head again.

Jimmy Jones was there, a fat guy. He always had something clinging to his nose hairs.

“Get some rest, Alfred,” Jimmy Jones said. And, he walked out, limping, like he always does.

Alfred watched him go, then he went to his locker.

The sun came through the tiny window in the locker room. Like it does every day. Every week. Every year. Every life.