I Have Sinned

by Caimh McDonnell

  Still, the man was a mystery wrapped up in an enigma and wearing a beret. Despite their long association, Smithy still couldn’t tell if he wore it ironically or not. And he didn’t know how Marcel had come to own a New York taxi any more than he knew how Marcel had managed to move to Tahiti with his current boyfriend. All he knew was that he had gifted Smithy the use of the cab for an indeterminate amount of time. He’d only found out about it when the barman at a bar they both frequented handed Smithy an envelope containing the keys along with a poem that Smithy had yet to decipher.

  If history had proven anything, it was that Smithy was not predisposed to having a boss. He’d tried to work it out recently and he reckoned, best guess, he’d quit more jobs than he had been fired from. The final tally really depended on things like whether you considered setting the boss’s desk on fire to be officially handing in your notice or not. The idea of driving a cab, therefore, and being his own boss, had its appeal. What he was currently doing would almost certainly have lost him his licence to do so, except the Taxi and Limousine Commission hadn’t actually finished processing his application yet and you can’t lose what you never had.

  With a squeal of tyres and a cacophony of honked horns, Smithy hurled the taxi into a reverse U-turn that ended with the car facing the correct direction in the right-hand lane, having narrowly missed taking out the wing mirror of a parked sedan. He slammed the vehicle into drive and jammed his foot on the gas.

  He’d used the taxi for a few weeks before Christmas, up until he’d stopped to help Bunny with that thing on Christmas Eve. Overall, the job had many plus points. Nobody met a more diverse cross section of the world than a New York taxi driver. Smithy had stalled in the first act of the play he was writing, but his time in the cab had given him a hundred new ideas. Every passenger was a story, and he’d taken to furiously scribbling notes when stopped at traffic lights. In the three weeks prior to Christmas, he’d met a lot of people. Some had spoken no more than a couple of terse words; some had poured out their souls. One night, he’d turned off the meter and sat in silence while a man who had recently been widowed sat in the back seat, looking up at the Brooklyn Bridge, and talked himself out of a bad decision. A broken heart was laid bare, and he saw the man’s love for the woman who had completed him and then his realisation that she would hate what he was considering. Men being men, the U-turn of his intent had been justified when Smithy opined that the Knicks might not suck this year and that he knew a guy who knew a guy who might be able to get tickets for Hamilton. He’d really wanted to see that show.

  Smithy had driven a pregnant woman to the hospital, which had been kind of cool. He hadn’t charged her, figuring that it was good karma. But thanks to the Christmas party season, he’d also had to clean up an unacceptable amount of vomit – none of which was his.

  On top of all that, he may well have been an unwilling observer to the conception of a child. It was surprisingly hard to stop two people having sex if they seemed to be getting off on your admonitions. Still, “Big Daddy” and “You Bad Girl” had seemed very much in love and were probably well suited for each other, in their own messed-up way. That was the night Smithy had started paying for someone else to valet the cab.

  Neither the vomit nor the unwanted voyeurism was what had annoyed him the most though. No – not by the longest of long shots. Lots of people had questions when they noticed that he was a dwarf. He wasn’t wild about it, but as long as they were asked politely, he didn’t mind them in his current circumstances. The way he saw it, he was driving a vehicle that people were passengers in, and they had the right. So yes, he had extensions to the pedals, and the seat was specially customised. Nope, it wasn’t hard – he could drive as well as anyone else, due to the cab’s modifications.

  So today, this guy – the douchebag who was currently hurrying around the corner of East 121st Street and Third Avenue – had asked the usual questions. Smithy had seen the expression on his face as the douchebag had made his calculations. He’d learned to recognise the look after it had happened the first couple of times. What was it they said? Most people avoided engaging in criminality only because opportunity never presented itself. Besides, skipping out on a fare wasn’t really a crime, was it?

  This time, enough was enough. The anger management course, the books, the Tony Robbins seminar he’d signed up for at a particularly low moment – they’d all said the same thing. Count to ten, take a deep breath, realise that you are losing control. As Smithy threw the cab around the corner of 121st and Third, the little voice in his head was counting to ten, but it was doing it sarcastically. Smithy was really calm right up until the point he wasn’t, and try as he might, when the levee broke the levee broke. This douchebag was circling forty in a charcoal grey suit and a cashmere overcoat – he wasn’t anyone’s best guess at what a criminal might look like, but Smithy saw it differently. He’d seen the look and the sweaty palms rubbing together, the licking of the lips in nervous anticipation. As soon as the cab had pulled to a stop, he was out the door like he’d been shot out of a cannon. The door was still open – swinging around wildly as the car veered back into the lane it was supposed to be in. Smithy really needed to get that central locking thing fixed. The guy had just started to slow his run, no doubt thrilled with himself at having skipped out on a $23.50 cab fare, when he turned at the sound of squealing tyres. At almost 9pm, the sidewalks were only sparsely occupied, which was just as well, as the cab – with a shuddering jolt and a burst of sparks – mounted the kerb and blocked the guy’s path.

  Why does a guy who can clearly afford it decide to skip out on a fare? Midlife crisis? The thrill of the chase? Something to liven up a life that had fallen into a rut? That would certainly explain what happened next. Smithy had half-assumed that the guy would reverse course and run back the way he’d come. Instead, he’d gone for the leap onto the hood of the car and the slide over, like Steve McQueen in Bullitt or one of the Dukes of Hazzard boys. It was a trickier manoeuvre to pull off than the douchebag had anticipated: his knee hit the side of the car, leading to an ungracious face plant on the hood followed by a messy landing in the doorway of a trophy store that had its metal barriers down. A homeless guy who had been lying there in a sleeping bag broke his fall.

  Smithy didn’t like talking about his past, for many, many reasons. Still, it had been colourful. It had also left him with some useful skills – for example, the ability to flip himself out of a car door and onto the roof, and from there to leap into a perfectly executed elbow drop from height onto an opponent’s back. When he’d learned this skill, the hardest thing had been to make it look convincing while not actually hurting your opponent. Thing is, if you knew how to produce an excellent fake, the genuine article was easier. Even as he came in for a landing, a tiny part of his mind, the part not shrouded in red mist, was marvelling at how his form was pretty good for someone who hadn’t executed such a manoeuvre in over a decade. The face of the man in possession of $23.50 that didn’t belong to him made a satisfyingly unpleasant sound as it hit the sidewalk. Smithy then flipped himself over to land on the guy’s back, pinning him while knocking any wind the douchebag had left firmly out of his body.

  “Hi there – quick customer feedback survey. How would you rate your ride in my cab? A) excellent, B) average, C) the reason you now have a broken nose, bruised ribs and a life expectancy that a mayfly would consider brief?”

  In lieu of an answer, the man made a gurgling sound as he attempted to catch up with the latest developments in breathing in a world where noses were broken and dwarves were riding your back like you were a birthday pony ride.

  “What the fuck?” Those words came from the sleeping bag. Smithy turned to see the bearded face of the homeless guy peeking out from his cocoon and felt instantly guilty.

  “Oh – sorry, man. I was apprehending a fare-skipper.”

  The homeless guy sat himself upright. “I’m just, y’know, trying get some sleep. Don’t need dudes falling on me.”
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  “I know. I apologise.”

  The homeless guy looked down at the fare-skipper. “Maybe he can’t afford it? Times is hard.”

  “Get the fuck off me,” whined the passenger. “This is assault.”

  “Citizen’s arrest.” Smithy shifted his weight and reached around to grab the guy’s wallet from inside his coat.

  “Hey! You can’t—”

  Smithy used his free hand to slap the back of the guy’s head. “Yes, I can.”

  Smithy flipped open the wallet. “Well now, what have we got here, I wonder?” He looked at the driver’s licence. “Nathan Perriman. Hi, Nathan, delighted to make your acquaintance.” Then Smithy pulled out the banknotes. “I make that about… what? Over six hundred bucks.”

  The homeless guy gave a disapproving shake of the head. “Nathan, man, not cool.”

  The invective Nathan issued in response was met with a wallop on the earhole from Smithy. “Now, Nathan, it feels like you’re just not learning your lessons regarding proper social etiquette.” He turned to the homeless guy. “What’s your name, brother?”

  The homeless guy looked slightly taken aback. “They call me Fudgy.”

  “Cool. I’m Smithy. Apologies for, y’know, this.”

  Fudgy shrugged. “Hey, man, nobody likes getting ripped off. I feel you.”

  Smithy gave him a nod. “Appreciate it.”

  “Get off me.”

  “No, Nathan. I’m afraid this experience isn’t something you can skip out on.”

  “You can keep the money, just—”

  Smithy slapped the back of his head, slightly harder this time. “No kidding.”

  “Please, I’m sorry. Oh God, I peed myself.”

  Smithy looked down. He had.

  “Hey, man,” said Fudgy, “it happens.”

  Smithy continued his examination of the wallet. “Let’s see: credit card, credit card, Starbuck’s loyalty card. Damn, someone likes to stay caffeinated. And…” He found the baggy in the zip pocket. “Oh my, I’m guessing this is some of that cocaine I’ve heard so much about. So, has that misplaced confidence worn off yet?”

  “Keep it.”

  Smithy shook his head. “The dude is unfailingly generous.”

  “Hey, man, could I have that?”

  Smithy looked into Fudgy’s eyes. “Ah, sorry, brother – no offence, but it doesn’t seem like the cool thing to do.”

  Fudgy nodded sagely, clearly used to not getting anything in this life for free.

  “On the upside though…” Smithy flipped through the notes and pulled out a ten and a twenty. “I’m taking thirty bucks. That’s the $23.50 you owe me, Nathan – plus I’m guessing you’re a big tipper.”

  Nathan said nothing.

  Fudgy’s face lit up as Smithy wordlessly handed the rest of the notes to him and then put his finger to his lips. “The rest of your money I’m giving to a worthy cause, because, y’know, we’re all in it together.”

  “That’s stealing,” said Nathan in a less conciliatory tone.

  “Wow, you’ve suddenly developed a finer sense for that concept than you had in my cab. This is progress. Look on the bright side: you can have your wallet back.”

  “Alright, fine.”

  “It’ll be under a rock in front of the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park.”

  “Aw, come on!”

  “Life ain’t fair, Nathan,” said Smithy. “In fact…” Smithy lost the train of thought as the Bluetooth headset in his left ear rang. He hated the thing on principle, but he’d reluctantly bought one for when he was driving, as – despite the dramatically contradictory evidence of the previous few minutes – he actually took road safety very seriously.

  Smithy tapped his finger to it to answer. “Yeah?”

  “Howerya, Smithy, how’s it going?”

  “Hey, Bunny. Oh, you know, the usual.”

  Nathan used this opportunity to make an ill-judged attempt to throw Smithy off his back. Having been anticipating it, Smithy leaped up nimbly and, placing his hand on the hood, landed a couple of feet back, from where he was perfectly positioned to deliver a swift punch to an area that would make Nathan’s evening all the more memorable.

  Fudgy sucked in air and winced sympathetically. Some experiences traverse class, race and, well, everything except possibly gender.

  “I need your help,” continued Bunny. “You got time for a drink?”

  Smithy accepted Fudgy’s fist bump and then patted Nathan, who was engrossed in a very personal pain, cordially on the cheek as he walked by his prone body.

  “Yeah, sure. A drink sounds good.”

  Chapter Five

  Jackie watched the door expectantly while Paidi and Donal, the Porterhouse Lodge’s two most regular of regular customers, pretended to read their newspapers. In fact, the term “regular customer” didn’t really do the two men justice. For as long as Jackie had managed the place, both men had spent six to eight hours of every day sitting at either end of the bar, like the sentinels from a Ken Bruen novel. Jackie would have thought that the greatest plus of being retired was that you didn’t have to turn up to the same place day after day, but apparently not. The two old duffers were here come rain or shine – and even when there had been several feet of snow. Jackie lived in the apartment upstairs with his wife, so he had opened the pub for them because, well, what else was he going to do? Just because the old lunatics had walked there in the middle of a blizzard, it didn’t mean he could feel right sending them back home in it. They’d spent so much time in the place that they’d worn grooves into their stools. You couldn’t refer to people like that as ‘customers’; they were more like family.

  And not unlike family, they could also be intensely annoying. The only thing the two men ever agreed on was that things were getting worse, and the reason they were both pretending to read the paper today was because they had found a new argument to have. It was Paidi’s contention that the Porterhouse Lodge had gone unforgivably upmarket – serving the besuited work crowd rather than the everyday working man that used to be its clientele. Donal entirely disagreed, saying they got more casually dressed wasters in the doors than ever, and that was what was sending the pub to hell in a handcart. Jackie had made the terrible error of being dragged in as judge in this latest dispute. To get a proper sample size, it was decided that they would monitor the people coming through the door for the entire day, business wear versus casual, and count which they got more of. Jackie had been the one who’d decided that the winner would be the first to make it to fifty. It was currently poised at 49–49, and it had been for ten minutes now. The tension was becoming unbearable.

  Jackie drummed his fingers on the counter. Sod it, he was getting himself a whiskey – this was getting to be torturous. He was just turning towards the optics when the door slammed open and a six-foot-tall fox staggered in. Jackie recognised it instantly. It was Funtime Frankie from the hit kids’ TV show of the same name. His grandson loved it. His granddaughter had too, until the day she’d announced that it was “for babies” and she now hated it. It was hard to keep up.

  Donal dropped his paper and pumped his fist. “Winner!”

  Paidi waved his hand in disgust. “How are you getting that? Winner? That’s not casual attire.”

  “Well, it sure as shite isn’t a business suit!”

  The head of the costume was pulled off to reveal someone else Jackie recognised: Jackson Diller. It was definitely him, although he didn’t normally look this sweaty and frantic. He leaned on the bar and panted heavily.

  “Hey, Diller, how you doing?”

  “Hey… Jackie… I’m… long story.”

  Jackie smiled. “It always is with you guys. Smithy and Bunny are in the back.”

  Diller nodded. “Could you hide me?”

  “What?”

  “I need to hide.”

  “If you don’t want to see them, you could just not come here. I mean, while we appreciate your custom and all, we’ll survive wi
thout that lemonade sale.” Diller was a non-drinker, which had also led to a debate between the sentinels as to whether he should be allowed to use the pub. Donal had made a firm ruling on that – he’d always liked Diller. Speaking of which…

  “He doesn’t count,” said Jackie in his best stern voice. “It’s still 49-all.”

  This was met with outraged grumbles from both ends of the bar, which Jackie waved away. “Judge’s decision is final.”

  Diller looked confused and then gave Jackie a pleading look. “Please, Jackie, I’m being chased.”

  “Let me guess,” said Jackie. “Bunch of posh dudes on horseback with a pack of dogs?”

  “Good one,” said Paidi.

  “No problem, Dill,” said Jackie, raising the hinged bar flap and letting Diller in behind the counter. “You can just sit in the back hall there.”

  “Thanks, Jackie.”

  As Diller disappeared, Donal shook his head. “This is how it starts.”

  “How what starts?” asked Jackie.

  “This’ll be a furry bar in a week, you mark my words.”

  “What are you on about?”

  Paidi nodded in agreement. “Yep. Happened to Gallagher’s over on Clayton. Place is full of them furry fuckers these days.”