Fare game
A short story • 6 min | Lugging her suitcase through baggage claim, Grace chats on the phone
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Lugging her suitcase through baggage claim, Grace chats on the phone.
“Yeah, I got the address, babe,” she says. “I’ll be fine.”
Her heels clatter across the floor.
“Whatever, at least the flights were cheap. Everyone else at this conference wastes money.”
She pinches a leather coat under her arm.
“I just played Candy Crush the whole time.”
She yo-yos her phone to look and speak again.
“Hey, I need to grab a car before my phone dies. I’ll text you when I get there. Love you. Bye.”
She opens her ride share app.
“Oh, hell no.”
Grace follows the signs toward the taxi stand. She veers through confused tourists, dodges loose children, and steps through the revolving doors that lead outside. Artificial light hangs along the terminal.
A poster warns against ‘unauthorized solicitation.’ In front of it, two men with checkered vests operate the taxi stand. Rubbing her neck, Grace gets in line. The operators issue receipts to passengers, ushering them into available cars. The lead car remains empty as others pull away, each bearing a ‘Flat Rate to Downtown’ sticker.
A woman comes out of the revolving doors and approaches the two operators. She holds a purse and a fuzzy, purple jacket hangs on her arm. She lights a cigarette and hands something to the operators. They laugh and banter.
Grace yawns as the line shifts forward and a breeze sails through the terminal. She puts on her coat. Men in suits haggle with drivers and complain about the weather. Despite the crowd, the line of passengers shrinks at a steady pace. Grace reaches the front of the line.
The bantering woman takes a long drag from her cigarette. Smoke seeps out through her nostrils as she hops into the driver’s seat of the lead taxi, turning on the roof light. The woman leans out from the driver’s seat. “Where you going?” she says.
Grace approaches the operators. “Central square, please,” Grace says.
One of the operators waves a hand toward the lead taxi.
“Come on, I’ll take you,” says the driver. “I don’t bite.”
Grace hesitates.
The operator bulges his eyes and points his hand toward the lead taxi.
The trunk pops open.
“Toss it in. Let’s go,” the driver says.
Grace steps to the back, hefts her bag into the trunk, and edges into the backseat. The cabin smells of fresh leather and lavender. Classical music hums as Grace buckles her seatbelt.
The driver pulls off into the road. “Where to?” she says, holding her cigarette out the window.
“Um, Central square, please,” says Grace. She nestles her neck into the headrest.
Purple flowers dangle from the rearview mirror.
“I’m surprised you’re out right now,” Grace says. “Do you usually drive this late at night?”
“Yea, all the time,” the driver says. “Good money.” She flicks her ashes.
The driver grips the wheel with both hands and zips past tractor trailers and other cars on the highway. A baseball cap rests on the dashboard, covering the fare meter.
“Excuse me, are you not going to start the meter?” says Grace.
“It’s broken,” says the driver. “Flat rate, anyways. Check the receipt they gave you.”
“They didn’t give one.”
“Oh, weird. Well, it’s one hundred fifty to downtown.”
Grace cranes her neck forward. “You can’t rip me off.”
“New tolls. City tax,” the driver says.
“Prove it,” Grace says.
“Look, that’s the price,” the driver says.
Grace opens her Maps app. The screen goes black. She pockets her phone and fidgets with her purse strap.
Out the window, five lanes stretch out in both directions. Leafless trees peek over the concrete sound barriers hugging the shoulder.
The driver makes eye contact through the mirror. “Cash only by the way,” the driver says.
“Do you have a charger that I can borrow?” Grace says.
“No, I don’t,” the driver says. Dim service lights flicker outside as they enter a tunnel.
“It’s illegal not to accept credit cards.”
“Those fees are crazy,” the driver says. “Four percent, plus tax and the company cut? That is a rip off.”
“Well I don’t have cash,” Grace says.
“I’ll stop by an ATM for you. It’s no problem, I’ll wait.” The driver winks in the mirror.
Grace rubs her eyes. She sighs.
As they exit the tunnel, a sea of red lights occupies the bridge in the distance.
“Traffic,” the driver says. “So much traffic this weekend. They must have some rally going on in the city.”
“A tech conference,” Grace says.
“Ah, that too,” the driver says. She exits the highway.
“Where are we going?” Grace says.
“Detour,” the driver says. “Past the bridge, they have streets blocked off.”
Grace’s head tilts to the side.
“Same flat rate, don’t worry.”
“Sure,” Grace says.
The driver’s phone rings.
“Do you mind?” the driver says.
“You should pay attention to the road,” Grace says.
Speaking Spanish, the driver answers. Her voice gets louder. She tosses a cigarette butt. Grace unbuttons her coat. Rusted sedans and crowded pickup trucks pass in the opposite direction. As they pass, headlights shimmer through the cabin.
The driver lights another cigarette, continuing the conversation.
The entertainment screen displays reruns of the same local news ads. Arms crossed in the backseat, Grace shifts to the driver side. The mirror now obscures the driver’s eyes. Grace’s fingernails dig into her blouse.
In the plexiglass behind the front seat, the driver’s identification reads “Rosa Hernandez.”
“Excuse me,” Grace says.
The driver sucks her teeth.
“Hey Rosa,” Grace says.
The driver mutters something in Spanish and ends the call.
“Si?” the driver says.
“Rosa, this direction seems wrong,” Grace says.
“You know, shortcut, detour,” the driver says.
“I grew up here, Rosa,” Grace says. “It’s been a while, but I know not to go through here.”
“You want to be stuck in traffic?” the driver says.
Liquor stores and vacant storefronts mix with condos and cafes.
Grace lowers her voice. “I guess it has been fifteen years,” she says.
The driver flicks her cigarette out the window.
“How long have you been driving, Rosa?” Grace says.
“Long enough,” the driver says.
“Do you pick up from the airport often?” Grace says.
“Best fares,” the driver says, smiling. The car approaches a series of underpasses filled with shopping carts, soiled clothes, tents, and graffiti.
Grace twists her hair and scratches her neck. “Look,” Grace says. “I know the company takes their cut.”
She leans into the plexiglass, staring at the driver. “Let’s say we work something out,” Grace says.
“We already did,” the driver says.
Grace scrunches her eyebrows. She sucks her teeth and shuffles across the backseat.
“Tell me where we’re going,” Grace says. “Now.”
They stop at a red light. The intersection is empty.
“The ATM,” the driver says. “Where you’ll get one hundred and fifty dollars. To pay me.”
“And if I don’t?”
The light turns green.
“What are you going to do?” the driver says. “Jump out?”
Hands in her lap, shoulders dropped, Grace wilts in the backseat.
###
After midnight, Grace lays on the bed in her hotel room, chatting on the phone.
“Babe,” she says. “We should consider buying a place there. It’s an up and coming neighborhood.”
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Absolutely nerve wracking. And that twist at the end!