–
by D.B. Cox
–
After killing a little time shooting 8-ball and discussing God around a beer-soaked bar with a bunch of hipsters and mad bikers, I drift out of “Lucky’s Lounge” and into the dull, rainy streets of a Savannah Saturday night. The neon donut in the window of the all-night café across the street blinks zero—zero—zero.
My name is Leon Stone. I drive a taxicab for the “Miracle Seven Cab Company”—the graveyard shift. When I was a kid I wanted to be a pilot, but just the thought of flying brought on a dizziness that I still don’t understand. My mind simply could not picture things from a great height. So, I drive, leaping back and forth across town—mile after mile of mind-numbing driving until my brain shuts down and I work myself into some kind of altered state. I stay in motion until something clean and untainted begins to appear—a kind of curtain that temporarily separates my empty life from chaos. Day after day of playing out the fucked-up implications of a “normal life”—destination, even someone else’s, giving me purpose.
My cab is just up the street, and when I get back to where it’s parked, there’s a guy waiting in the rain. A dark apparition carrying a beat-up briefcase—emaciated, wearing a stained black raincoat about two sizes too big—blank eyes sunk back in his skull. With his long hair and beard, he reminds of one of those sad pictures of Jesus that I used to see in Sunday School when I was a kid.
“Are you waiting for me?” I ask.
“Yeah, can we get in out of the rain?”
“Sure thing,” I say, and press the remote device on my key ring to unlock the doors.
As soon as we’re inside, I start the engine and turn on the windshield wipers. When I glance in the rearview mirror, I catch a quick look at the man’s face as he lights a cigarette. For a split-second, something flashes through my brain. Fear? Dread? My grandfather used to say, “like someone walking on your grave.” I also notice a tattoo on the back of his hand—I can’t quite make it out. It looks like some kind of animal.
When he gets the cigarette lit, he leans back, catches my eye in the mirror, and says, “Leon, I’ve got three hundred dollars in my pocket, and it’s all yours if you’ll drive me to Charleston.”
Using my first name catches me by surprise, until it occurs to me that he’s noticed my name on my hack’s license posted on the dashboard. Charleston, South Carolina is about a hundred and twenty miles from Savannah, but three hundred dollars is a lot of cash, and I don’t mind the drive. I reach over, turn off the meter, and say, “You just bought yourself a driver.”
***
I take GA-21 North to I-95—I’m starting to feel good about heading somewhere out of the ordinary. Meanwhile, “Jesus” hasn’t said a word. So, just to break the ice, I ask where he lives in Savannah, and he tells me he has a room downtown. When I ask about family, he just sits and stares out the window.
The only words spoken over the next hundred miles are when he leans up asks if I’ll turn down the radio. I turn the radio off and drive on through the rainy night toward Charleston. I wonder what kind of misery could account for this pitiful pilgrim.
***
About a mile out of Charleston, I ask “Mr. X” where he wants to go when we get there, and he says, “Take me to the top of the Cooper River Bridge.”
“Did you say the top?”
“That’s what I said, Leon.”
“What the fuck for?”
He looks out the window for a couple of seconds then says, “To kill the bear.”
“What damn bear? Are you mad?”
“What’s madness, Leon, but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance? The bear goes everywhere I go, and tonight, I have a special place to take him.” I slow down and look into the rearview mirror. He catches my reflection, and a sudden shiver tracks my spine.
I drag my eyes back to the road.
Overwhelmed by some incomprehensible fear, I hear myself shout, “Fuck this man, I’m not going!”
The shadow, behind me, produces a pistol from his coat pocket, leans forward and points it directly toward my right ear. “Leon, my friend,” he says, “we made a deal.”
***
As soon as we reach a spot somewhere near the highest point of the bridge, he leans forward, drops the three-hundred-dollar fare onto the front seat, and says, “Right here is good enough.”
I stop the cab. He opens the rear door, gets out, and walks over to the railing. He climbs up and dives straight out as far his scrawny legs will push him. For a second, he seems to be flying—then the outward motion stops, and he falls, along with a million raindrops, toward the Cooper River as it goes about its watery business below.
Meanwhile, I’ve been sitting mesmerized, watching the whole thing unfold through the windshield of my cab—living every second of what seems to be a new kind of extremely realistic television. I consider going to the police, but quickly change my mind. Who knows what they might make of my part in this insanity.
I know I’m not up to coming back across this bridge tonight. So, I decide to get a room in a motel room on the other side and lay low until morning.
***
I pull into a parking spot in front of the Dixie Motel, switch off the engine, open the door, and start to get out. That’s when I notice the briefcase in the backseat. I close the door and turn on the inside light. I reach over the seat and retrieve the worn-out briefcase. Inside, I find a stack of papers held together with a metal fastener.
I remove the clip and read the first page. As I browse through the sheets, I discover that each one is the beginning of the same unfinished story—the tale of a decorated war veteran who returns home angry, disillusioned, and dragging a hard drug habit.
At the very bottom of the briefcase, I find a wrinkled photograph. It shows a group of young guys standing in front of a sandbagged bunker in what had to be Vietnam.
A fit of dizziness washes over me as the blood rushes to my head. I struggle to hold the picture steady in my hand. Standing at the center of the photo, trying to look dangerous, is Lance Corporal Leon Stone surrounded by a group of Marines he had once known and loved as brothers.
As I scan the faces of these mannish boys, the names come streaming back. Fifty years fall away like so much red dust, and there, standing at the far right, looking off into the distance—the lost old man I had just watched go over the rail—our savior, the one person we had all looked up to. He was on his third tour and he knew how to stay alive. We hung on every word he had to say, and when the shit hit the fan, we stuck to him like leeches. He seemed to be untouchable—a goddamn “hoodoo-man.”
I put the papers and photo back into the briefcase and close it up. Holding it under my right arm, I open the door, and step out into the early-morning drizzle. I look up at the gray clouds pushing past and try to work some angle of reference. I should have recognized him—even after all the years of “carrying the bear” had taken their toll.
Had he come to me hoping to find someone to pull him out of his rapidly constricting universe—a part of the family—the inner circle?
I look toward the flashing “Vacancy” sign on the rundown motel. I look back at my cab, then back at the sign. I am aware of some cars moving along the highway. I glance back over my shoulder toward the bridge. A sick sweat starts to build on my forehead. My eyes search the empty parking lot. Which way? Where to? Terrified, I stand motionless—struck with the cold understanding that I have no reason to move in any direction.
–
–
–
–
D.B. Cox is a Marine Corps veteran and blues musician/writer from South Carolina. His poems have been published extensively in the small press, in the US and abroad. He has published five books of poetry: Passing For Blue, Lowdown, Ordinary Sorrows, Night Watch, and Empty Frames.
–
–
–
–