Unfortunately my plans of turning this blog into a platform for writers didn't go as well as I hoped. There simply wasn't enough people who showed interest in writing and sending their stories to this blog for some healthy constructive criticism and well deserved time in the spotlight. Oh well, I did get this story from someone who wanted to remain anonymous and I decided to post it anyway!Minus the criticism:) This is simply for your entertainment.
Enjoy guys!
prince itself, satan. I could probably go on all day calling it names and comparing it to having your achilles heel slashed but that too can't compare to how much I hate traveling in a taxi. Here's why.
Taxis, since the dawn of time has been my kryptonite, my sugar in a salt-shaker, the mosquito buzzing in my ear and the cross-eyed water snake ripping the flesh from my bones. It's sad really, because even with that detailed description of how irked I am by traveling in taxis, I'm still at times forced to do the latter. I was on my way to a work meeting and stupidly believed a taxi, as convenient as it might be, because it helps us escape the dreaded downtown traffic when it needs to, along with their very accomplished operators, could usher me all the way to my meeting and back, in one piece, I was wrong. Because they're such reckless drivers, en route, we drove right into the back of a 95 station wagon trying to dodge the pangs of traffic by going into the lane with the oncoming missiles. A swerve to the left had us out of harm's way and into the rust bucket in front of us, ironic much? I should think so. What happened next was so terrifying, I had to wash down the clot in my throat with the first available liquid, which happened to be the bottle of water on the dashboard. Right in the middle of the busy intersection, out of his trusted jalopy, climbed what haunts me to this day, a 5foot, beady eyed, jet-black-haired, hunch backed, check-shirt, slacks and flip-flop wearing, horribly angry looking Chinese man with a toothpick in the side of his mouth. The look in that man's eyes almost instantly struck terror into the eyes of a taxi full of unsuspecting, innocent civilians. As he came strolling, with the look of pure, unadulterated fury in his eyes, I could tell that the driver of the taxi was afraid, he was very afraid. The Chinese man, who, amidst the confusion and raging tempers, as he approached the taxi, yelled out something that sounded a lot like "Chin don't dlink and dlive, this isn't my fault, you pay! You pay!" And as he repeatedly yelled out his evidently brand new mantra, I could see the spit missiles flying from his mouth and onto the windshield of the taxi. The salivating old Chink clearly wasn't intent on taking this laying down, he was bent on making the driver, who I later learned went by the name of "Shakes" pay. Shakes, as described by many, had an undying love for swimming against the stream, meaning, he loved doing everything he wasn't meant to do, and he too felt hard done by the Asian. How that notion came about still remains a mystique to me, because he clearly caused the crash. They went into a heated exchange of words in both their respective languages which caused even more confusion because these two lemmings didn't understand each other and this all added fire to the burning flame of contempt I have for traveling, taxis, the drivers and the roads. The argument gradually made its way from bad to ten times worse, because now, people from all walks of life started giving their opinions on what really went down, even the shady guy selling chiclets and newspapers at the robot gave us his statement, which hardly aided the situation because we were all crammed together in this box-shaped taxi and all he really managed to do was stink up the place with the essence of his armpits and the incense of the chiclets along with the very distinct smell of smoke. He later realized how futile his attempts were and that no amount of ranting about the accident would land him any sales, so he nonchalantly strolled off back to headquarters which happened to be his side of the robot, rivaling the other side that sells not only chiclets and newspapers, but the lower extremities of the chicken(its feet) too. As I sat there, almost having reached boiling point, I decided it'd be best if I just kept to myself, but it seemed near impossible because I was definitely going to be late and I would then have to face the scourge of my boss who loved the saying "explain to me why you're late or I'll beat you where you stand" and then follow it up with a loud burst of raucous guffaw because he thinks he's that funny.
Morning turned into midday and we were still at the point of impact, only now the place is crawling with police, and every proverbial clown car full of people stopped to witness the events as they were unfolding. People rarely allow an accident to go by without making a complete spectacle of it, because before we knew it, hawkers were there hoping to make a killing with their sales, even the shoe makers dropped by to lend a helping hand and it seemed to me like they were God sent because the Asian really could have done with an entire remake of his flip flops who were no longer flipping or flopping. Poor guy really let himself go. Out of sheer boredom, I started talking to the Zimbabwean guy next to me, at that point, I realized that today just really wasn't going to be my day because when that dude opened up his mouth, it smelled like something crawled down his throat and died, it also appeared to be the case with his pits. We talked about power to the people, why this topic came up is as much a mystery to me as I know it would be to the reader because any normal conversing pair would talk about the accident. I guess I just absorbed way too much of it that another conversation about it would be the death of me. He said the most outlandish, convoluted things, such as "white people don't belong here, they belong in Australia". First of all, you scut monkey, you don't belong here and Australia? When did Australia become the only country to house white people? And another thing, when did it become the number one resort for evicted white people? I thought as I aimlessly stared into the opposite direction of the person I'm having this one-sided conversation with. He then whipped out this tupperware container which I'm assuming was his lunch because he's a construction worker, an assumption derived from the clay and mortar soiled construction boots and overalls he had on. He opened up the container and held it in my direction so as to say, "can I interest you in some boiled egg and beans?" As delighted as I was at his subtle, kind gesture, I was forced to decline because I just couldn't imagine myself smelling like a henhouse when I entered a meeting I knew I was going to miss. The day was long, it was hot and I was stuck in a taxi full of hungry, tired and very much so, annoyed passengers, this annoyed me twice as much because I was beginning to sweat. All we really needed to do was request our moneys and we'd be on our merry ways to wherever we were headed, but along came another taxi which could only, at that point, have meant one thing. We'd have to move.
It seemed like a bright idea at the time because, essentially, we would now be moving forward, and we did, we moved forward in a taxi without any air conditioning and a lot left to be desired, like music and just plain old simple headrests. Again, I was trapped, this time between two really big boned hotel cleaners who clearly enjoyed basking or baking in the heat of a taxi that had all of its windows up. I look to the left, I see seven deadly chins, I look to the right, I see seven deadly chins, suddenly I remember, "little Asian guy" and he was almost as big as those chins. An eventful day indeed, only thing missing now is the rain to top off the worst day of my life. Thankfully though, it remained scorching hot for the rest of the day. I finally got to work and sure enough missed the meeting and there, at the entrance of my cubicle, stands the radioactive waste and contamination that is Bill Venter, my boss, with his arms folded under his manboobs, his sweaty forehead housing the worst frown you'll ever see, heavily breathing as he leans against the three centimeter thick cardboard walls of my cubicle, staring me dead in the eyes with the look of death in his eyes. I knew he was miff because he didn't use his revered idle threat on me, all he really could do was look at me without moving any part of his bulbous frame, I could honestly tell that I was about to get my nipples grated so I gracefully intercepted this stare down with a question. "Happy to see me sir?" And gradually proceeded to hand him an Oreo. That proved to be the most potentially fatal mistake I've made all day, strongly rivals the conversation I had with the dude from Zimbabwe. He broke out and said "I don't want any peace offering, especially not from you, don't try and do me any favors, there's NOTHING for you gain from it, trust me, because even if you went on a cruise to the most remote regions of the ocean to save my drowning salt-soaked body in time to pump the sea water out of my lungs and bring me back from the very cusp of death, I would STILL be upset that the first face I saw when I woke up was yours" and stormed off in a rage of fit. "Penè" I whispered to myself as he waddled off with his duckfeet and uptight rump.
Working in a bank definitely has its perks, air conditioning topping them all, now if that tops my list of "perks" then you can only imagine the countless hours I spend everyday, inside the walls of that germbox, slovenly slaving away that all I want to do after the day's labors is lay down on the couch with my hand in my sweat pants, watching sportcenter, but that just isn't my wife's idea of pulling my weight. After all the drama, I finally got home only to find that Elenore's satanic brood has taken over the entire place, a place that used to smell like nothing, now has the feint musk of baby vomit because she has just given birth and her "girlfriends" aka the satanic brood has flown in to help take care of her and the baby. All pretty much to my dismay because now, my study became the baby 's room and the closet then became my study. After the eventfulness of my day, what mattered to me wasn't the fuming Asian, the reckless taxi driver, the potholed streets, the unhygienic Zimbabwean, or the melanoma suffering, sweaty forheaded boss, it was my family and for the short 5 hour window I get with them actually makes me, you know, happy. Now doesn't that just make you sick!?
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