THE CABDRIVER ON THE WAY uptown has his radio tuned to a Christian call-in station, which he’s listening to attentively. This does not bode well. He decides to get on Park and take it all the way up. The biblical text being discussed on the radio at the moment is from 2 Corinthians, “For you suffer fools gladly, seeing you yourselves are wise,” which Maxine takes as a sign not to suggest alternate routes.
Park Avenue, despite attempts at someone’s idea of beautification, has remained, for all but the chronically clue-free, the most boring street in the city. Built originally as a kind of genteel lid to cover up the train tracks running into Grand Central, what should it be, the Champs-Élysées? Sped through, at night, by stretch limo, let’s say, on the way to Harlem, it might register as just bearable. In broad daylight, however, at an average speed of one block per hour, jammed with loud and toxic-smelling traffic, all in advanced states of disrepair, whose drivers suffer (or enjoy) a hostility level comparable to that of Maxine’s driver here—not to mention police barricades, Form Single Lane signs, jackhammer crews, backhoes and front-end loaders, cement mixers, asphalt spreaders, and battered dump trucks unmarked by any contractor’s name let alone phone number—it becomes an occasion for spiritual exercise, though maybe more of the Eastern type than anything connected with this radio station, now blasting some kind of Christian hip-hop. Christian what? No, she doesn’t want to know.
Presently they are cut off by a Volvo with dealer plates, flaunting its polyhedral crush zones, secure in its exemption from accident.
“Fucking Jews,” the driver glaring, “people drive like fucking animals.”
“But . . . animals can’t drive,” soothes Maxine, “and actually . . . would Jesus talk like that?”
“Jesus would love it if every Jew got nuked,” the driver explains.
“Oh. But,” she somehow can’t help pointing out, “wasn’t . . . he Jewish himself?”
“Don’t give me that shit, lady.” He points to a full-color print of his Redeemer clipped to the sun visor. “That look like any Jew you ever saw? Check out his feet—sandals? right? Everybody knows Jews don’t wear sandals, they wear loafers. Honey, you must be from way out of town.”
You know, she almost replies, I must be.
“You’re my last fare of the day.” In a tone so strange now that Maxine’s warning lights begin to blink. She glances at the time on the backseat video display. It is far from the end of any known shift.
“I’ve been that rough on you?” Hopefully playful.
“I have to begin the process. I keep putting it off, but I’m out of time, today’s the day. We don’t just get scooped up like fish in a net, we know it’s coming, we have to prepare.”
All thoughts of insult tips or end-of-ride lectures have evaporated. If she arrives safely, it’s worth . . . what? Double the fare at least.
“Actually, I need to walk a couple blocks, why don’t you let me off here?” He’s more than happy to and before the door’s fully shut has peeled away around a corner eastbound and on to some destiny she doesn’t need to think about.
120. - 121. o.