Cab Driver Dreams of Becoming a Writer
I get out of the cab and step into the oven of a normal Arizona summer day. I can’t find her, I can’t find her. My passenger is supposed to be at the “hypnotism clinic” at 5499 N. La Cholla. The orders are clear on my computer screen: name, phone number, pick-up address, destination address, amount I will be paid.
I open the door of the clinic. I call out her name.
“Is there a Carol Russo here?”
Several people sit in the waiting room and they all turn their eyes to me as if asking for help, but no one stands up. I go to receptionist window. No one there. Back outside I look around the area. Sometimes they wander off, I find them hiding behind bushes. I dial her phone number once again but it’s the same mechanical female voice: “The number you have dialed is a non-working number, please check the number and dial again…”
I’m about ready to give up when I see a woman coming from around the outside of the building waving at me.
“Carol Russo?” I say.
“That’s me.”
She is five feet tall, thin, maybe 55 years old, Italian descent. Her smile is like the smile of a real estate broker on a billboard. Brown pants, purple blouse. She carries a white purse that probably cost more than my car.
