One Life to Live
Another cab story
I’m not saying it was symbolic but his address was 8704 W. Lazy Street. I slowed my cab in front of his pre-fabricated house. He was standing on the porch in red shorts and a yellow t-shirt, maybe 60 years old, with a big long-haired German Shepherd. He had huge calves, the man not the shepherd, bulbous and grotesque things, like pregnant pink carp.
“Be right there, man, got my service dog with me, just open the back door and he’ll jump right in.”
I got out and opened the back door and the giant shepherd came bounding toward me and hopped in smiling.
In a minute the man came out and got in the back with the dog.
“How ya doing, what’s your name?” he said.
“Matt.”
“Matt, great, can you roll the back window down, Franz likes to put his head out the window.”
I already knew where we were going, a pharmacy, because it was a medical voucher. I headed out of the neighborhood to the highway.
The guy was Italian with a New York accent, mobster wannabe, and he didn’t talk, he BELLOWED.
“Fuh-GIT about it, Matt! You ever listen to the news?”
“A couple days ago.”
