I waited in front of the psychiatrist’s clinic. Otto had mentioned that he was short and wore black glasses and that he walked with his eyes towards the ground. He was easy to recognize. At ten past eight, he came towards my car, got in, and gave me an address. I nodded and started to drive. I looked at him in the mirror but he was busy examining a folder, and before he had a chance to look up at the road and protest, I took the ramp that led below the bridge. And I stopped the car.
Finally, he looked up. What is going on? he said calmly.
It is an emergency, I said. I must be out of gas.
Where are we? he said, looking out the side and rear windows.
My apologies for the inconvenience. I’ll be right back, sir. There is a pay phone right here. I’ll be right back, I repeated, not to worry, be right back, and I affected a heavy foreign accent to throw him off.
I saw Otto. He had a purple clown’s wig on his head and a red plastic ball on his nose. A sloppy lipstick job was broadly pasted around his lips and white paint covered his face and neck all the way to his ears. He wore his old leather jacket over his clown suit and he looked cold.
I walked towards the river. I glanced behind me and saw Otto getting into the back seat of the car. And then, after the elephant had balanced on its hind legs and lifted the dog with the curve of its trunk and all the animals had waited through the applause, the clown pulled out a gun, stuck it against the psychiatrist’s ribs, and said: Give me your wallet. Listen, fucker, no one will hurt you here. I just want you to sit still and concentrate. He pulled some pages from his leather jacket, poked the man with his gun, and said, Read from the top down. And the psychiatrist started to read. But the clown interrupted: Read from the top. State the name of the poet and the title. From the top, and he poked Dr. Wu once more.
And so the doctor read:
A Poem Some People Will Have to Understand
by Amiri Baraka,
formerly known as LeRoi Jones.
Dull unwashed windows of eyes. .
I went down to the river’s edge. I threw a few rocks at the devils in the water and I smoked and looked at the bridge going across, then I lit a second cigarette into the fog. In cities it is useless to look at the stars or to describe them, worship them, or seek direction from them. When lost, one should follow the tracks of the camels. I watched the car lights passing and vanishing overhead, and I imagined my mother swinging off the bridge and my father, the camel lover, going in circles, throwing rocks, and reciting prayers beneath the fullness of the moon.
I walked back. I didn’t see the psychiatrist, but Otto was leaning against the door smoking.
Where is he? I asked.
He’s gone, Otto said. He took a walk. Here, I got you the fare, I made him pay. And don’t worry, I stood in front of the licence plate when he got out and he didn’t see a thing.
We drove towards the city. Otto pulled out a bottle of bourbon and drank from it. He offered it to me and I took a short sip.
Fly, my man, Otto said, as he smoked and drank, let’s call this night “The Revenge of the Fool.” He trembled, Doctor Evil trembled. . I made him read and he was stuttering, there was fear in his eyes. I made him repeat it all about six times. . I made him read about the lives of prostitutes, the religious right’s policies and their effects on poor neighbourhoods. . the guy started to beg me not to kill him. . shoved the gun in his mouth and I thought, Now, Doctor, how does it feel? For months you shoved all kinds of pills into me. . When I pulled the gun out of his mouth, he asked me if he should say his prayers. . I said no, not yet; read. . He was uncomfortable reading about prostitutes. . There is a war out there, and believe me, Fly, it was never really between Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Crusaders, and Confucius. The final battle is between those who love, respect, and liberate the body and those who hate it, Fly. Pull up here. I am due for a drink. Do you want to come and check out the Carnival crowd? I say let’s celebrate a small victory for the oppressed, the clown said, and looked euphoric and already drunk.
Not tonight, I said. I need to cover the day’s rental and fill up the car. It is the season to make good in this town.
Sure, Fly, making a living is all right, Otto said, as he slowly got out of the car.
Otto, I called to him, it might be a good idea to rest for a while. You always have a place. Just come by, or stay.
It is a fight, Fly, it will always be, but remember that you are my brother and I love you.
MIME
AFTER MY SHIFT I waited for Zainab, but she didn’t come down. I hadn’t seen her for a few days. I knocked at her door. She opened it halfway and said, Not now, Fly. I have somebody here. Just go. Go drive or something.
But wait, Zainab said. A woman knocked on your door last night. She was crying and she looked pretty upset. She mentioned something about a delivery or a necklace.
Mary, I said. It must have been Mary.
Okay, so go to Mary, said Zainab, and she shut the door in my face.
I drove to Mary’s new place; she had moved into an apartment next to the market. She wasn’t home. I waited for a few hours but she still didn’t arrive.
In front of her place was a bar with its door open. I sat in my car and watched the back of a man hunched towards a poker machine. He smoked against a screen of vanishing hearts, passing spades, rolling fruit. The neighbourhood was infested with gambling dens, pawnshops, rundown laundromats, and vicious dogs. But the Carnival also reaches that dodgy side of the downtown, and in the afternoons, the neighbourhood people start to play music on the street, and they come out to drink and dance. Carnivals also belong to the marketplaces and the poor.
After a while I went to a pay phone and called Otto, but no one answered.
I went back to my car and waited for Mary. Two customers asked to hire my services. The first was a mime who pointed at the passenger seat next to me. I shook my head and, with my hands, I signalled to him that I was off-duty. When he still insisted, I locked the passenger door and frowned at him. He gave me the finger. I was speechless.
But the second customer got right into the back seat. I told him that I was not in service. Your top light is on, he said, so that means you must be working. I hit the button and turned off my lantern and said, Okay, not anymore. But the law dictates that you should take me, the man said. You can’t refuse a customer once he is inside your car.
Well, yes, I can refuse a customer. As a matter of fact, I do it all the time.
I’ll take down your licence number, he said.
Fine. Do whatever you like, but leave my car.
Sure enough, a few days later the taxi inspector came looking for me. She found me at Café Bolero: she had spotted my cab in the parking lot. Some of the drivers covered their thighs with their napkins and plates when she came in. There was an atmosphere of embarrassment and panic. She asked for me by name and then walked towards me.
Do you have your licence on you? she asked.
Can’t this pleasurable encounter wait? I said. I am eating.
There is a complaint against you.
What is it about?
Refusal to take a customer while your dome light was on. The man you refused to take the other day was an employee of the transit authority, and he filed a complaint against you at the taxi commission.
Okay, so now I have to spread my thighs and let him molest me?
Everyone in the café started to laugh in disbelief. All those numbers went under the table, spitting food and hiding their faces. Some ran to the bathroom and some closed their eyes and shook their heads.