Another broken scene in what passes for my life occurs onWednesday, seemingly pointing to someone's fault, though whoseI can't be sure. Stuck in gridlock in a cab heading downtowntoward Wall Street after a power breakfast at the Regency withPeter Russell, who used to be my dealer before he got a real job,and Eddie Lambert. Russell was wearing a two-button wool sportcoat by Redaelli, a cotton shirt by Hackert, a silk tie by Richel,pleated wool trousers by Krizia Uomo and leather Cole-Haanshoes. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about girls in thefourth grade who trade sex for crack and I almost canceled withLambert and Russell to catch it. Russell ordered for me while Iwas in the lobby on the phone. It was, unfortunately, a high-fat,high-sodium breakfast and before I could comprehend what washappening, plates of herbed waʀes with ham in Madeira creamsauce, grilled sausages and sour cream coʃee cake were set at ourtable and I had to ask the waiter for a pot of decaf herbal tea, aplate of sliced mango with blueberries and a bottle of Evian. Inthe early morning light that poured through the windows at theRegency I watched as our waiter shaved black truʀes gracefullyover Lambert's steaming eggs. Overcome, I broke down anddemanded to have the black truʀes shaved over my mangoslices. Nothing much happened during the breakfast. I had tomake another phone call, and when I returned to our table Inoticed that a mango slice was missing, but I didn't accuseanyone. I had other things on my mind: how to help America'sschools, the trust gap, desk sets, a new era of possibilities andwhat's in it for me, getting tickets to see Sting in The ThreepennyOpera, which just opened on Broadway, how to take more andremember less ...In the cab I'm wearing a double-breasted cashmere and woolovercoat by Studio 000.1 from Ferré, a wool suit with pleatedtrousers by DeRigueur from Schoeneman, a silk tie by GivenchyGentleman, socks by Interwoven, shoes by Armani, reading theWall Street Journal with my Ray-Ban sunglasses on and listeningto a Walkman with a Bix Beiderbecke tape playing in it. I putdown the Journal, pick up the Post, just to check Page Six. At thelight on Seventh and Thirty-fourth, in the cab next to this onesits, I think, Kevin Gladwin, wearing a suit by Ralph Lauren. Ilower my sunglasses. Kevin looks up from the new issue of Moneymagazine and spots me looking over at him in a curious waybefore his cab moves forward in the traɽc. The cab I'm insuddenly breaks free of the gridlock and turns right on Twentyseventh, taking the West Side Highway down to Wall Street. I putthe paper down, concentrate on the music and the weather, howunseasonably cool it is, and I'm just beginning to notice the waythe cabdriver looks at me in the rearview mirror. A suspicious,hungry expression keeps changing the features on his face—amass of clogged pores, ingrown hairs. I sigh, expecting this,ignoring him. Open the hood of a car and it will tell yousomething about the people who designed it, is just one of manyphrases I'm tortured by.But the driver knocks on the plexiglass divider, motions to me.While taking the Walkman oʃ I notice he's locked all the doors—Isee the locks lower in a ɻash, hear the hollow clicking noise, themoment I turn the volume oʃ. The cab is speeding faster than itshould down the highway, in the far right lane. "Yes?" I askirritably. "What?""Hey, don't I know you?" he asks in a thick, barely penetrableaccent that could easily be either New Jersey or Mediterranean."No." I start putting the Walkman back on."You look familiar," he says. "What's your name?""No I don't. You don't either," I say, then, an afterthought,"Chris Hagen.""Come on." He's smiling like there's something wrong. "I knowwho you are.""I'm in a movie. I'm an actor," I tell him. "A model.""Nah, that's not it," he says grimly."Well"—I lean over, checking his name—"Abdullah, do youhave a membership at M.K.?"He doesn't answer. I reopen the Post to a photo of the mayordressed as a pineapple, then close it again and rewind the tape inmy Walkman. I start counting to myself—one, two, three, four—my eyes focus in on the meter. Why didn't I carry a gun with methis morning? Because I didn't think I had to. The only weaponon me is a used knife from last night."No," he says again. "I've seen your face somewhere."Finally, exasperated, I ask, trying to appear casual, "You have?Really? Interesting. Just watch the road, Abdullah."There's a long, scary pause while he stares at me in therearview mirror and the grim smile fades. His face is blank. Hesays, "I know. Man, I know who you are," and he's nodding, hismouth drawn tight. The radio that was tuned in to the news isshut oʃ.Buildings pass by in a gray-red blur, the cab passes other cabs,the sky changes color from blue to purple to black back to blue.At another light—a red one he races straight through—we pass,on the other side of the West Side Highway, a new D'Agostino'son the corner where Mars used to be and it moves me to tears,almost, because it's something that's identiɹable and I get asnostalgic for the market (even though it's not one I will ever shopat) as I have about anything and I almost interrupt the driver, tellhim to pull over, have him let me out, let him keep the changefrom a ten—no, a twenty—but I can't move because he's drivingtoo fast and something intervenes, something unthinkable andludicrous, and I hear him say it, maybe. "You're the guy who killSolly." His face is locked into a determined grimace. As witheverything else, the following happens very quickly, though itfeels like an endurance test.I swallow, lower my sunglasses and tell him to slow downbefore asking, "Who, may I ask, is Sally?""Man, your face is on a wanted poster downtown," he says,unɻinching."I think I would like to stop here," I manage to croak out."You're the guy, right?" He's looking at me like I'm some kindof viper.Another cab, its light on, empty, cruises past ours, going atleast eighty. I'm not saying anything, just shaking my head. "I amgoing to take"—I swallow, trembling, open my leather datebook,pull out a Mount Blanc pen from my Bottega Veneta briefcase—"your license number down ...""You kill Solly," he says, deɹnitely recognizing me fromsomewhere, cutting another denial on my part by growling, "Youson-of-a-bitch."Near the docks downtown he swerves oʃ the highway andraces the cab toward the end of a deserted parking area and ithits me somewhere, now, this moment, when he drives into andthen over a dilapidated, rust-covered aluminum fence, headingtoward water, that all I have to do is put the Walkman on, blotout the sound of the cabdriver, but my hands are twisted intoparalyzed ɹsts that I can't unclench, held captive in the cab as ithurtles toward a destination only the cabdriver, who is obviouslyderanged, knows. The windows are rolled down partially and Ican feel the cool morning air drying the mousse on my scalp. Ifeel naked, suddenly tiny. My mouth tastes metallic, then it getsworse. My vision: a winter road. But I'm left with one comfortingthought: I am rich—millions are not."You've, like, incorrectly identiɹed me," I'm saying.He stops the cab and turns around toward the backseat. He'sholding a gun, the make of which I don't recognize. I'm staring athim, my quizzical expression changing into something else."The watch. The Rolex," he says simply.I listen, silent, squirming in my seat.He repeats, "The watch.""Is this some kind of prank?" I ask."Get out," he spits. "Get the fuck out of the car."I stare past the driver's head, out the windshield, at gulls ɻyinglow over the dark, wavy water, and opening the door I step out ofthe cab, cautiously, no sudden moves. It's a cold day. My breathsteams, wind picks it up, swirls it around."The watch, you scumbag," he says, leaning out the window,the gun aimed at my head."Listen, I don't know what you think you're doing or whatyou're exactly trying to accomplish or what it is you think you'regoing to be able to do. I've never been ɹngerprinted, I have alibis—""Shut up," Abdullah growls, cutting me oʃ. "Just shut yourfucking mouth.""I am innocent," I shout with utter conviction."The watch." He cocks the gun.I unhook the Rolex and, sliding it oʃ my wrist, hand it to him."Wallet." He motions with his gun. "Just the cash."Helplessly I take out my new gazelleskin wallet and quickly,my ɹngers freezing, numb, hand him the cash, which amounts toonly three hundred dollars since I didn't have time to stop at anautomated teller before the power breakfast. Solly, I'm guessing,was the cabdriver I killed during the chase scene last fall, eventhough that guy was Armenian. I suppose I could have killedanother one and I am just not recalling this particular incident."What are you going to do?" I ask. "Isn't there a reward ofsome kind?""No. No reward," he mutters, shuʀing the bills with one hand,the gun, still pointed at me, in the other."How do you know I'm not going to call you in and get yourlicense revoked?" I ask, handing over a knife I just found in mypocket that looks as if it was dipped into a bowl of blood andhair."Because you're guilty," he says, and then, "Get that away fromme," waving the gun at the stained knife."Like you know," I mutter angrily."The sunglasses." He points again with the gun."How do you know I'm guilty?" I can't believe I'm asking thispatiently."Look what you're doing, asshole," he says. "The sunglasses.""These are expensive," I protest, then sigh, realizing themistake. "I mean cheap. They're very cheap. Just ... Isn't themoney enough?""The sunglasses. Give them now," he grunts.I take the Wayfarers oʃ and hand them to him. Maybe I reallydid kill a Solly, though I'm positive that any cabdrivers I've killedlately were not American. I probably did. There probably is awanted poster of me at ... where, the taxi—the place where allthe taxis congregate? What's it called? The driver tries thesunglasses on, looks at himself in the rearview mirror and thentakes them oʃ. He folds the glasses and puts them in his jacketpocket."You're a dead man." I smile grimly at him."And you're a yuppie scumbag," he says."You're a dead man, Abdullah," I repeat, no joke. "Count onit.""Yeah? And you're a yuppie scumbag. Which is worse?"He starts the cab up and pulls away from me.While walking back to the highway I stop, choke back a sob,my throat tightens. "I just want to ..." Facing the skyline, throughall the baby talk, I murmur, "keep the game going." As I stand,frozen in position, an old woman emerges behind a ThreepennyOpera poster at a deserted bus stop and she's homeless andbegging, hobbling over, her face covered with sores that look likebugs, holding out a shaking red hand. "Oh will you please goaway?" I sigh. She tells me to get a haircut.
