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“This cab smells like shit!

“Do you have to take the Queensboro Bridge? Can’t you go down through Williamsburg?”

“Listen, can you turn down the a/c?”

asked the Carcinoma. Fareed wasn’t going to beg for five stars. One star would’ve barely moved the needle. But it wasn’t in his nature to court ones. Four’s would ruin his day. New York was full of threes. Threes were the worst. The inscrutable threes, he didn’t know whether to thank or apologize to. Two’s were cowards. Take a fucking position! The Ones might’ve had a point. Maybe he DID do something one-ish. He tried to smell nice, keep the cab clean, keep the noise down, and even keep the phone calls to a minimum. All the things that reduced his chances of landing a five. But New Yorkers are a temperamental folk. Some might even One you for the hell of it. The traffic was the biggest source of ones. No matter what side road you take, New Yorkers always think you’re padding the meter. Fareed would often ask them which road they’d prefer before starting the meter, only to hear “I don’t know! You decide!” or “Just do whatever!”

Dealing with ornery, rude passengers is a part of daily life for all yellow medallion cab drivers. Not to mention road rage, bad tippers, non-tippers, and the occasional drunk puking in the backseat. But worst of all for Fareed were the bike messengers. The ones who’d hop off the sidewalk whenever they wanted, merge without signaling, and often whizz past crosswalks on red.

“Hey, asshole! Your ride is not worth more than my life!” yelled a Postmates driver.

It was enough just to wave and nod your head in contrition to end the confrontation. At least that’s what Fareed thought before the bicyclist gave him the finger.

“Watch where you’re going! You nearly killed the poor kid! If you think I’m tipping you with this kind of driving, you’ve got another thing coming.” yelled the Carcinoma.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Fareed, tiptoeing around that confrontation too. Neither was worth the fight. Especially given his poor English.

The Carcinoma dialed the phone and began yelling in Armenian. Periodically crossing over into English as if to broadcast its rage to Fareed and passersby

“This is the last time I call you, Anna! You either pay me back, or we go to small claims court. I am your mother, and you’re a grown woman. The ink on your divorce isn’t dry, and you’re buying a house in Reno. I’ll never see you again. You know how much that hurts me as a mother!? You think taking my grandkids away from me will make me forget about the money?”

“Listen, turn off the radio! I’m trying to have a conversation.”

Fareed tried not to pry and instead began whistling to himself, hoping it would drown out the carcinoma’s shouting. When that failed, he rolled down the window, hoping the bus’s woosh, the cars’ honks, and the sirens’ wails would muffle the call.

“Can you roll up the fucking windows!?”

Fareed quickly complied, hoping a 10% tip was still possible if he arrived sooner than Waze estimated. That didn’t seem likely. Nevertheless, this seemed like another conflict he’d be wise to avoid.

“Oh. Oh! So when you said… I’M THE LIAR!? Which one of us was caught cheating? Who had to cover for you at work!? Who paid for Sophie’s asthma medication? You thought I’d forget?”

Since the Carcinoma was so eager to have its feud with its daughter broadcast to the city, Fareed felt no guilt about eavesdropping. His English was good enough to understand most of it. What little he missed, he’d quickly Google when she’d leave the cab.

So… let’s recap

Old lady. Cranky about something, or just an everyday bitch? Fighting with her daughter about a loan? A gift? Something about paying for her granddaughter’s meds? Threatening to take her daughter to small claims court? Daughter cheated on her husband and is getting a divorce? Moving to Reno? Ok. All caught up.

“Your Father god rest his soul, left you all with everything you’d ever need. I have four kids, and none of you measured up to him! How often do you call me? How often do I hear from you when it’s not about money?”

She began tearing up. This didn’t seem to be her regular state. Today must’ve been an anomaly. A widow, four kids, who won’t speak to her, ingrates, asking for money and likely resentful of her too. Fareed jotted down all the moving parts in his mind. A Turkish soap opera unfolding in his backseat by a woman who seemed to despise him the moment she sat on the couch. She took out her wallet and began rifling through it. Fareed hoped she was looking for an appropriately sized bill to give him. Then she took out a card and as it read $37.95, she opened her phone to calculate 5%. %5? After all that abuse, she’d settled on a measly $1.8. She looked right at the rearview mirror where Fareed was staring. The Carcinoma declared

“You’re lucky to be getting that!” The Carcinoma had found a way to insult him worse than if she had given no tip at all.

As she jumped out of the cab, he noticed a tear traveling down her left cheek. He had half the mind to get out of the cab and throw two dollars at her face. But part of him felt the one-star rating, though completely warranted, would have left him two dollars poorer because of pride alone. Not a good enough reason to accost an old lady. He’d lost interest in her story anyway, and it seemed he’d become the fifth child who’d left her as he drove away. As he parked by the news kiosk, he turned to find her wallet sitting on the couch. It had what appeared to be a few 20-dollar bills hanging out of the corner. He took it and felt entitled to at least 20%. $7.59 at least. Withdrawing PRECISELY that sum was god’s will. He’d made her lose her purse for a reason, Fareed thought. A single cent above $7.59 would be theft. Especially considering the five he’d already received. But when he saw nothing but 20-dollar bills, he’d concluded he’d need to get $12.41 in change and insert it back into her purse.

“I need exactly $12.41, please. What could I buy for $7.59?”

“Sorry, no change. Card only.”

Apparently, God didn’t want him to keep the $7.59. Perhaps God felt his work was only worth $1,80? It was time to return to the station. His boss had left him four missed calls. Something must’ve gone terribly wrong

“Fareed! What’s this I hear about you stealing some poor old lady’s wallet?”

“What, sir?” Fareed mumbled

“She gave me your cab number 7C44! Don’t lie to me!” His boss declared

“No, I have! I will return it!” Fareed pleaded,

“three weeks. Suspended. Without pay. Starting tomorrow. I’ll let you finish out the day,” he replied, ending the conversation and turning his back on him

“This union job, sir! I..”

“You’re threatening me! Go ahead, call the fucking rep! I’ll tell him you ripped off an old lady and lied about it.”

Fareed accepted his fate. He’d surrender the last fight of the day. Perhaps he’d call the union rep. But today wasn’t the day. It seemed this confrontation might have ended in a lawsuit over the $7.59 he felt entitled to but never received. She wasn’t above taking her own daughter to court. Let alone her new fifth child. The Carcinoma told him he was lucky. He now decided it had a point.

When he returned to his cab to pick up his water bottle, he discovered that the old lady had also forgotten her purse. She had left empty-handed with nothing but her phone. Fareed remembered the building where he dropped her off. He took the cab straight to Manhattan and hoped she’d still be at home.

Apartment 4B had loud, blaring Armenian music on blast, with open windows and rolled-up blinds. He saw her vacuuming in the same coat she had on when she left the cab.

“Give me back my purse!” The Carcinoma screeched!

“Yes, ma’am.”

The slammed door was equal in force and sound to the car door she’d slammed earlier that day. He took one item out of her purse before handing it to her. An opened envelope he’d hoped would continue the saga and maybe offer insights into this woman’s interior world.

He felt holding on to her wallet was retribution. Perhaps he’d find a bodega that’d give him the $8.59, return it to her, and leave, hoping the sum would be so small she wouldn’t notice it. He sat in his car right in front of her home, pondering whether she’d be the kind of person who’d call to report such a petty theft. She didn’t seem to be above it. But then again, he’d never met anyone who’d be willing to be that petty. The money was a matter of principle for him. He was owed a 25% tip not only for the abuse he so calmly accepted, but also for the speed, quality, and ease of service. She refused to pay it. So he’d take what was rightfully his and hope to never see her, or anyone like her, in his cab again. However, he calculated the costs in gas, time, and effort and concluded that his hourly rate far exceeded the sum he so desperately wanted. This crusade would lose him money. Right around the moment he’d turn on his engine, she exited her home and met his eyes. Wondering whether he was stalking her. He immediately rolled down his window and said

“Excuse me! Ma’am! You also forgot your wallet! I have it all here.”

“Give it to me!” The Carcinoma wailed.

She counted the money in front of him and rifled through all the pouches to see if all her credit cards were there. Fareed felt indignant for the first time today

“This is very rude! I promise you it’s all there.”

She stared at him quizzically and in silence. She yanked the wallet from his hand and turned the other way before realizing she was going the wrong way and would have to make eye contact with him again.

At 6:30 pm, in his apartment alone, Fareed, who had just concluded a Zoom call with his wife and children in Egypt, heard the doorbell ring. The woman appeared with a bag of Chinese food and an apology letter. He was incredulous. For whatever reason, the Carcinoma that had hijacked her mouth, tongue, and lips seemed to go dormant at sunset. A saint appeared at his door. Full of contrition and kindness and warmth. He was moved by the gesture and dismissed the reservations he’d held about her possible motives. After all, he had not stolen money from her, had yet to open the envelope, and was the aggrieved party. Any decent person would’ve behaved the same way. Perhaps she grew a conscience every night at sundown?

“Please enjoy this meal! I don’t know what you like, so I got a little of everything. I will call your boss and recant everything I said.” Declared Mrs. Sarkeesian.

“Would you like to come in? I would prefer not to eat alone.”

Sensing she had no alternative, Mrs. Sarkeesian sat across the table from him and stared at the wall, scrambling to ask an inane question and spur on some affable small talk. But that was not in her nature. She was far more comfortable waiting for Fareed to initiate conversation.

“Kung Pao Chicken and Chow Fun.” Mrs. Sarkeesian said. Silencing the Carcinoma, who was preparing to say, “Give me the fucking letter!”

“Ah, yes. Thank you. I will eat it.” Fareed replied, still perplexed by the gesture and planning his next move.

“I can have the Dim Sum. I’m on a diet. I think I’d have to be in my old age.” She chuckled.

“Ah, I understand. Thanks again for the food, and I hope you enjoy it.” Fareed planned to weaponize her guilt by being extra nice. Hoping she would voluntarily apologize, rescind her complaint, and plead with his boss to reinstate him.

“Tell me about yourself! What was your name again?”

“Fareed, ma’am. And yours?”

“Sona Sarkeesian.”

“Did you know Kung Pao isn’t even a Chinese word? We invented it. It’s from San Francisco. Just like Americans to take a perfectly good thing and make it silly.”

“Interesting,” said Fareed in the most surreptitious tone he could muster.

“I love Chinese food; my husband used to cook it for me every Sunday night.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Were you listening in on my conversation? How did you know he died? Well, I guess how could you not hear it? I was screaming at the top of my lungs!”

“Yes, I am sorry. I tried to ignore it.”

“Don’t apologize… your English is very good. How long have you been here?”

“A few months… I had this job for only 3 months. I am studying English at night school.”

“I’m sorry about calling your boss.”

Finally! Fareed thought. The first of what he hoped were many apologies for the many wrongs she had committed that day. But no more were forthcoming. For the next ten minutes, they sat in relative silence, simply eating. When the silence became deafening, Fareed opened YouTube and put on some soft jazz. That seemed to relax her as she opened up about work (She’s a real-estate mogul), her family (mother of four, as Fareed already knew), and an avid skier. But when the biographical details began to run thin, she seemed emboldened to say

“So where’s the envelope?”

Fareed felt he had two options. Admit to taking it and that he hadn’t read it, apologize, and hope she’d think they were now even. Or stay silent and see where this was headed.

“Please don’t call my daughter! They don’t know, none of them know. It’s stage IV. I don’t have long.”

Ok. Widow, bad relationship with kids, alone, with some kind of cancer. Fareed was grateful for another jigsaw but hoped by staying silent, she’d reveal more.

“You want money? What are your terms? I won’t report you for stealing my mail, but I want it back! Give it back to me!”

“Here it is, Sona. I never read it. I don’t know why I took it.”

“Why did you take it? It was to blackmail me?”

“No ma’am. I still don’t know what’s inside. You took so much from me. I wanted to learn more about this woman who did this to me. I just wanted $8.59. But this dinner is more than enough. Here it is.”

“Why are you giving it back to me?”

“Well… it doesn’t belong to me.”

“Why didn’t you read it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I would never have opened it. I think maybe I was just curious about you. If you left today, I don’t think I would ever have read it after your kindness.”

“Squamous Cell Carcinoma stage IV. It’s a letter from the doctor and an insurance form. It lists my daughter as the emergency contact. I thought you’d call and tell her.”

“Why would I do that? Who would benefit?”

“I would do that! After how I treated you.”

Fareed was hurt that what appeared like a kind gesture from a remorseful old woman was really a bribe. A calculated plot to cut a deal with a blackmailer.

“Maybe it wasn’t you that did these things to me. Maybe it was because you are sick.”

“Please take the letter. It does not belong to me.”

The End.