Dashi’s Last Fare
If you didn’t know, this is my favorite time of year. Halloween. Spooky Season. All Hallow’s Eve. All Saints’ Eve.
Whatever you call it, I love it. I’m sure it won’t surprise you that my favorite Author is the masterful Stephen King. Not all of his stories are horror. Some are about people and how things come to fruition in everyday situations. All of the stories make you think. For better or worse.
Recently I worked my way through The Baazar of Bad Dreams. There’s a story about a horrific accident (…or was it?) at a rest stop. Since then, I feel compelled to look a little closer at those little forgotten places on the roadside. Just in case something went terribly wrong for some travelers.
Photo Credit: StephenKing.com
The imagination needed to see these stories and how quickly you understand the characters is what I like. They are one sliver of circumstances away from something that could happen to any of us in day-to-day life.
Back in June, I went to Niagra Falls, ON to celebrate my sister. It was a place she loved so I wanted to check it out and honor her memory in a place she was only able to visit once. It was all she needed to fall in love with it.
Side note: If you haven’t been, I suggest a minimum of 4 days for the trip. Two are taken for travel and two days aren’t quite enough to do it all but can be just enough to have an experience that changes your life.
I wrote a short story on the way home from that trip…it actually started in the taxi ride to the airport. Pairing poor wifi and cell service with an amazing view of the falls, I was able to loosen my grip on the to-do list for a few days. It created the capacity for creativity. Some details of the experience are accurate and some are fabricated, but we were all scared we would crash at any moment.
The experience was surreal and scary, in fact so surreal that I thought it seemed like something out of a Stephen King story. Then the notes app came out and I started frantically making notes about the drive.
Thank you Mr. King for helping me see when something is darkly humorous and the smallest slip of fate changes everything.
Dashi’s Last Fare
My anxiety started to lessen when I saw the dark blue minivan with the age and sun-faded orange Airport Taxi printed on the side. I felt confident it used to be a bright red in its prime. So had I.
We had crossed the bridge and were able to get through customs without even a slight delay. The officers were easy on the eyes and smiled at the semi-punk-looking woman nearing middle age. I hate admitting I was that middle-aged woman. I feel just as good approaching 50 as I did nearing my 30’s. Mostly.
The legally acquired cannabis had not quite kicked in as I breathlessly rattled off a list of the chachkies purchased on our short trip to Canada. They smiled and asked about drugs, food, or weapons…I repeated “No” to the questions and prayed to get out quickly.
My anxiety was on high alert, the lack of transportation to the airport 26 miles away will do that to you.
The Uber driver waiting at the airport a few days before said he would take us to the border but he couldn’t cross it. “Friday, you call me. I come back to pick you up,” he promised as he gave me his number.
“Perfect!” I said. Ride secured! One less thing to worry about on this semi-poorly planned trip.
We thought we lucked out.
Then Friday came and our calls and texts went unanswered. “Fuck!” I exclaimed as once again the ride share app message displayed “No available rides.” I even tried to schedule one that would put us close to the last minute of getting to the airport. No luck.
The customs officers said there were usually taxis waiting on the other side of the building. As we rounded the corner beyond the customs agency building, I spotted the Airport Taxi on a van.
Jackpot! One taxi was sitting there.
Waiting, just for us. We wouldn’t miss the flight.
Thank you sweet baby Jesus! I thought. The taxi started its engine and the guy leaned over calling out the passenger window “‘’ello” with an accent that made it clear English was not his native language.
His smile, filled with dark gaps of missing teeth spoke of a hard immigrant life. His eyes twinkled with hope. I smiled back aware of the way those eyes would look back at me in less than half an hour.
Out of the car in a split second, he loaded our luggage in the back while we acted like the entitled Americans we tried so hard not to be. We climbed in and I thought again how grateful I was that we were going to make the flight home. He opened and shut our doors for us with polite graciousness.
Cigarette smoke saturated the inside and assaulted our nostrils within seconds. A quick glance around the minivan made it evident it hadn’t seen a vacuum in a decade, at least.
We started down the road before he even asked where we were going. His smile beamed and when closed, his teeth fit together like a crooked zipper. I couldn’t stop looking at them.
The on-ramp to the interstate is approached at a speed that is more than a little nerve-racking. I think this guy has been around a while. He doesn’t even need his GPS to get to the airport. Then all of us passengers squeezed our butt cheeks together in fear as we pray to a God only one of us believed in.
He produced a business card out of thin air and it made its way towards me as we were coming out of the curve. I took it quickly, hoping he would get his hands back on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road.
Between attempts at conversation, he would press the button on a CB (my God, how old was this van?) attached to the dashboard and call into it. His Middle Eastern lilt was melodic as he rattled off a list of numbers and words that I couldn’t understand. The flow was smooth and repetitive like someone calling out for the 2000th time.
Barreling down the interstate, weaving through and around cars, my stomach churned at the erratic weaving. He would turn to talk to me in the back seat…and across the middle line we would go. Sweet baby Jesus help us!
I got a text from the front seat “We are going to die!!!!!”
I smiled and replied “Right!?!?! 😂”
I attempted to check the speed thinking it must be slower than it seemed (please God not more than 80). No speedometer hand moved. It was exhausted and uninterested in participating after many years of abuse so it lay unmoving on 0. My eyes slid over to the taxi’s meter, again, something I wondered how long had been in existence since I had never seen one outside of the movies. It steadily notching upwards.
As we swerve off the exit… he leans in for the tight turn. Our assholes pucker again even though we didn’t recall relaxing them. That’s when he stopped mid-chatter into the CB. The steering wheel was released from his tenuous grip and spun wildly to the left. Dashi fell back against the seat.
Down the embankment and into the trees we sailed. The baby trees went down with little resistance, the small bushy trees also gave way like they were made of paper. The bouncing and jostling seemed to go on forever but according to the meter was less than a quarter mile.
A massive Pin Oak tree ended our journey. We hit it hard. My head snapped back against the headrest and for a second, I worried it might split open. I thought that kind of pain must be what it feels like to be hit by Mike Tyson.
My sister-in-law and nephew were alternately moaning saying “fuck” and “What the fuck happened?” I looked towards the driver's seat..there was no sound or movement. Dashi’s head lay on the steering wheel, eyes angled toward me. Looking at me but seeing nothing. I shuttered.
It took less than a second for us to all come to the same conclusion. But I’m the one that said, “Let’s go.” This was something none of us wanted to deal with. Thank God this wasn’t an Uber ride where they had our information and showed the GPS back at the station… wherever that was.
We opened the doors and grabbed our bags. I shut all the doors with my knee…no prints I thought. Yes, they were inside possibly but so were many, many others. I looked towards the exit ramp. No cars were stopped so we were good to go.
We could see the airport so we walked that way in silence. No one was bloody and nothing was broken thankfully. We were through security before anyone spoke.
“I need a bathroom,” my nephew said. We nodded in agreement.
Sitting on the toilet, it felt like I hadn’t sat in days. My body was heavy and hurt like a mother. I heaved myself up and headed out.
After washing my hands, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and felt something fall out. The other lady walking toward the sink said “You dropped something” as I was turning to look.
It was that damned business card.
It lay there staring at me. I could hear the melodic lilt of Dashi’s calls on the CB.
I snatched it up, folded it over, and shoved it in my front pocket. I would be sure to take care of that later. It felt sinister like I was destroying evidence. It was the only proof we had ever met the man the card indicated was named Dashi.
Buckled in my seat, I kept saying to myself “We did nothing wrong, he was dead. Probably a heart attack. Maybe something else but it wasn’t our fault.”
The plane jostled down the runway and shot into the sky. We looked across the aisle at each other and took a collective sigh of relief.
We were going home.
We were safe.
I hope you loved this tidbit of my imagination.
Peace and love,
Teresea
Photo credit: Unsplash
