Reconciliation Can Begin

After standing in the eleven o’clock rain until it almost shifted midnight, I finally spotted a cab. As I entered the back seat I thanked him quietly and commented how I was doubtful that I would even find a taxi.

“I live on North side. I start North, go downtown. But I like to stay up here. Not many people can get cab late at night on north side.”

“Yeah.”

I stared out the window, watching each spring drop fall and counted the veins they made upon the glass.

“Montrose and Oakley please.”

“Right away sir.”

And I laughed, as I always do. As many times as I hear it (mostly in the backs of cabs) I will never become accustomed to hearing myself addressed as “sir.”

I adore the rain. If time allows and I’ve nowhere to be, you can find me sitting under an awning, smelling the rain, or taking hooded walks in sloppy clothes on sloppy sidewalks.

The rain now, only served to make me somber. There was a weight to this rain and I could feel it on my shoulders.

Unintentionally, at times, people put decisions on themselves that they don’t really need to make. I was in the middle of one of those times. And as the cab driver kept going down Lawrence past Clark and Ashland, I found myself unable to tell him that he was going the wrong way. That the street that I reside on is a one way street going North.

But I trust him. He’s the cab driver. He probably knows a side street that works better than the way I would take.

“So is night just beginning for you? Or ending?”

“Me? Ending,” I said, “But the next one will be starting soon enough.”

There was a buzz in the air and I wasn’t sure if it was the radio of the cab or the actual atmosphere of the night.

“You?” I added.

“I am just starting. I am night driver. Only nights.”

“Right.”

“Daylight attacks my eyes.”

I laughed to myself, for his statement sounded like a song title. Like the beginning of a poem I wrote in eighth grade.

We drove in silence, for a while, and my thoughts drifted towards the oncoming. An email from home, snowballed with the lack of sleep I was experiencing and the dread of being a failure at twenty-five.

Yes, I thought, If I could go back. Things would be different. I have regrets.

Smirking, I thought of those surveys people put on their myspace profiles. The last question is always “number of things in your past you regret” and I couldn’t recall if anyone had every said anything besides none.

Countless, I thought. That would be my answer. I wonder if anyone ever put down a small number like…three. And they knew…they knew the three things in their life that they regretted. How calming, that must be, to have emotional distance enough to count. Why? Why does it seem that all of my scars, no matter how old are constantly raw? I make my peace. I forgive my trespassers. I reconcile. It’s a talent really. And yet the guilt.

The cab driver came to Lawrence and Oakley and stopped at the light.

She drinks, I feel guilty. He calls and I cower. But we’ve said we’re sorry.

As it turned green he turned left onto Oakley driving down the last section of two-lane street.

“Oh…oh no. Oakley ends here. Yes?”

As he came to a curve in the road he slowed down. My head shot up and caught a view of an alleyway refracted through a raindrop.

“I go wrong way. Yes?”

I look to the meter and read six dollars. My stomach clenched.

“No…no. This is fine. I’m actually really close to home. I can just walk from here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah…its only…its just a little that way.”

“You said Montrose. That is two blocks South.”

“Yeah not that bad.”

“I drive you rest of way.”

“No really this is good,” my face flushed red as I realized I only had eight dollars total in my pocket. I would rather walk than not tip the driver.

“No…it is raining and it is late. I will drive you rest of way. You pay six dollars.”

“Oh no…”

“Yes. You my first customer tonight. Must start off on good foot.”

“Well..thank you. Thank you.”

He drove through the curve and I told him the best way to continue towards my house. He shut the meter off and I paid him my six dollars, relishing the extra singles in my pocket.

I knew I could trust him. I am a very good judge of character.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “I’m bad with directions. I should have said something. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. My fault. I wasn’t thinking. I should know streets better.”
“Yeah…but I should have said something earlier. I saw that…”

“It is not your job to tell me where to go.”

“Well yeah…”

“No apologize. Stop.”

“Sorry.”

And he laughed. Loudly, a guffaw really.

With a glance to his rearview mirror he caught my eye.

“You always do that,” he asked.

“What?” I blinked.

“You always apologize for things you didn’t do?”

“No.”

“But a lot?”

“-“

“You so young. You look smart. You are so silly.”

As we neared Montrose and Oakley he slowed down and parked the cab. Turning his torso toward me he smiled,

“Why so hard? On yourself? Why so hard?”

“I don’t…I’m not,” I bit my lip in terror. I hadn’t cried in a while and certainly never in front of a cab driver. But I felt it, the tremble.

“It’s easy. I tell my daughter all the time. Life is hard enough. Why get in the way?”

And now, my turn to laugh. And he laughed with me.

I swallowed, “It isn’t supposed to be this difficult…is it?”

“At times yes. Times no. But still good…yes?”

I smiled, reaching into my pocket.

“Thank you,” I said handing him my final dollars. “Have a good night. Be safe.”

“You too.”

As he drove away towards Western I looked South down Oakley.

Home. I thought.

Some time earlier, in the past that I continually cling to, I had been mugged at gunpoint right in front of my apartment on Oakley. At times, at night I still held my breath when walking home.

As I neared my door I slowed down. Took off my jacket and let the rain’s heaviness beat down on me.

Exhale, I thought, Just breathe out.
And I did, inhaling the smell of spring rain.
There, that is one.

Standing there, at midnight, during the week, in the rain, I knew who was left to forgive.