Look How She Moves

Who: Sydney Windhorn
Age: 38
City: Lowell, Massachessets
Profession: Cabby

I’m sitting in this car, waiting it out, smoking cigarette after cigarette, joint after joint, thinking “What the fuck is wrong with me?” “Why would I do that?” “Why would I do that?” “Why would I sleep with the woman who slept with my best friend?” And that ain’t even the part that doesn’t make sense. The part that doesn’t make sense is, see, she’s fuckin’ pregnant. My seed. A cabby’s seed. But before I could finish that thought, there she is. Ready. Waiting. I look at her and, in a flippant sorta way, almost as if I was sayin’, “Boy it’s windy,” I say, “I’m having a baby.”

And then it happens. The slow, steady, transition from, “I’m so very happy to see you,” into, “You’ve just ruined my life.” Are you kidding, she says. “What do you think?” I say. Did you just say what I think you said? “What?” I say, “that I’m having a baby?” I can’t for the life of me stop the laugh track in my mind, sitcom, stand-up, burlesque, vaudeville, circus. All of them. Laughing. And yet, if you looked at me, you’d think I’d just been told I was dying. “So,” I say, “Where do you wanna eat?”

Wait. Wait. Wait. She says. You know what, never mind. “Cool,” I say. Fuckin’ funny. I’m a cabby. “Where do you wanna go?” I don’t wanna go too far, she says. I’m tired. Long day. “Yeah, tell me about it,” I say. Fuckin’ bullshit. You’re having a baby, she says, smiling. “Yeah.” I say, sighing. Fantastic. Fan-fuckin-tastic, she says.

Hey, maybe we’ll skip dinner tonight, she says. Maybe we’ll skip everything. Maybe we’ll skip life. “Sorry, babe,” I say. “Can’t skip life. Cuz I’m having a baby.”

And for the first time, since I’ve known her, he notices she has a very specific way of walking, as she walks away. Further. Further. Further.

Hey, buddy, I hear. You on duty?
“Sure, man. Where you goin’?”

-fas