A Night in the Life of a Cabbie

      In his rear view mirror, the cabdriver saw a scene that was totally unexpected. He was utterly shocked by what he saw. He had been a cabdriver in New York City for the past 12 years and never did he ever witness the situation  that presented itself before him now.

         Fifteen minutes ago he was cruising on  the lower Eastside. A neighborhood of the upper middle class and wealthy consisting of high rise apartment buildings. Each of them is equipped  with their uniformed doormen who are eager to get a cab or open a door for their buildings occupants.

         Traveling up York Avenue, he was flagged down by two individuals who seem to be holding their drunken friend up. He made note of the two middle aged gentlemen, with hints of graying hair, that were holding up this guy in his mid thirties. The three of them got in the cab although they had to help their buddy, as he appeared to be legless and was dependent on them for help. Each of the apparently sober gents got in the back seat on opposite sides of the cab and together they positioned their friend in the middle of the back seat. Both sober gentlemen appeared to be dressed in a jacket and tie, whereas their inebriated friend was dressed in a tan colored turtleneck, pair of jeans with a brown leather waist length jacket.

         “Where to fellas?” he asked as he heard the last door slam shut.

         The older male grunted, “138th Street and Jerome Avenue” in a husky voice.

         “Ok folks” as he pushed the flag on the meter down and drifted into flow of traffic. He knew that location to be in the South Bronx.

         Ralph Swanson was a native of that Bronx neighborhood and the address made him wonder what these guys were doing going to a neighborhood like that. Were they going up there to buy drugs? It was a neighborhood that was settled in the early nineteen hundreds by ethnic groups from all over Europe, who were coming to the “New World” to start a new life and leave behind the poverty and limited lifestyles of the “Old World.”

         Ralph was a by-product of that neighborhood. The third son of an Irish mother and an Italian father he grew up in the area not far from where his fare wanted to go tonight. They had migrated from their native countries, got married and raised a family. Ralph’s father was a train conductor and his mother was a housewife, and mother raising a family of three girls and two boys.

         He went through his four years at Roosevelt High School and then completed two years in a junior college. He eventually took the test to be a firefighter and had just completed his fifteenth year on the job. Halfway through to retirement he would often think to himself. He married his high school sweetheart, Ruth Jackson, and they had two sons, James and John. James was getting ready to enter his freshman year at Fordham University and the tuition was going to be stifling. That is why Ralph worked as a hack on his nights off to take the edge off the monthly bills.

          Traffic was light going up the Westside Highway and off to his right Ralph could see the disappearing skyline of mid town as he was crossing into Harlem. There was very little chatter between the three passengers in the back.

         “You guys live in the city?” he asked as the street lights kept flying by.

         “No”, said the older gentleman.

         “Oh, Out- of- towners then? Where are you fellas from?”

         “Upstate, alright? Now would you just drive. I've got a raging headache and don't feel like talking OK?”

         End of conversation, Ralph thought to himself as he crossed the Willis Avenue Bridge and was now in the Bronx. He was all of five minutes from the destination.

         He pulled up to the intersection they had asked for earlier and noticed a black SUV doubled parked in front of him with the engine running and the lights on. He turned and told the occupants the fare was $27. The younger of the two well-dressed men pulled out a 20, a 10, and a five dollar bill and told him to keep the change. He hadn't gotten the words “thank you” out of his mouth when the two well-dressed gentlemen bolted out of the two back doors and ran, jumping into the backseat of the SUV, leaving their buddy behind.          

         This was a familiar prank people would play on drunks. Leave your drunk friend and hope for the best. He will get home and the three would talk the following day, listening to the tales of the disabled drunk and what happened to him after he was ditched. He was thankful though at least they had paid their fare. There were cases where people would hail a cab and then take off without paying and the cab driver was the responsible one to make up the difference with their boss. But as the SUV sped off with the two fleeing friends, Ralph turned and saw a pool of blood in the middle of his backseat.

         “Hey, fella, you ok?”

         No response came. Once again he tried to raise the jilted passenger by raising his voice. “Hey, WAKE UP!”

         He immediately pushed the lock button on the door and reached into his jacket and pulled out his cell phone.

         “911 what is your emergency?” the voice on the other end said.

         “My name is Ralph Swanson. I'm a cabbie, license number A2419. I need help. I have an injured man in the back of my cab”. He gave his location and simultaneously pushed the transponder button on the dash board that his cab was equipped with, giving his location to the 911 operator.

         “We’ll have somebody right there. Stay right where you are and don’t move.”

         It was less than thirty seconds later Ralph could hear the distant wail of sirens getting closer. In no time at all two young cops were getting out of their radio car and approaching his cab with guns drawn.

         “You Ok?” one of the cops asked, while the other one was going through the rear passenger door.

         “Cancel the bus” the cop in the back seat said “and have Bronx Homicide start rolling here.”

         The cop outside the car near the drivers door asked him to step from the car and towards the sidewalk. “Can you tell me what happened here?”.Ralph told him of how he picked the three passengers up in lower Manhattan and brought them to this location. When he arrived they bailed out and left their partner behind.

         Well this guy you got in the cab is not going to be discussing this ditch job with his two friends as he is dead. 

         Ralph felt sick to his stomach. He couldn't believe what was happening. So distracted that he never noticed the other units arriving in a rapid succession like bees drawn to a jar of honey.

         A young looking gentleman in his mid twenties approached him and introduced himself to Ralph.

         “Hi Mr. Swanson, I know you probably have been asked some of these questions before but I’m Detective. Kelly and I specialize in homicides. Could I ask that we go over some of these questions again?

         “Sure, that wouldn’t be a problem”, Ralph answered.

         “Can we take a ride to the precinct. There’s really nowhere around here we can go to have a cup of coffee.”

         “Sure, why don’t I just meet you there,” Ralph said.

         “We are going to take your cab and search for evidence. It’s part of the crime scene. I can give you a ride there.”

         “I’m not under arrest am I” Ralph asked. For a second  he was scared and thought his life was about to change.

         “No, of course not,” Kelly exclaimed. “You were the last one who saw these two jerks. I’d like you to sit down with a sketch artist.”

         “I’m just gonna duck into this alley for a second, Detective. I feel sick to my stomach.”

         He could feel the volcano getting ready to erupt in his stomach. He thought relief  would come to him soon.

         Ralph didn’t feel any better after he lost his supper in that alley and he knew for sure it was the start of a long night to come.