The Last True Cabbie

The cab lurched to a halt in a cloud of blue smoke. Another faceless prick in a cheap suit, another frantic bark of an address... Christ, they all had the same damn manic eyes now. Screen-addled, soul-sucked, too hopped up on ambition and energy drinks to breathe.

I didn't bother switching off the meter, let the ticking numbers mock him. The city was a festering boil outside: soulless glass monstrosities, chain stores breeding like cockroaches. The whole place stinking of gentrification, that sterile, designer stink, and... was that vanilla? Had they pumped a goddamn vanilla scent into the air? Like those sickly sweet air fresheners masking the stench of a cheap motel murder scene.

I shoved my battered beast of a cab into gear, flicking a defiant middle finger at a construction crane. A billboard flashed by, some smiling idiot peddling teeth so white they'd probably blind a man at fifty paces.

"Seatbelt," I snarled, the cigarette dangling from my lip like a death sentence. "They're gonna find your remains scattered across the freeway if you don't." His nervous little grunt of acknowledgment was music to my ears.

The nav screen flickered with another goddamn upscale address. Uptown. Because of course, these Wall Street weasels wouldn't be caught dead anywhere that hadn't been focus-grouped and sanitized within an inch of its soul. A sickening whiff of artisanal donuts, cinnamon and sugar lies, wafted in as we passed one of those new-age bakeries, probably charging ten bucks a donut.

Something snapped in me as I choked down another lungful of diesel fumes, vanilla, and faux-happiness. Maretti's was gone, bulldozed to make way for one of those juice joints peddling overpriced kale and spiritual awakenings for five bucks a sip. Progress, they called it.

My eyes flicked to the rear-view. This poor bastard, hunched over his glowing rectangle of a life, didn't know a real goddamn thing. Time for a lesson. Probably some hotshot investment banker, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and pure terror as he glanced at the buildings whizzing by. I doubted he'd ever truly set foot on a real sidewalk.

"Hey, uh..." the kid squeaked, finally sensing something wasn't quite right with the madman behind the wheel. "Maybe we could, uh..."

"Buckle up, sunshine," I cackled, peeling away from the curb with a squeal of tires that sent a flock of pigeons into a panicked frenzy. "Forget those algorithms. Papa knows a shortcut."

We took it hard and fast, the alleyways barely used on his fancy maps. It was a journey through the city's underbelly, a symphony of peeling paint, greasy smells, and a bootlegger blasting opera from a cracked window – the real kind, the kind that screamed of heartbreak and passion, not some hipster's playlist.

This was my kind of navigation system. This was the soul of the damn city, and if it took sending us sideways through a backstreet chop-shop to prove it, then so be it. Maybe he'd emerge from my cab with less cash and a few more questions in that gelled-hair head of his.

The suit broke a sweat. Not just the nervous kind, but the clammy, soul-deep sweat of a man whose world was starting to tilt sideways. The phone chirped another pointless message, and I saw him fight the urge to check it, fingers twitching like they were having withdrawal. Good. Let him squirm.

"You ever think, kid?" I sneered, eyes glued to the rearview. "All these... shiny towers, scraping at the sky, and empty as a politician's promise. All full of people just like you, trapped in their little boxes."

His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish stranded on the sidewalk.

And then came Rosie's – now a shrine to overpriced sneakers boasting "street cred" they'd never come close to earning. The rage boiled back up in me, bitter as the mystery concoction in my flask.

"That was Rosie's," I growled. It was a eulogy and a curse. "Best damn cup of joe you could get. Sinatra on that busted old radio, Rosie humming along, a bit off-key, didn't care." I choked down the lump in my throat, smoke and anger swirling in its place. "She brought soul to this stretch of concrete."

Something flickered in the suit's eyes – confusion, maybe. But something else too, a sliver of recognition that this wasn't just a taxi ride, but a tour of an extinct world his kind had paved over.

"Now look at this!" I stabbed a finger towards the monstrosity. "Pumpkin spice lattes you gotta sell a kidney to afford and curated misery for those too rich to find the real thing."

I laid on the horn. Let the shrieking blast echo off the sterile walls, let the trust fund hipsters choke on their cruelty-free croissants. The suit flinched, then a strangled laugh bubbled up with a manic edge. He was getting it, seeing the madness, the way you could live a lifetime in this city and miss its goddamn pulse.

Salsa music spilled from a cracked window, punctuated by laughter. Progress could have its fancy facades and designer desperation, but it couldn't bury this. Couldn't bury the city's raw, bleeding heart.

We screeched to a halt outside a shiny office tower, the pinnacle of absurdity in this symphony of concrete and capitalism. The suit stared up at it, something unreadable in his eyes now.

He fumbled for his wallet, tossing a wad of bills over the seat without looking me in the eye. Smart move.

"That was... educational," the suit mumbled, scrambling out the door. "Thanks. I think.

The doors hissed shut behind him, swallowing him up into the air-conditioned, soulless void. I watched him go, feeling something strange, almost like pity. Then again, maybe it was for myself. Old. Angry. Stubborn as hell and clinging to ghosts.

But dammit, someone had to.

The city throbbed, and underneath the roar of traffic and the construction cranes, I thought I heard it. A faint, defiant whisper of Sinatra from a forgotten corner. Or maybe it was just the wind, a trick of the light.

But for a second, just a goddamn second, I believed. Believed that the city's soul wasn't quite dead yet. Not as long as stubborn bastards like me still kicked against the dying of the light.

I fished out the battered flask from under the seat, swigging back something that burned a path along my insides. It looked like a water bottle, all chipped plastic and sporting a "Save the Dolphins" sticker some bleeding-heart activist had probably slapped on years ago. Hell, maybe I used to be one myself.

I shoved the cab into gear, the engine coughing out a triumphant wheeze. Raising the flask in a bitter toast before knocking back another gulp. Time to find myself another lost soul, another patch of this city not yet sterilized. The faint smell of old cigarettes and stale dreams clung to the cab's interior, mingling with the sharp, metallic sting of the mystery booze.

A shadow moved across the rearview. The suit kid again, face pressed against the glass. There was a desperation in those eyes now, a hunger the corporate world hadn't managed to stamp out.

He rapped on the window. I lowered it an inch. I'm sure the bastard could smell the aroma.

"What did you put in that water bottle?" His voice was hoarse, almost pleading.

I just grinned, letting the smoke coil around my words. "The truth, kid. Wanna taste?"

He hesitated, then shook his head, something like fear or wild exhilaration in his eyes. I shrugged, revved the engine, and left him in my dust, a tiny, insignificant figure on the gleaming sidewalk.

The city was my oyster now, grimy and tarnished and beautiful in its own way. And as long as stubborn, half-crazed bastards like me were still around, they wouldn't erase it completely. I had a flask to refill, a city to explore, and a hell of a lot of rage to keep me warm.