an unobstructed view

a fare to remember

I always thought my parents were crazy. Of course everyone thinks their parents are crazy, but mine registered particularly high on the Richter scale. Chief among their many obsessions was a fear of the ocean. My parents were terrified of the ocean. Considering that we lived in Miami, this obstacle wasn't easy to hurdle. When I was a teenager, a simple request to go to the beach had them biting their knuckles. I could only venture outside under certain conditions. I’d promise to check in with the lifeguard. I’d swear I would venture no further than five yards from shore. I’d wade in no farther than my knees. Then and only then would I be given permission to join my friends. Years after Dad died, I found out the reason for his worry. An aunt unearthed a long buried secret. Sitting down at my kitchen table, she slowly told me a story about one of the worst days in my father's life. How he had gone to Coney Island for a day of fun with his friends. How he stumbled upon something in the ocean, his toes touching the dead foot, arm, head. How he stayed in the water while his friends went for help—afraid to leave, afraid to move. I felt incredibly guilty when I learned the truth. I wished he had confided in me. Only after I became a mother did I understand the power of random events to shape our lives. I was seventeen when I first left my parents’ house. We were overprotected and never permitted to go to sleepaway camp or stay at a classmate’s home for a night. When I started college, I was totally unprepared for living on my own. I spent my first few months sulking in my dorm room. The University of Miami was the last place I wanted to be. Northwestern had offered me a full scholarship but my father quickly nixed that option. He looked on a map and saw that the school was just a short car ride from the University of Michigan and my boyfriend Michael. All of his sensors hit high alert. Ever since the movie Woodstock came out, my parents thought the whole world was smoking pot and having premarital sex. Going to an out-of-town college was out of the question. I lived thirty minutes from home, but Mom and Dad were as vigilant as ever. Most Friday nights my mother came to campus, picked me and my dirty laundry up, and dropped us both off Sunday afternoons scrubbed clean. The rest of my time was spent keeping up an A average so I could transfer at the year’s end. I had no friends, and the highlight of each day was the letter I received from Michigan. My life felt shrink-wrapped. I was unbearably lonely. Meanwhile Michael was thriving in Ann Arbor and in the throes of football delirium. My mail was inundated with maize and blue pens, pencils, and posters. If I read one more letter about the upcoming Bo/Woody game, I was going to scream. I found myself writing back about them “Canes.” I mailed him a green and orange t-shirt just for spite. That same week I spotted a sign on the bulletin board outside the dorm lounge. Need a ride to Friday’s big game? Why not? I thought. I went back to my room, dialed the number and learned that Susie P. had one more seat in her car if I was willing to chip in on gas and parking. It’s a deal, I said. We decided to meet in the dorm lobby an hour before kickoff. Michael and I had been to the Orange Bowl for a few daytime Dolphin games, but I had paid no attention to our surroundings. The sun was setting when I paid Susie her money. Then six of us loaded into a Ford Fairlane. It was dark by the time we pulled onto a stranger’s front lawn and forked over three dollars for parking. We decided to meet up at the car after the game. Three hours later, my temples were pounding. I had beer in my hair, and I never wanted to hear the words yama yama yama again. Lord knows what was stuck on the bottom of my sneakers. A human tsunami of sweat and booze surged out of the stadium. Barely managing to stay on my feet, I was pulled by the crowd through tunnels and corridors until we eventually surfaced in the open air. Outside, I had no idea which direction I faced. I started walking and looked for recognizable landmarks, something that signaled my path back towards the car. But the night was thick and damp and all the little boxy houses surrounding me looked the same. I walked faster and faster and tried hard not to panic. But I had no idea where I was, and the streets were starting to empty. Soon it was midnight. Yards that had been littered with cars now were scarred with tire tracks and mud. Living room lamps were turned off as the neighborhood went to sleep. I scanned the bushes for hidden muggers and trembled every time I heard a leaf rustle. In the distance the neon lights of a major thoroughfare winked and blinked. A pay phone, I thought, if only I could find a pay phone! But suddenly I realized I had no one to call but my parents. They would never forgive me for getting myself into this mess. It was then that I saw the taxi with its roof top light glowing in the mist. I walked into the road and stuck out my hand like I had seen my father do countless times. I had never hailed a cab or ridden in one alone before. To my shock it stopped a few feet away from me. A large man swung open the front door on the passenger side. “Hop in, Sugar” he said in a deep Southern accent. “Tonight’s your lucky night.” I sat down and gripped my purse. “Could you please take me to the University of Miami, Dickinson Drive off US 1?” The man flashed me a wolfish grin. He had the world's largest teeth. “No problem," he said. "But first I have to make a quick stop.” By now the roads in downtown Miami were deserted. There was no doubt in my mind that the taxi driver was a homicidal rapist. I took out a pen and scrap piece of paper and wrote down the name on the dashboard license. Moses Smith. While the driver spoke to his dispatcher, I stuffed it in my pocket. I figured the least I could do is help the police track down my killer. Minutes passed and still there was no sight of the campus. Then all at once we stopped. “I’ll just be a minute,” said Moses. Then he jumped out of the car and reached into the back seat. “Got to deliver some blood to the blood bank.” An ambulance raced by. Directly in front of us was Jackson Memorial Hospital. I tapped my fingers nervously on the window. I had no idea what to do. Should I jump out of the taxi and run inside? Before I could make up my mind, Moses was back. “Thanks for waiting." Again the big smile. "Guess it’s time to turn on the meter." As we cruised through more familiar streets I realized that I was actually going to make it back. My taxi driver wasn’t a psychopath but a Good Samaritan. By the time he stopped in front of my building, I was overwhelmed with relief and gratitude. Then he asked for his fare. I owed him five dollars and only had seventy-five cents left in my wallet. Cash was the last thing I had been thinking about. “Hold on a sec. I promise I’ll be right back.” I ran into the dorm and took the elevator to my room. My underwear drawer with its hidden stash had a total of two dollars. I tracked down my RA and quickly borrowed the rest. Ten minutes later, Moses was still patiently waiting out front. He saw me coming and flicked off his rooftop light. A halo flickered then dissipated in the heat. I didn’t know about tipping and paid him five dollars flat. But Moses was too much a gentleman to complain and beamed his gentle grin once more before he said good night. Forty years later, my adult children and I follow a similar script. My parting words are never just goodbye or drive carefully. I ask “Do you have money?” And they say yes. I ask "How much?" and they check their wallets. No matter how much cash they have, it is never enough. I must complete the ritual. “You should always have cab fare,” I insist. They roll their eyes like I’m crazy. Then I stuff a twenty in their pockets and send them on their way.

Marlene Olin's stories have been published in over thirty-five online and print journals. Born in Brooklyn and raised in Miami, she attended the University of Michigan. Marlene presently lives in Coconut Grove, Florida with her husband. She has two children and two grandchildren. She recently compiled a collection of her stories and finished her first novel. Her Twitter handle is @writestuffmiami

For more work by Marlene Olin, check out her page at our Online Sundries site.