Paint It Yellow

by López, Andrés G.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Go right ahead. I think I’ll have one too.”

  Sal pulled his cigs from the pocket of his black leather coat on the seat next to him. He sensed the woman’s eyes on him, self-consciously brushed his long black hair off his face, and as he lit his cigarette, glanced in his rearview mirror into her blue eyes.

  “Can I light that for you?”

  “Yes, please, if you don’t mind.” She handed him her cigarette, which he lit and handed back through the glass divider.

  “I’m Sylvia, by the way. And your license tells me you are James Salvatore.”

  “My friends call me Sal.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Sal.”

  “Likewise,” he responded, then added, “Your husband’s wiped out.”

  “He works too much. Journalists are always busy.”

  “How much of his novel does he have done?”

  “He hasn’t started it yet, but he says he’s got the plot worked out. We’ll see how much he can get done during our three-week break. I certainly won’t disturb him.”

  Sal couldn’t see himself escaping to the Long Island shore with such a beautiful woman, just to work on a novel, or anything else for that matter. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate. Though he didn’t know Joe or much about his life, Sal thought him a damn fool.

  “I tell you, Sylvia. I think you got in the wrong cab this morning. My best friend Gabriel, just five cabs behind me at the Waldorf, is a literature fanatic. If he was your driver, Gabe would be talking up a storm with your husband.”

  “Well, I’m glad we got you then. Joe needs the rest.” She paused. “And so do I.”

  The two fell silent. Sal didn’t want to irritate his passenger for fear of jeopardizing a potentially good tip. And he didn’t know what to say to interest her; the only impulse he had was to tell her she looked lovely, that he loved her smile, the way she dressed, the perfume she wore. And how could he even attempt this — she was a married woman, her husband next to her, and he was all but engaged to Julia. Sal felt himself getting hot, so he turned down the heater and opened his window just enough to let out some of the cigarette smoke.

  Sal had never cheated on Julia. Their relationship had endured numerous minor setbacks, heated arguments (many over money), petty jealousies, and rare, brief breakups, but a much deeper, underlying commitment steadied their ship through these turbulent times. Still, though fiercely loyal to Julia, Sal often fantasized about other women. He weakened whenever a woman expressed even a modicum of interest in him. He craved female attention and convinced himself that there was no harm in playing the pursuit game. Staying “hungry all the time,” as he often told Gabriel, was his philosophy.

  The teasing Sal had endured as a child over his weight had left lingering wounds. While he had eventually come to fight back physically against his male tormenters, the girls who taunted him posed a different dilemma. It was more difficult to endure jabs from girls because Sal liked them and wanted them to like him. And no matter how harsh girls were, he’d never hit them — that was against his honor code. But the anger festered. When puberty came, the tide turned. Sal became slimmer, more athletic and truly handsome. Suddenly he received girls’ attention everywhere he went and he couldn’t get enough of it. The inner agony he’d carried for years disappeared. Every interested glance from a woman, every kindness directed at him, energized him; he felt alive, redeemed, freed from the labels with which he’d been branded. He became a big flirt and didn’t care what others thought about him; it wasn’t anything he’d ever apologize for. As long as he didn’t do it in front of Julia or purposely to hurt her, he saw no harm in playing his game.

  In the six years he’d been with Julia, he’d never been seriously tempted. Yet here, sitting in his back seat, was a woman whose elegance, wealth and beauty posed a real threat to his moral fortitude.

  Sal focused on driving, looked around for troopers and pushed his speed to sixty-nine, settling in the center lane behind a dark-blue Porsche sport coupe. Meanwhile, Sylvia savored her cigarette, thought about the coming time with her husband and dreaded it. Suddenly, she felt the need to have someone like Sal around to talk to in those lonely days. He seemed relaxed, grounded, someone who lived in the moment. She liked his deep voice, the way he conversed with a cigarette in his mouth and the way his black hair curved around his ears before sloping like a scythe blade onto his shoulders. She noticed his long sideburns that widened as they fell down his cheeks, like the bell-bottom pants she had sported at college, ten years earlier. Most appealing to her was his impeccably groomed mustache (which Sal took pains to perfect, daily) that dropped to his chin in two crescents and shouted “don’t mess with me” to the world. Sylvia allowed herself to be drawn in by Sal’s vigorous appearance, by the strength of his youthful countenance, the attractiveness of his manly face and muscular arms. In the silence of the cab, broken only by her husband’s breathing, Sylvia imagined herself in Sal’s arms.

  An icy rain began to fall. The temperature had dropped and wind whipped around the cab. The expressway was deluged with water and a misty fog formed on the pavement for miles ahead. Sal reduced his speed to fifty and closed his window. This was the weirdest weather he’d seen in a while; when they’d left Manhattan over an hour and a half earlier, the sun had been out. Now the clouds ahead were as dark and thick as the folds of his black bomber jacket. He put his defroster on high. There were still ten exits before the expressway ended. The change in weather would certainly present delays, but for some reason, his earlier desire to rush back to the city left him and suddenly he wished to know more about this woman in his cab.

  “So do you like medieval romance literature, Sylvia?”

  Her response didn’t come right away, and Sal felt upset at himself for broaching what was perhaps a sore subject, given the apparent tension he had sensed earlier between her and her husband. But Sylvia wasn’t annoyed. Instead, she seemed to be thinking about her answer before speaking.

  “Not much. It all seems too contrived. It’s hard to imagine anything like romance in societies plagued by war, hunger and disease. I do like the imaginative effort by writers to give their readers a promise of romance. But the truth is …” She hesitated, then continued even more softly, pausing briefly between phrases as if to emphasize her points, “romance dies. Love struggles to survive. And we become fools if we keep believing in the romantic fantasy. Lovers should be more practical. If I were a medieval maiden, I’d want a new knight to rescue me from my old one when he got boring.”

  Sal couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. That was one awesome come on (wasn’t it?) and he didn’t want to disappoint his love-starved maiden. He pictured himself as a daring knight; it was how he saw himself anyway, a strong, muscular hotshot hero ready to save the world. He was so excited he grabbed another cigarette, lit it and took a drag while thinking of what he’d say or perhaps do. He wanted to make love to her right then and there (he assumed she wanted him to make a move) and if it hadn’t been raining and cold and miserable outside, he might have just pulled the cab over to the side of the highway and invited her to escort him down the embankment to show her some real hardwood. Her husband was so exhausted he probably wouldn’t wake up, and if he did, Sal didn’t care; he could just sit in the car and have one of those pastries he’d bought back in Manhattan and dream about his novel, while Sal enjoyed his wife.

  The rain subsided a bit. The sky, however, remained dark. The highway was all but deserted, save for the Checker and a couple of cars far, far ahead. In his rearview mirror, Sal could see none behind. Sylvia’s husband’s head tilted back slightly and rested on the door. But just as Sal was about to enact his imagined fantasy, a pang of guilt wrenched his gut. How could he even consider doing this to Julia? He knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t; he’d hate himself if he did. Julia was the one bright light in his life, the woman he confided in, who loved him unconditionally, stood by him in the bleakest of times an
d repeatedly forgave his failings. In seconds, Sal’s willpower surfaced, killed his throbbing desire and forced lustful thoughts from his mind.

  In this rare moment, when good sense rescued him from temptation, Sal’s mental clarity prevailed and he felt proud. Indeed, if he saw himself as a knight, the knight he admired most was not traitorous Lancelot, with his prowess, looks and daring, but rather good Gawain, whose moral strength made him manlier than Lancelot and far more courageous.

  Just then, the rain intensified again; the cab was pelted as if with rocks. Sal’s dispatcher suddenly barked from the radio, inquiring about Sal’s afternoon availability. Mr. Bernstein, he explained, had changed his flight schedule and would be landing at Kennedy at three o’clock and needed a ride. Sal glanced at his watch (it was just past noon), calculated he could make it and said he’d pick Bernstein up. The loud exchange woke Joe from his heavy slumber and while still in a sleepy stupor, he turned to ask Sylvia if they were home.

  “Almost darling.”

  Sal gunned the Checker, which swayed in the center lane; its worn tires had difficulty gripping the slick roadway. Now on a time constraint, he knew he had to hustle. As he’d promised, Sal found the firewood supplier off exit 70. While Joe went inside to place his order, Sal sought the men’s room and lingered there until Joe was done. He didn’t trust himself around temptress Sylvia who remained in the cab alone.

  CHAPTER 38

  “You really did a number on Vito’s car, kid,” said the straight-faced tow truck operator from Ann Corporation when he arrived at Hoyt Avenue to bring Gabriel home. Carl was a black middle-aged muscular fellow with wild eyebrows and a broom mustache; he did this at least twice weekly and knew that within forty-eight hours, no matter how bad the damage was on any cab, it would be back out on the street making money. But he was always struck by how upset drivers were after their accidents. He noticed Gabriel’s visible distress and tried to lighten things.

  “Look kid, don’t worry about the damned cab. This shit happens more often than you know. It’s how I make my living, so thanks. Besides, Vito’s gone to visit family in Sicily and won’t be back till next week. He won’t know his little woman’s had her face rearranged. Carlos will fix this girl up good — new fenders, hood, radiator, tires, wax — the works. So lighten up okay? Here, have the rest of this Italian sub. It’ll take me a few minutes to hook her up. Just a little Queensboro traffic, smooth sailing down Second Ave, a few blocks and we’re home. Sound good?”

  Gabriel nodded. “Thanks.”

  Gibbs had not been upset when he’d called in an hour earlier; now Carl was as calm as anyone he’d ever met. He dragged the heavy chains to the chassis and lifted the Chevy’s front end. The rest of the radiator fluid dripped out as the car was hoisted in the air and even to an untrained eye, it was obvious the car’s frame was twisted like a pretzel.

  The tow truck’s cabin smelled of fresh cologne; photos of naked women in provocative poses hung in plastic sleeves from the rearview mirror (Carl introduced these ladies as his women) and James Brown’s soulful voice wailed from the tape in the cassette deck. Gabriel laid his head back and closed his eyes. He hoped the disoriented old woman in search of her pearls had not suffered any severe whiplash. Then he replayed the accident, the wrong moves he’d made, the miscalculations, the big surprise in the shape, oddly enough, of a stalled Dodge. His mind wandered to Helene. Where was she? How was her father? The truck door was yanked opened, startling Gabriel, and Carl hopped in and gunned the engine. He handed Gabriel a clipboard with an accident report sheet on it.

  “Gibbs needs that info to figure out the company’s liability. Don’t lie; just write down what you remember. Don’t make shit up. The company will have to pay. It’s just a matter of how much. Gibbs don’t care, as long as you’re honest, kid. Get my drift?” Carl reached in the glove compartment and handed Gabriel a ballpoint.

  Gabriel stared at the long list of questions in front of him: What was your destination? Describe your passenger(s). Were they hurt? How fast were you traveling?

  He did his best to keep the pen steady, to provide thorough answers, to be honest, while Carl snaked the truck and its disfigured cargo under the 31st Street el toward the Queensboro Bridge, jolting the cabin as he hit unexpected potholes and changed gears aggressively. Occasionally, he’d honk his horn at cars that cut him off or when he was blowing through a yellow light. Though he was moving fast, with wreckage from an accident, Carl was close to having an accident of his own. But this seemed to embolden him, to make him angrier and more aggressive, and he’d punctuate each close call with exclamations.

  “You dumb shit!” and “Don’t you fucking see me coming, sweetheart?”

  Carl certainly had a private dialogue going with his fellow motorists, but it was all in the name of hustling home. Gabriel realized that his priority was getting that cab back to the shop in record time — the faster, the better. At first, Gabriel was hanging on to his seat edge, but after a while, he stopped worrying. Carl was a pro.

  Gabriel closed his eyes and saw Helene, her eyes, her smile; he thought about what it would feel like to hold her in his arms once more.

  Later that evening, Gabriel walked back to Helene’s place a little bewildered. This had certainly been a strange day. He ran up the stairs, entered the apartment and sought the bedroom. Before diving fully clothed onto the comfy bed, he spied the blinking red button on the phone’s answering machine. It was Helene, he immediately thought. But then he wondered if it could be Sal. For some odd reason, Gabriel suspected Sal was in trouble. It had been that type of day, one where bizarre happenings had cropped up suddenly like deceptive mirages for a worn desert traveler.

  Gabriel hesitated, but then pressed the play button. Helene’s soft voice told him that her dad was going to be fine. Gabriel smiled. “Thank you, Lord,” he said. “Thank you!”

  But there was more to hear, much more. “When all is settled here, I’d like you to come and meet my parents. I miss you.”

  Gabriel’s sudden excitement at the prospect of flying to Minnesota to meet Helene’s family displaced any lingering stupor that weighed on him from this oddest of days. With a buoyant stride, he went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He no longer felt exhausted. Waiting for the water to boil, he strolled into the bedroom, picked up the photo of Helene and her son and felt a deep love for them lift him into another realm.

  Gabriel sat down, closed his eyes and listened to the soft gurgling and hissing sounds of the tea kettle as it heated up. He remembered Helene wearing those dark sunglasses on the night he’d met her. How distant she had seemed then. He replayed their first embrace, touching the soft skin of her back, kissing her lips. He saw himself traveling to Minnesota and kissing her as if for the first time.

  The kettle sounded sharply. After drinking his tea, Gabriel dove into bed, holding firmly to the new hope in his heart. Now relieved, at least about Helene’s situation, his mind filled with many other good thoughts. This day had been hectic, nutty, full of surprises, anxiety and bewilderment. But at the end of it, Helene’s voice had restored peace to his life; it seemed an omen of good things to come. Or so Gabriel thought.

  CHAPTER 39

  Sal drove Joe and Sylvia to their luxurious estate on Hill Street near Agawam Park, collected his fare and a handsome tip and raced back toward the Long Island Expressway for his journey to Kennedy. But the Hampton traffic slowed and annoyed him (the tie up on Montauk Highway alone kept his Checker at a crawl for about fifty minutes). He reached the LIE, and as soon as he found himself on the entrance ramp, he pushed the accelerator to the floor. The Checker, unused to this treatment and not a fast car, hesitated but then gradually picked up speed. Soon Sal was at the threshold — sixty-nine miles per hour. The hour wasted in traffic had nearly driven him to distraction, so here was the perfect opportunity to make up for lost time. He saw just a couple of cars in the distance, not a police cruiser in sight, and these first ten exits or so presented three lanes of ope
n road. Sal grinned. He took his right hand off the wheel and felt the bulge in his shirt pocket where he carried the bundle of Jacksons — twelve to be exact — that Joe had handed him when he’d dropped them off. This was enough cash to pay all the coming month’s bills, and Julia would be pleased. The rest of the afternoon could be spent in the service of Bernstein, who was always generous. But as he glanced at his watch, Sal realized he might not make it. It was 1:45 p.m. and Kennedy was at least an hour and a half away, not accounting for traffic tie-ups on the expressway. He didn’t want to disappoint Bernstein. His mind began to race and he felt his face getting hot, and the distraction made him forget that eighty miles per hour was way beyond the pardonable-speed threshold, even for a yellow cab.

  When Sal did notice his speedometer, it was too late. The cop was on Sal’s tail faster than a flea on a spotted dog’s behind. Sal thought about gunning his cab and trying to escape, but knew he’d not get far. The Checker was almost maxed out; every bolt rattled, the engine gasped, the metallic cab shell shook as if from shock, and the nearest exit was still miles away.

  Sal pulled to the right and slowed to about forty miles per hour, as if trying to relay his remorse to his pursuer. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he could see the patrol car flying toward him with lights flashing and siren blasting. Sal crept onto a patch of grassy land on the right shoulder, stopped and shut the engine. He closed his eyes and behind his lids agonized, waiting for the trooper to stop, slam the patrol car’s door and stroll to his window for an explanation.

  “May I see your license and registration please?” the young trooper asked. He was about twenty-five, tall but burly, clean-shaven and his uniform spotless. His hat was cocked forward but did not hide his entire brow. It was difficult to read his tone of voice, but Sal did not detect any arrogance in it. Sal hated authority, regardless of the uniform. He thought perhaps he should be as pleasant as possible and see if he could get off without a ticket.