Eyes on the Road
WEDNESDAY, 6:30 PM
A young woman slid into the backseat. "The Garden, please.”
The driver nodded, glancing over his shoulder for a break in oncoming traffic. A white sedan approached, driving slow enough to be cut off. He took the opportunity and pulled off the shoulder. After giving a little gas, he cruised well ahead of the sedan who honked in complaint. Ahead of them, slivers of the darkening sky peeked through the horizon of skyscrapers. As the daylight dimmed, the buildings grew brighter. Each apartment light, marquee, with a neon “Live Jazz” sign, and a screen on a pedestrian's phone became a part of Manhattan’s star that never stopped shining.
The young woman looked up at the spectacle as he drove. Awe flickered in her eyes with each passing building. The driver could tell she hadn’t been here long. He knew every vein of the city almost as well as he knew all the people sitting in the back of his car. From the look of them, he could predict a certain tip, conversation, or destination like the weather. After living in the city for so long, New York had to try real hard to surprise him. He liked that. Whatever came his way, he would be ready—like a car double parked in the right lane. After keeping his eyes on the road for so many years, he had a knack for patterns.
"Joel or the Knicks?” he asked.
His shift started at five o’clock, and he already brought enough clientele to the Garden to know the repertoire. So far, only one man picked the Knicks. His father had the Knicks on in his childhood home like clockwork. Back then, the team was watchable. Not so long ago, he and Jenny used to watch them over a greasy bowl of warm popcorn, a part of their daily routine. “Billy Joel,” Her seatbelt clicked, “Never seen him before.”
"Really?” His eyes flitted to the right upon an incoming biker. A New York City biker could be stopped as easily as a bullet. He kept a close eye on the mirror. “I saw him play at Yankee Stadium a long time ago. Great show.”
She nodded, glancing out the window. For a generous tip, he’d have to keep up the conversation. Traffic on 8th Ave would be a killer and leave them a lot of time. An amassing wave of men in monochromatic suits swarmed the sidewalks with phones to their ears and leather cases in their hands. The stream of them tipped well and would populate the foot traffic for the next half hour until the offices cleared out.
His eyes flitted to the rearview mirror as the girl ran a hand over her slicked hair and fidgeted with the clasp on her fanny pack. Fanny packs were “in” now. That’s what Jenny told him, anyway, because she wanted one.
The girl in the backseat couldn’t be much older than Jenny who was too old for that nickname now. When her friends visited, they called her “Jen.” He hadn’t gotten used to that. Just two months ago, he and Jenny navigated the necktie tycoons together to see some film she was crazy about. The theater looked like nothing from the outside and at most sat twenty people inside. Though he tried to piece the characters’ names and plotlines together, the film was lost on him. He turned to Jenny when the lights came on to say something about that, but she stared at the rolling credits with tears in her eyes.
"It was perfect,” she’d told him.
He preferred Indiana Jones or something with Adam Sandler. They made better sense, and he always knew what to expect. Not that he had to worry about seeing confusing movies anymore; Jenny left for college two months ago. The driver could watch whatever he wanted now. Without her, though, there was little sense in going to the movies. He’d just watch the shitty Knicks on the couch with his popcorn he made less of.
Though he knew the answer, the driver asked: "You from here?” He’d picked her up in Greenwich Village, and he doubted any kid her age could afford to live there. If she lived in the Village with her parents, she didn’t dress like it. He bet she was a student, NYU, probably.
"No, I’m from Virginia.”
"Long way from home. How’dya like New York?”
"I love it. It’s busy. And a lot fewer cows than at home,” Someone’s Daughter remarked as she laughed a little and kept playing with the strap on her bag.
"Yeah, I bet. Just visitin’?”
"No, I go to NYU.”
"Great school. Good for you.” He turned onto 32nd where a cluster of cabs took up the shoulder, dropping off their clientele.
Jenny showed no interest in staying in New York, not that he could afford NYU for her. If it meant she’d stay in the city, he’d scrape the money together. He would do that for her. But she wanted Los Angeles.
Los Angeles? He thought she was kidding. Jenny knew how to tell a good joke, one only he’d laugh at. What do they have that we don’t? Shitty pizza?
But Jenny meant it. She wanted to make movies. She said she’d apply for every scholarship in the country if she could go to school in Los Angeles.
So what? We make movies in New York. But that wasn’t enough. Jenny wanted Hollywood. She needed Los Angeles. The driver didn’t tell Jenny what he feared most. They had no family in Los Angeles. Where would Jenny go while she lived off beans from writing movies? What Jenny needed was a job where the paychecks would always come, and trouble could be swerved like potholes.
God, he hated Los Angeles. Jenny couldn’t even watch baseball anymore; if she did, she’d have to watch the Dodgers. They wouldn’t stream the Yankees on local television in L.A.—would they?
"Alright, have a good time Kid,” he said as he put the car in park.
"Thank you,” Someone’s Daughter replied as she gave him a fifteen and opened the door.
She stood outside the cab for a moment, looking up at the sign that read Madison Square Garden. He hadn’t asked who she was seeing the show with. Maybe he should’ve asked. Someone’s Daughter walked toward the gate and got in line. In a new city. Alone. She would be meeting her friends inside, probably. She’d be al—
"Hey! Get off of my hood,” The driver said as he stuck his head out the window, leaning on his horn.
A teenager, who lounged on the cab for a photo, sprung off the hood. He wore a ridiculous outfit: tight jeans and a dark jacket with chains hanging from the fabric. The tiniest pair of sunglasses the driver had ever seen almost fell off the poser’s head as the surrounding crowd swallowed him. After muttering to himself, the driver pulled off the shoulder and drove away.
WEDNESDAY, 7:15 PM
"Corner of 7th and 48th,” the Man called from outside as he held the door open, the Woman sliding in and across the back seat.
The Woman folded her arms, her back turned ever so slightly from the Man as he sat down and closed the door. She smoothed a hand along her satin skirt, then ran a hand atop her curled hair in an effort to look busy. Her gaze adamantly avoided the Man.
The driver pulled onto the road to a chorus of honking. Too bad. They had to drive a little faster if they didn’t want to get cut off.
The Man put a hand on the Woman’s knee and mumbled, "I’m sorry, honey.”
Honey swatted him off, "Don’t.”
The driver brought his eyes back to the road. He’d never enjoyed third-wheeling an argument, and he felt one coming on. The air grew stale, silence ringing between the murmuring chorus of passersby and oncoming traffic. In some effort to make noise, he switched on the AC. Ahead, he spotted a freight truck decorated with bright vegetables blocking the right lane.
"Figures,” the driver huffed, sticking his nose into the left lane to get around the truck.
A long sigh came from the Man. "Talk to me, honey.”
"Do you have to be so selfish?” she whispered, not realizing her voice rang out in the car.
Honey made brief eye contact with the driver in the rearview mirror. Her gaze dropped quickly to her lap.
In the moment they locked eyes, a familiar look bled into Honey’s features. It dragged her painted lips down, made her eyes heavy with melancholy. Had the driver been more naïve to such glimpses, he would have taken her expression as self-pity. But he knew better; Honey pitied the Man, not herself. Jenny gave him the same look ages ago. Ages. He’d been walking the city streets for fifty years—why did a few months feel like ages?
The driver knew how to get caught up in routines, absorbed in schedules and certainties the day would bring. He never realized how keeping his eyes on the road for so many years stopped him from seeing things the way Jenny could. He didn’t understand her eye for art, for turning their mundane existence into stories. Why romanticize how the world could be, knowing how it is? The driver knew that so long as he had a car, he’d have work. Keep his eyes on the road, and he’d see the next day.
With a jagged breath and subtle shake of her head, Honey leaned over the center compartment, toward the driver.
"Could you let me out?” she asked.
"C’mon, hon,” The Man threw his hands, reaching for her.
The driver felt compelled to oblige her. He hoped not to see the first tear fall down her cheek. He couldn’t help but recoil a bit every time someone broke down in his cab. Consolation wasn’t his strength. A passenger’s emotions couldn’t be predicted like daily traffic flow. He found the best way to deal with outbursts was to turn his cheek and pretend not to see.
He made a right down a quieter street lined with overreaching elm trees. Brownstones scowled at the road, grids of mortar like wrinkles on their faces, each porch closed by a small gate. Cars with dusty windshields packed the shoulder, so the driver pulled over as far right as he could for Honey to get out.
She scrunched her skirt in her hands and swung her legs onto the cracked sidewalk. The Man slid across the seat but didn’t follow her.
"Don’t be ridiculous. Get back in,” the Man yelled.
"You don’t give a shit about anything unless it’s important to you!” the Woman exclaimed
When she brought her hands away from her face, pointing a malignant finger at the Man, the driver saw a tear on her cheek. Her face strained, trying her utmost to keep more from spilling over.
"When something matters to me you can’t give a shit!” Honey continued.
"It’s just a show!” the Man argued.
He sputtered, gesturing anxiously with his hands to encourage the right words that didn’t emerge.
"Look, we’ll catch another one, okay?” the Man said, attempting to calm Honey’s nerves.
Honey didn’t need to say anything. She only shook her head at the Man, wearing that same look of pity. From his seat, the driver could see a perfect tableau: the Man sitting in the open car door, the Woman looking down on him from the sidewalk. The driver bet she’d planned the evening for some time, picked her outfit in advance, and saved extra time to do her hair. Jenny always did; she loved to put music on while she filled the apartment with the hot smell of her curling iron. All Honey’s effort was wasted because the Man couldn’t understand how much she cared.
The driver cleared his throat before remarking, "Your meter’s still running. Are you getting out or not?”
Though he tried to sound tough, to distance himself from their argument, his voice wavered. As he stared back at the Man in the backseat, he only saw himself.
MONTHS AGO, 4:00PM
"It’s what I want!” Jenny yelled to her father.
Jenny stood in the kitchen space in her pajamas: an old T-shirt of the driver’s and shorts she’d had since she was twelve. The TV set in the living room droned behind her with some commercial, flickering onto the blank wall.
"It’s all I want, Dad,” Jenny explained, trying to get her father to see her way.
"You’re not going to Los Angeles,” he replied before shuffling through one of many junk drawers, looking for his keys.
They had to be around there somewhere.
"Why?” Jenny asked before marching towards her father..
Her dark eyes burned into his back. Jenny never feared him. Growing up, it had always been just the two of them to hold each other up. Without Jenny, the driver would’ve scarcely left the apartment, if not to work. But if not for the driver, Jenny wouldn’t have picked up the work ethic that got her through school. They made a good team.
"We can’t afford it,” he explained as he thumbed through a stack of wrinkled receipts, and then dug through a cluster of pens and pencils.
"Don’t talk to me about money. I’ve been working since I was thirteen. “I’ve been talking to the career counselor, applying for scholarships. If everything goes my way—”
"I don’t want you going to California,” he stated, attempting to stop Jenny from further reasoning.
"It’s my life!”
"And what kind of life is there for you in California?” he asked before finally slamming the drawer closed and forcing himself to face her.
He choked on his words, feeling a nervous pit in his chest.
"I don’t want you working for pennies all the way across the country all by yourself. I won’t let you,” he explained, eyes conveying a father’s protective nature.
Her jaw clenched. As her gaze turned from anger to something else, the driver’s stomach dropped. Jenny paced to the other side of the room, heading towards a small hutch with a fake plant and an old frame. She rummaged through the mess drawer, found his keys, and threw them on the counter before him.
Her hand lingered on the keys as her mouth grew taut.
"I’m sorry for you, Dad. I really am. But there’s more than one way to live,” Jenny stated with utmost honesty
She turned from him before he could reach out a hand, to explain, to comfort, to do something.
"Jenny...” he started.
"Just go to work,” Jenny uttered before locking the door to her room.
THURSDAY, 12:00 AM
A man slid into the cab, tossing a duffel bag on the seat next to him with one hand. In the other arm, a little girl rested quietly.
"The Marriott, Times Square,” the Father uttered to the driver.
Few times did the driver ever feel relieved to drive someone into Times Square. Traffic at Newark airport relented so long as the seasons stopped changing. With the alternative of spending more time in New Jersey, he felt glad to leave. He tapped on his horn as he stuck his nose out of the rightmost lane as a warning.
Cars stopped in the center lane, throwing their hazards on. Drivers ran to their friends and family, giving hugs like they were in nobody’s way.
"Busy night?” the Father asked.
"Yeah, it’s been good. Can’t complain,” the driver responded, his eyes remaining focused
on the road.
"My father used to drive cabs in New York when I was a kid. I grew up in Brooklyn.”
"Yeah?” the driver asked, his eyes looking briefly in the rearview mirror to display his attention.
The driver enjoyed it when his passengers liked to talk. It made his job easier.
"He put a lot of work into that car. He loved it,” the Father explained.
"I know, it’s hard work.”
He merged onto the highway, watching the lights fly overhead. A couple headlights passed them by, heading south. Two or three miles down the highway, he saw lone red taillights. Otherwise, the road appeared vacated.
The Daughter let out a slow yawn, stretching her arms out until they collapsed back around the Father’s shoulders.
"Are we there yet?” she mumbled into his shoulder.
"Not yet. Go back to sleep,” the Father advised while rubbing and planting a kiss atop her forehead.
She closed her eyes again and nestled herself back into place.
The cab grew quiet, nothing but the sounds of their tires on the road to fill the driver’s ear. But he enjoyed this time at night: when the world seemed to finally rest for a few minutes. After staring at gridlock all evening, the sounds of his engine on the empty highway soothed him.
"Are you visiting for long?” the driver asked the Father.
"Nah, just a few days. But she’s been dying to stay in the elevator hotel for years.” “The elevator hotel?”
"The Marriott. I washed the windows there growing up. I would tell her stories about the glass elevators in the center where you can see everything as you go up. I guess it stuck because she’s been talking about them since she could talk. She’s so crazy about an elevator.”
"It’s funny what they hold onto,” the driver said, failing to hold back his smile.
He thought of Jenny, especially when she could fit into his arms like the Daughter. The first movie he’d ever shown her growing up was Indiana Jones. Jenny loved it so much that she would run around the apartment in one of the driver’s hats, jumping from one couch cushion to the next in order to avoid stepping on “snakes.” Eventually, she graduated from playing games to writing parts for the driver to play with her: their own little movies.
"Isn’t it? She’s spending her birthday in the greatest city in the world, and all she can talk to me about is the elevator,” the Father explained as he chuckled.
The driver watched as the Father looked down at the little girl in his lap. He rubbed a hand on her back and smiled in the indescribable way a man could smile at the girl who cherished his stories about elevators.
The sight punched a hole in the driver’s chest, remembering his moments with young Jenny.
"My Jenny was like that. I worked on tugboats with my father before I drove cabs. She’d ask me to play pretend with her. It was either playing Indiana Jones or ‘tugboat.’ I would turn up the cushions on the couch and call it a boat. And what did she want for Christmas? Tugboats. Jesus, where do’ya get your daughter a toy tugboat?”
They both laughed.
"How old is she?” the Father asked.
"Eighteen. She’s in school in Los Angeles”
"Wow. Time flies.”
"Sure does.”
The Father smiled at the little girl, asleep again in his lap.
"Pretty soon, she’ll be off jumping cities, riding all the glass elevators by herself.”
"Sounds like a hell of a time.”
"Yeah, she’ll be alright. It’s me who hasn’t figured it out yet.”
When the cab emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel, Manhattan engulfed them. Staggering buildings set light to the sky with an array of lit windows.
"Hey, look outside” the Father said as he tapped his Daughter on her shoulder.
She rubbed her eyes, holding her arms around her father’s neck as she leaned back, craning her neck to see out the window.
"Whoa.” she uttered as she wrangled her chubby limbs free.
The Daughter slid across the backseat, throwing her hands upon the glass with her breath fogging up before her. The driver would have to clean the fingerprints off later.
THURSDAY, 3:00 AM
The driver shuttled passengers back and forth from small concert venues to their apartments, from bars to other bars, and from parties to afterparties. He wound up cruising down 6th Avenue among a near-sleeping city, at least from the sidewalk. As his gaze traveled upward, he spotted silhouettes in apartment lights, flashing colors from a window, and busy rooftops. Someone stood along the street and stuck out her hand to wave him down. The driver complied and pulled over. When he got closer to the passenger, he recognized her nylon shorts and slicked hair. It was Someone’s Daughter.
She opened the door and slid across the seat as another girl climbed in with her. Both wore the same, big concert T-shirt with "Billy Joel” printed across the front.
"Corner of 4th and east 10th please,” Someone’s Daughter spoke as she reached for her seatbelt and clicked it into place.
He pulled back onto the road before asking, "How was the show?”
Someone’s Daughter looked up at him and stared for a moment before she realized the driver’s identity.
"Oh, you drove me before! What are the chances?”
"City’s not so big after all,” the driver stated with a chuckle.
"Yeah, I guess so. But the concert was great.”
"Glad to hear it. Got a favorite song he played?”
"Miami’s gotta be my favorite. My dad’s too. I recorded the whole thing for him,” Someone’s Daughter explained as she picked up her phone, the glow illuminating the backseat.
Residual glitter from a car full of bachelorettes caught the light.
"He hasn’t seen it yet though. My family goes to bed with the old people. Dinner at five, in bed at nine.”
"Do you miss home much?”
"A lot. I miss my family anyway. And my dog.”
"That’s gotta be tough.”
"Yeah, but I’ve always wanted New York. I wanna be a journalist, so I had to be here, you know? But I think I made the right choice.”
The driver watched the road, switching lanes to make a left on 10th Avenue. Talking made good tips, but something about the early morning took his words from him. Buildings climbed into the dark sky and blocked out the moon. Fewer lights shone from the windows than before. He thought about Jenny, wondering where the new city had taken her that night and the new friends she spent time with. But more so, he remembered the girl jumping around on couch cushions, yelling, “Snake!” and how she learned to see a world bigger than the Big City. After so many years maneuvering his cab around the grid, the driver knew his life required nothing more than what the city could give him, nothing more than what he learned from patterned foot traffic and the city’s day-to-day antics.
"You could let us out here,” the friend called out as they crossed onto 4th Ave.
"No problem.” he responded before hitting his turn signal, ticking until he crossed into the shoulder and put the cab in park.
"Take care of yourselves, alright?”
"Yeah, thank you.” the friend replied before opening the door and stepping outside.
Someone’s Daughter moved across the backseat toward her friend. She took a bill out of her wallet to hand to the driver.
"I’ll see you next time,” Someone’s Daughter uttered before following her friend out of the car.
"Good night, kid,” the driver replied as he took the bill and set it in his glove compartment.
After closing the door behind her, Someone’s Daughter caught up with her friend. She said something to the other girl, leaning into her ear with a gentle smile. The two burst into a fit of laughter. They held onto each other in a hysterical daze, and their voices chimed on between gasping breaths. They kept walking side by side until they became silhouettes in dim street lights, swallowed by concrete and steel.
He lingered in the shoulder, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He’d have to turn in his car at the depot within the hour for the next shift. The driver shifted to get a good look at the backseat. Twinkling specks of glitter caught the dim light. Cleaning the mess would take him some time, so he’d have to get started. He popped open the glove compartment to collect a few belongings: a loose dollar bill and a picture frame, both for good luck. The dollar was his grandfather’s idea; he always kept one loose to fend off some superstition on the road. The driver didn’t believe in that crap, but he kept the bill there every time he drove anyway.
After tucking the bill back into his wallet, he picked up the small frame. He looked much younger in the picture, so young he hardly recognized himself with all his hair. Under his arm sat a young girl in braids wearing a giant Yankees hat. He took the picture at Jenny’s first baseball game. When they stepped into Yankee Stadium together for the first time all those years ago, she was hardly tall enough to look over the concession stands. He held her tiny fingers so tight—afraid that if he didn’t she’d be swallowed by the crowd. But she wasn’t. She walked so confidently about the grounds that anyone would’ve sworn she lived in the bleachers. Now, Jenny didn’t need him to take her anymore. She knew the subways and the streets like the back of her hand. How the hell could Los Angeles scare her if she rode the subway all her life?
He thought of Someone’s Daughter, navigating a new city and learning how to carry herself without holding someone’s hand. She looked happy, clinging to the arm of her new friend. He bet her father worried about her, waiting on every text she sent. But he’d wake up to photos of the concert and know his daughter would be okay. The driver knew that after the nausea of letting her go subsides, an overwhelming pride trickles in—knowing his daughter had the guts to follow her dream outside of his world, even if he didn’t understand it.
Jenny would be okay.
The driver looked over his shoulder before pulling back onto the road. The depot would expect him to return the car soon. He’d clean the backseat up, give the car a wash, and be on his way home. After that, he’d send Jenny a text to make sure she paid for her subscription to watch the Yankees. Over his dead body would Jenny have to watch the Dodgers on TV.