Ten Dollars to Ride in the Taco Truck
When the city rains, he comes down hard.
I was running very late for work this morning. Later than usual, more disheveled than I enjoy. The rain was soaking my leggings and darkening my grey suede heels. The construction men were spotting me two blocks before I walked past them. My look of annoyance chased with fear was probably to blame for the extra attention.
Downtown in the rain, approaching cabs remind me of migrating antelope. When you spot them, hope rises from your stomach, and as they grow closer, you feel nervous. Then as they pass you, the fear clouds thickly around you once again.
The idea to hitch a ride with one of the delivery trucks came to me when one of them stopped and tried to get me to jump in. The driver was an old man with a thick New York accent. The passenger was a hefty latino. I was tempted except I wasn’t wearing any pants, just those damn wet leggings. Plus - they were headed uptown.
I attempted a few more times to hail a cab but they could smell my desperation and just kept on driving. Finally I shifted my weight to one hip and took my hoody down, focusing on the next delivery truck headed towards Soho. It was a taco delivery truck and the driver was a younger, chubby man with cute short baby dreads. I begged him as I ran towards him. He said no but I pretended not to hear. Finally he yelled at me to get in. I slammed open the door and tried to pull myself up…unsuccessfully of course. I sank back into my wet heels, as the four inch stiletto hit the pavement once again.
“Pull it together, girl” the driver yelled as the honking escalated around us. My second attempt was the winner, and we were off. He looked me up and down and then slyly inquired
“So you were trying to get a cab?”
“Yes,” I grunted.
“Were you going to pay that cab?”
“Of course,” I said as I threw a $10 bill at him,” Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it sweety, I was late yesterday. I know how it feels.”
