Today I don’t know what to think. There are times when a decision seems so crucial that anything less than the perfect response will cause complete despair. At least that’s how it seems to me. Everything could fall apart. Maybe it’s all my own damn fault?
Last night it all seemed so clear. I would have to tell Myra what I perceived was happening on the train. She has to find out somehow. I could maybe put an anonymous letter in her mailbox at Central? That keeps me out of it.
While I’m usually fairly reserved, in my opinion, today I really feel like I need to talk to someone. Just get it all out there, bend some stranger’s ear, and hopefully get some free psychotherapy in return. Albeit unqualified psychotherapy.
I don’t really have friends. Sure, I know people, but I’ve always been somewhat antisocial. It’s too much to get involved in someone else’s life. Who has time for that? Chances are some of them will be over-dramatic too. Cut that shit right out, right away.
And it’s not like I’ve never had friends. With age things change, people change. You might find you don’t have as much in common with someone as you did ten years ago. Or people move away, and without the chance for face to face contact, you stop being interested. Also there’s my drinking. Which is an ongoing struggle. A cause few are willing to take up. Including me at times.
So I called a taxi despite the fact all my stops would run right along the subway again. I was a bit conflicted about that, but the chances of witnessing something similar to last time seemed slim. I figured once I got in said stranger’s car, they’d be stuck with me. I secretly hoped for that Cadillac to make it’s way back to me. I was in the same part of town as before, and eager to return the favor of burdening a stranger. But I suppose having met before would disqualify us some?
Anyways, I wondered how Cadillac’s situation had progressed since then. It didn’t matter, because checking my phone, I find no such luck. However, it was another luxury car, and I took that as a promising sign. I started with some small talk, just to ease into the heavier conversation. This provided little result. The guy was not a talker. No matter what I asked, I only got one or two word responses in return. I then wondered what advice Cadillac might have, besides pulling this dude down by his dreads, and stomping him out. This guy didn’t have any dreads though? I could still get the jump on him maybe? That’s not good advice.
I decided to launch into it anyways. About my job. Then my drinking problem. Then Myra. Still nothing. This guy might as well be made of stone. Can’t really blame him, who wants to deal with someone else’s shit? I was trying to impose on him, take advantage of the situation. My plan has completely backfired.
On top of that, it’s deathly silent as he drives. So I ask can he turn on the radio? He declines. Now I’m getting irritated. He didn’t have to talk to me about my problems, I get that. But doesn’t he care about getting a good rating either? When I ask him why no radio, he only says it’s past his bedtime.
“Pull over jerk off. I’m outta here,” I say. And he does. I slam the door as hard as I can.
It can be easy to start feeling like you don’t matter. At times it seems the world has a particular way of proving it with a certain consistency. Regardless, once I’m out of the car, I call another. Give it another shot. This time the driver is an older Hispanic woman. Motherly, and very positive. She’s asking me questions! How’s my day going? And the like. Briefly, although anxiously I engage in small talk. Only to find out she just started speaking English three months ago. That’s amazing, and fairly good timing for me.
With this opportunity, I now skip right to the point: I like Myra. We work for the same company. She is dating someone else. I saw this guy with another woman. They were flirting, and who knows what else? Nobody knows this yet. Except the people in this car. “What should I do?”
“Oh, you know if it’s your friend, you should tell them,” she says. “But I understand you don’t want to look bad, or have her get mad at you.”
“Right, and she might wonder why I’m telling her, ya know?”
“If you like Myra, just ask her out.”
“It’s not that simple,” I say.
“Sure it is. Maybe you’re her knight in shining armor.”
“Ah, I don’t know. No offense, but things aren’t quite the same as they used to be.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, gender roles are blurring. They overlap more and more everyday.”
“The most important thing is being her friend. Do that first. Tell her what you know,” she says. “Then she can be flattered whenever you ask her out.”
We’ve arrived at my destination. We’re just sitting in the parked car talking. I ask her to wait for me as I pick up the package meant for delivery. It’ll be a larger fare for her that way. Really I just want, or better yet need, to continue this conversation. I’ve already gotten the good advice. But it’s the interaction and connection I’d like to prolong. She agrees to wait. In fact, when I return she gives me a lollipop for doing such a good job.