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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6  Her cunt was old cheese. Taxi Cab Melodrama.
Date: Mon,  2 Oct 2000 00:10:37 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 9/16/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 9/17/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon
http://www.farragher.com  (Poetry updated 9/20/00)

TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.


0361XB Taxi Stand by Henry
TxM6: JOURNALS OF HENRY WHITMAN
Taxi Stand: Topography:
George Washington Memorial Bridge
Fort Lee, NJ: Cross St. & Lemoine Avenue

Wednesday, September 3, 1986

Taxi driver Henry Whitman.
Free association on the Taxi Stand.

Street signs, stage directions, voices on the cabstand
beckon. I am riding the merry go round wasting on the
stand for the next call.  That fucken stand is too
lovely. It rides above the topography of all living
space: rivers, palisades and highways are more than
paths. Great and minor bridges collapse. Ferry boats,
buses, trucks (of all sizes), taxicabs, stop signs,
automobiles (intake and exhaust), bicycles, all media,
and tens of millions of individual human schemes rush
the wall screaming darkness inside our fat or
emaciated hands. Half fingers flap over the edges of
rock crevice. Throw up a ball. Nothing falls. Taxi men
dream their own demise. When I wait on the taxi stand
for the next flow of bucks, I reach that ache and
almost ejaculate when the radio says pick up in the
city, go to Newark, Kennedy, La Guardia. Cash is.
Taxis are the last great world of cash marking
plenitude. Nothing falls when you throw it up. That is
the precipice of the imagination. My mind is Henry. I
am that decisive squeal of thought that the tires blow
out when you turn the corner too fast.

How do I get here? The voices ply me with sex seducing
intentions: yes, taxi drivers dream to be paid. Yes, I
like to exaggerate everything and when a stranger
leans in my cab and asks the question I would never
answer. "Do you know when is the next bus"?

Answering the sublime. I tell him, seriously, and of
course he walks away shaking his head "How do we get
anywhere? Can we find our hands let alone our feet?
What do we know that is truly ordinary?"

Simple answers sometimes void important questions. Do
you agree? Glad you do?

Each day has our monotonous tone. The taxi stand
mirrors itself, a recession, back stepping to the
driver, waiting at the edge of the curb for the
stagecoach to stop, effortlessly, pulling away from
the curb, in the great dust storms of the Depression,
great Oklahoma dust bowl, dark movie without skin.

Can anyone find America? The question was a clich .
Can we forget the myths, the prurient nationalism,
firecrackers and tracers, flares to guide the incoming
above the treelike: Francis Scott Key assembles the
parody. What is my patriotic ruse, or where and when
do I stop? Am I always a marine? The Corps. What can I
measure when I massage the short hairs from beneath my
soft palm high within my bunk? I pretended my
exploitation. My jerk off spun without film. I counted
the slope's ribs.

When the women fell, the AWOL soldier danced across
her mat. Immersed in daily come, the young woman's bed
was bare when he forced her mouth to suffer his cock.

She was not a child. He knew what he felt. She was
old, wiry, tough, but her skin was softer than her
infant's mouth sucked my male nipple. Vestigial and
erect, she is a blossom within the black heart of the
dyed daisy.

All my buddies watched, as they gathered as stones on
a slate walk encircling the flagpole of the gate,
finding the bar across from the burial ground, outside
headquarters.

In my mind, I dressed her death with fright. She died
as I passed over the open door of her protest. No, she
did not say no, but yes, wanting the script I held.

Falling shrapnel caught my neck she died taking the
full impact of the frag thrown by some Vietnamese who
finally met truth and showed herself as the hero.
Finally, someone steps up and I almost die. She is no
longer invisible and fully accessible she carries a
child and they both die when, in the confusion of the
events, the Captain turns his weapon on both of them
emptying the clip.

I will remember her years later when we walk along the
Hudson River shoreline south of the Point. I moved the
water, as if my God speak. That was ten years before
she died, but in the moments after the assault (as it
was termed by the Army) I was confused in time.
Wouldn't you be scared and unable to show it, you
suddenly sit down and look out beyond the concertina
wire and simply breathe?

I stretched my hand backward then forward as I
recalled it all learning that Laurie had been taken
and as a flow, when heroes parade out of bounds I
wished I could have stopped all the death. Am I being
paid back? Is this historical revenge?

I really did not want that Vietnamese woman to die.
No, I would not have died for her. What good would
that have done.

I wanted the small fate of escape. Drawing the
imperfect and deadly skin from wall, the maps
imperfectly unfolded. We picked the course, and let
what we cleansed and absolved rested forever as words
between the chapters.

-Can I denounce the hero? Can I accept what I did or
didn't do? Can I forget my weakness? Am I not good
enough? My racket. There's no ruse. I am not
dishonest. I just flail at my eyes when confronting
the wall. The city left behind. I know the steps I
take. I watch myself walk and lie. There's progress,
and I do know how to make my speech perfect. I can
convince you. I love it. Making lives genuine through
some bitter absorption. What I brew I glean.

We are the other part of speech. We can be object or
subject as noun. There's action. We love. I possess
what I did. It absolves whatever wrong or right I
practice.

"Who did I murder?"

"No one. I saved life. Never kill. "

Some might say I tore her face with four rounds. The
blood felt good on my hands. Her hair twisted in my
mouth; I tore at her breasts, doubled her cunt with my
fist. The progress towards renunciation is a passive
first step towards collecting deadly details.

I love to watch. That's the passion. I dig inside
marking the sidewalk with graffiti. I torture words as
a long sideways look back down the past road inside
out and stepping up on the high mountain (in my mind).

I pass the catch of throat when she comes. Each list
of the dead is more perfect. Walking down the steps.
Finding the basement where murder kept her secrets.
No, her is not correct? No gender. What we do is what
we speak, all out of the ordinary. But we pass the
curb. Keep the centerline inside our hands. We
treasure safety, watch the courses we fabricate,
notice the accidents, the steps out of bounds. Each
progress keeps our fragile prick in our hands. It's
not sex, just the distance. We keep death, or the
swallow of the heart, the last push, when the miracle
strikes the home run, then abruptly we turn, forget
first or home, even Bud and Lou, or the exchange.

We presume life, and then the cab careens off the icy
bridge, and in the instant between our self-murder:
the conspiracy of the street and the muscle.

Arms pull. Brain stops. The bridge welcomes, and we,
or I, arrive more alive than dead, and for that
motion, of surprise or disdain, we are satisfied with
death, and then life is less special, or we presume
our life more valuable than those who lose.

War fabricates death, but life is the end of struggle.
Firefights, dust off, then safety. What we design, the
progress of the ride to JFK or LAG or NWK is a
miracle. We never know when it will end. Do we?

What drugs we are: rage catches in the sky. Waiting
for the rocket ship, the blue skin, the Martian hero,
and the background to special storms. We infect space;
great wings above the mirror. I stare inside. Watch my
face, the caricature, and the mask I market from the
front seat of any car. My taxi swims within the blood,
as the sunrise, quick, invades heat to settle the late
morning boredom. The afternoon is sleep. When we die
we pass along the lake as the spirit dissipates what
we have remembered (true or not). Fabrication is
important.

I am there. Again. It is 1960, and beautiful Theresa,
the only child, great artist of loons, fox, and lamb.
We made love, as spiritual whim, and created, every
lazy afternoon the hand is closed over the sex, as the
mouth handles the harp. Yes, our mouths were soft, her
breasts, mostly nipple, swollen, pear. Sensitive,
perfect arms raised above where we came in. Can I
escape? I don't want to leave the stage. The fares
collect and interrupt the fanfare. My Erotic dream is
hers. My hardon, though the course we assumed, is
caught in hand, eclipsed, married within the autumn
sienna and the violet water surface of ducks, when the
gargantuan masks take over. I want nothing more than
to return with her. What we do is what we remember,
and I can laugh. I know there will be little return,
but I keep it. The memory absorbs my sex. She catches
me. I marvel at what the dream spins from the fake
skin of the garish street. I marvel at dreams. I do. I
wish for a voice to take hold of my hand. Then the
light changes, and I walk past the next street
forgetting where I can go, or what would have been.
There is a voice. It climbs when I come. Simple sex
restores it. She didn't know how hard three steps lost
from the track would be, forget restoration or
remembrance. I take her dreams. I am what she talked.
Do you see my face, as I hold yours, thirty years
later?

Gladly, it speaks. The voice of life and then the
happy silhouette: Mr. Death, as a poet friend once
imagined. Mr. Death or Ms. Death is asunder. What else
is there?

Do I catch my life, or do I stop. I can't stop. I have
passed home, too far alone, too many hot landings with
the perpetual whine and wheeze of MEDEVAC'S at the
party.

Is death, murder, suicide a market barometer for
perpetual force dangling on the easy side of the first
law of thermodynamics?

Nothing created disappears. Nothing invisible. Recent
improvements in my personality have evaluated the wish
the lie and the dream after Koch. Clich . Poems drift.
I wish for integrity.

Did you know I discovered the first face of the moon?
Imagine the moon as her cunt stripped bare, losing
layers of dust, deranged.

The pit of her hole serrated. The corps is drained and
the marsh of her lips is frozen tundra. Have you ever
fucked a decaying corpse?

No, a recent death does not count. It has to be cold
and her cunt stiff like meat dropping hard out of the
floor from the freezer. Before you can turn your head,
there's another geography. Imagine Ft Lee altered. The
taxi stand, the bridge misplaced. The dust blew away
the flesh, and the skeleton underneath spindled until
you hear at the cab window, a man, albino. I need a
ride, lost my money. It was stolen, he said. Have the
police report back at my desk. You can trust me. I'm
good for it. Would you take me across the bridge? I
need to get to Kennedy in twenty-five minutes. Do you
think I can make it? No, I need a police escort? Is
that possible in America? Connections. Marks.
Dimensions underneath the box; invisible question.
Watch me. Smack. You like it. Harder. Hit me. No, yes,
turn around. Please, the darkness spins inside out.
Black eyes speak as I twist my necklace. I am here to
on the stand with you. Am I memory? Please, keep it
quiet. I told you not to stare. Yes, I'll do it. I
know I've been bad. Don't watch me. You don't care.
What the fuck were you doing with her in your cab last
night. Sneaking by. Avoiding pain. Seeking abuse.
Loving bullshit. Stuff a twenty in my pocket. Blow you
man. Fuck you. Another 20. Thanks. Now get the fuck
out of here, before I piss in your face. Lady, do you
have to take twenty minutes to decide where you're
going to go?

Music on the sidewalk is a riddle when you step up
looking for the notes in your mouth or hers. Kick you
in the ass. Piss on her tits. Shit, I wouldn't touch
her ass. Shit. You got to be kidding motherfucker. Do
you get high? Pieces of silver, sold ass, borrowed
cigarette, missing wallet, my husband-wife beat me up.
Can I ride around for a few hours with you? I need to
think. Want a blowjob for ten bucks? Got some blow?

Got an old lady? Need a place to crash for a few days?
Want to buy a genuine Rolex for fifty bucks? No, how
about twenty and I will let you handle me any way you
desire. No. What will you give? Get out of my face you
fuck. I don't want your shit watch. Hustle me, hustle
you.

Driver, do you have change for a $100.

I'm sorry; I know the fare's  $2, but I'll get the
money from my mother, boyfriend, neighbor inside!
Sometimes, they're telling the truth. Who knows? Not
going to take the loss. If I don't get paid, then I
got no meal money later. Comes out of my tips.

What do you mean I have to leave my license with you?
No, I don't have one. What's in my purse?

Fuck you too, asshole. No one goes in my purse. All I
got are cigarettes and condoms. No ID. It gets you
fucked up it you carry it around with you. Lets the
dicks know you are too real.

"What do you mean? I can't leave the cab? How do I
fucken get you the money. What do you mean, asshole?
You' re not calling the police. I'm sure my boyfriend
will pay. I'll just go inside for a moment. Please
take me to Morristown for 15 bucks and a blowjob. 50
miles for fifteen, you're sick, man. I ain't paying
you no fifty bucks to get there. Shit, that's two and
half dicks full of shit.

"I ain't your fucken brother. What do you think this
is a charity cab? No, I won't take you there. Fuck No.
I don't give a shit what color you are. I'm not going
there. Racist shit. No, I won't wait while you score?
Yes, we take American Express, and Visa and
MasterCard. You bet. Must get approval on the card
first, Sir. Sure. You want to pay cash now. OK. That
will be fifty up front. You don't have it. Hope you
like to walk? Sir, do you think we're Social Services
here? We don't take welfare vouchers. No, I don't
speak Spanish. No. No. Oh. Shit, that's English? If
you want, I'll try that plastic again, maybe. No, OK,
Sorry, could use the good fare. Fuck no. I can't use a
genuine leather attach  case. Tell you what. I'll take
you to the Path for the case. Good. Now, what the fuck
you doing wearing a 2000-dollar suit if you have no
cash or plastic."

"Another story. Got all night. Your wife cleaned you
out! What else is new, fuck? Join the club. What the
fuck. Man, we all got problems. "

"Do you know where I can buy some coke? You shitten
motherfucker. Why are you busting my balls? Fuck
Morristown. What the fuck is your hustle, man?"

"No, I don't," the fare said. Always no.

"See that guy down the line. He'll take you for fifty.
Ex cop. No, I'm not bullshitting you. See that
asshole, yes. Just ask the fuck?"

"Stupid shit. Got to get a good fucken call. No Chinks
here tonight. Maybe, those Ridgewood suits will, or
that Oakland Gook. I had him twice in a month once.
Book 50 bucks in an hour and a half. Great call.
Fuck."

WHO'S NORTH OF THE BRIDGE (Dispatcher on Cab Radio)?
Repeat, ...WHO'S NORTH OF THE BRIDGE?

No Answer. FIRST UP. FIRST UP. WHO'S SLEEPING ON THE
STAND?

18-4, ON THE LIGHT.

GET THE A&P 4 CAR. LADY'S A GOOD CUSTOMER. DON'T LET
HER ICE CREAM MELT.

Had this fare once. An old bitch. She showed me her cunt.
rubbed it with spit, and I laughed.

It was worn out. She said. "You will be too someday."
I told her I was worn out the day I came back to the world.

She said. "I will suck you for the fare. I told her I would
rather pay the company's share of the fare than let you
touch my dick. She cried. "I used to be a great whore," she
said.

"I used to teach English at University. Used to is bullshit lady.
Get the fuck out of the cab."

She left quietly and when she got clear of the cab she turned back
and said, "fuck aye. It works every time. Who wants my old cheese."

Henry laughed and said. "We all hustle Lady."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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