“Don’tcha have someone to bring you some? Anyone?”
I shook my head, giving him the address of my building. The driver finally pulled away, and after he learned the answer to the expected what do you do, he talked over jazz radio about his bunions, a life-long aversion to raw vegetables, and his two-pack-a-day Pall Mall habit. For some reason, when people learned I was a nurse, they felt the urge to confess their health sins. I guessed it was so I would either absolve them or diagnose them, but I had yet to do either.
“Is this the one, sweetheart?” the driver asked, pointing with his fat, tar-stained finger. “I think one of my ex-girlfriends lived here once.”
“I thought everyone your age married the first person they dated?”
He made a face. “Nah. I would have, but she wouldn’t wait for me.” He pointed to his embroidered hat that read VETERAN. “Navy.”
“Thank you for your service.”
He nodded in acknowledgment. His yellowed nails were lined with grime, and he had at least a day’s worth of silver scruff on his weathered face. He’d served our country and, by the looks of his hands, had worked harder jobs than driving a cab, compelling me to give him an extra-nice tip. I had no purse or pockets, and definitely no money. I opened my hand, revealing a few wadded up dollar bills and my keys.
“Let me just run up to get some more cash,” I said, my sore muscles complaining as I pushed open the door.
He huffed. “The hospital fares never pay.”
“No, I’ll pay you. Please wait here. I’ll be right back. Keep the meter running. I’ll pay you for your time, too.”
His eyes softened and he smiled. “Pay me next time, kid. Most people don’t even offer.”
For half a second, I’d forgotten there would be a next time. No telling what salvage yard my poor little sea-green Prius was in. It had crumpled around me as we cartwheeled together across the intersection into a patch of grass on the other side. I had somehow made it out in one piece, but there would be many more taxi rides in my future. That thought made my heart hurt. The Prius had protected me, and now it was spare parts.
“Thanks,” I said, looking at his license on the dash. “Melvin.”
“It’s just Mel.” He handed me a bent, smudged card. “Call me if you need another ride, but no more freebies.”
“Of course. I will. Thank you.”
He left me standing on the curb in front of the stoop of my building. I waved and then padded up the steps and pulled open the door, glad my apartment was only on the second floor. After just half a flight, my body slowed, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. I slid the key into the lock and turned it, shoving open the door and then leaning back against the wood until it closed.
“TGIF,” I said with a sigh, sliding down to the floor.
Almost two years in the same apartment, and it still looked like something a property manager would use to entice a potential renter. Nailing holes into walls that didn’t belong to me just didn’t feel right, but that didn’t explain why I hadn’t bought real plates, either.
I looked over at the door-less kitchen cabinets, exposing my collection of paper plates and plastic cups to match the plastic cutlery in the drawers below. Just one glass casserole dish, a skillet, and one pot were sitting in the space beneath the countertop gathering dust. Eating out had been more of a pastime than a necessity until that moment.
I pulled myself up and forced my feet across the room in order to rummage through the medicine cabinet for an old bottle of Lortab. I rolled the tiny robin’s-egg-colored pill in my palm before tossing it to the back of my throat, chasing it with a gulp of flat Mountain Dew.