Pick Up At Union Station by Gary Reilly

Author:Gary Reilly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: humor, colorado, taxi, denver
Publisher: Gary Reilly

Chapter Eighteen

I woke up Tuesday morning in a state of total pretense. It felt great. I made a breakfast of cheese, bread, and soda, then went into the living room and watched a little TV before starting out the day. As far as I was concerned this Tuesday was no different from all the other Tuesdays of the past few months, except that I was working. Tuesday was my normal day off. This helped to enhance the feeling of pretense that I knew would buoy my spirits throughout the day.

There are few feelings in the world quite as good as pretending that everything is fine. As numerous people have said to me during my lifetime, “It’s all in the mind, Murph.” While I understood that “it” was not all in the mind, I also understood that most of it was. For instance, taxes are not all in the mind, but if you pretend you’re making a down payment on a pet snail darter, it can get you through April 15th with a feeling of personal empowerment unrivaled by any brand of beer.

I put on my jacket and cap, pulled my starting cash out of Lolita, grabbed my briefcase and toolbox, and headed out the door. When I got to Rocky Cab I walked into the on-call room still pretending that this was just another typical taxi Tuesday. I do drive on Tuesdays during what I call “rent week”—five days in a row of driving to make enough dough to pay Keith. But I do that only once a month unless my life is going to hell in a hatbox.

The jury was still out on this week.

I played it cool. I smiled at Rollo and handed him seventy bucks. He handed me a trip-sheet and the key to #123. I didn’t explain what I was doing there on a Tuesday. I felt that this would adequately stick in his craw.

I went outside, found 123 in the parking lot, and checked it for dents and dings. Everything was copacetic. I drove to my usual 7-11 and bought my usual Twinkie, joe, and gas, then headed for the Brown Palace Hotel. I cruised to 18th and Tremont and turned left. There were three taxis at the cabstand: a Rocky and two Yellows. I always figure a ten-to-fifteen minute wait per cab, so my waiting time would have topped out at forty-five minutes—if I had pulled in at the end of the line.

It was at this precise moment in time that I stopped pretending that it was a typical taxi Tuesday. Instead, I drove past the cabstand and began working my way toward the Valley Highway.

Destination: North Denver.

I linked up with Speer Boulevard and crossed the valley via the same viaduct that I had driven on the previous Wednesday when Mr. Zelner had died in my backseat. As I passed the middle of the viaduct I heard Mr. Zelner say, “Can you elude him?” I was just pretending of course, although I did look into the rearview mirror to make certain I was pretending.

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