Taxi Driver (12 page)

I duck behind a woman’s bare freckled back to applause from the crowd.

Palantine speaks:
“. . . and with your help we will go onto victory at the polls Tuesday . . .”

Big applause me moving closer.

“.
. . on to victory in Miami Beach next month .
. .
”

The crowd loud against its hands claps big paddles being waved. Cries
“You said it Senator.”

“We’re with you . . .”

The closer I get the louder his voice, a dinning into my ears all headachey.
“And on . . . to victory next November!”

He steps back. I lunge forward and then duck back again. I have my hand on the gun through my open jacket.

I have my hand on the gun: Access to the holster, a numbness. Palantine starts down the stairs. He will come down the stairs, toward me. Come toward my gun.

So amiable. Like three frogs in a swamp. That nice thin smile, and hardly any sweat on his face. He is coming toward me in the crowd. I have my hand on the gun. The S.S. leads the way, scanning through the crowd.

Access to the holster means I can now do as I wish, to anybody in the world, except that they have stopped the procession. S.S. motions to his buddy. They are pointing my way. Access to the holster starts to drift aimlessly into the crowd.

Pointing at me and talking the S.S. They have turned the Senator away who would come toward me. Access to the holster and second S.S. man bearing down in a collision course.

But they are pulling Palantine in another direction, a small child being led by the hand. Another way. Who would come toward me. A calf.

Access to the holster. Stuff of that sort. Our eyes bump: Palantine and S.S. and me.

Hot as I turn and start to run.

“Detain that man!”

I am wanted. Access to the holster running from his target. God will they come for me. Palantine knows I do not love him as I should. God for the love of one person. A woman.

“Detain that man!”

They are after me I know I can hear them but I am fast and only I know where I have parked the cab. I shall lose them. I can lose them. I have lost . . .

Sweat all over me and my scars as the S.S. are scanning every which way. Jump in my cab and I’m off.

“Detain that man! Detain . . . !”

I ride right through that crowd and out the other way again.

Don’t stop. Corners skidding under my cab, pedestrians shatter, and then the bridge again, racing the subway through those metal girders, Canal Street Manhattan, with clocks and pagodas everywhere, as though I have fled that place of death for another country. All kangaroos.

Slamming my way uptown through the lights and then along the West Side Highway to my place. Not quite so much going on there now. This jabbering in my head all the time has ceased its words to that effect. A still place somewhere with no access . . .

Check out the mail slot for my letter to Iris it’s been taken by the mail man, and then into my place, stripped to the waist, wiping myself dry of this heavy cold corpse sweat all along my body. Thinking of Jodey, of Jodey songs, and Captain Martinez at the range:

Macks Nix, Young Trooper

I strap that combat knife to my calf, refix those metal gliders. There is no choice a man has no choice if I am ever to feel manly again I must have access to this child of my young love my daughter Iris

Words to that effect, too.

It’s early evening, dusk, and gray, by the time I reach the Lower East Side and nobody following me. I am tracking so much better game, and bigger. Scum

In his doorway Sport chats with a pudgy little white-haired guy. Looks just like a cop. Well sorta like a cop. A Holmes man or Pinkerton.

He tells jokes and they laugh, slap each other on the back, exchange a soul shake.

They are discussing a little private business, taking care of business and then no money is exchanged. TCB: Pudge goes off in the direction of Iris’ flat.

I strap my .38 in place and feel for the Magnum. Access to the holster sees that cop has been granted access to Iris going up her stairs.

I will open that door. I will love.

Sport in his doorway waving to another girl. Slick prick. Don’t know what I did then. Can’t remember. Drove around a long while inside a container of lukewarm weak coffee, then back to Sport. Parked on the curb for access to that pimp.

Pimpley pimpelino Sport old Sport how are you Sport? You Pockmark.

Words to that effect

Walked right up to him in his doorway and put my arm around his shoulder

Said, “Hey, Sport. How are things?”

Said, “Hey Sport.”

The big shrug; “OK, cowboy.”

Big shrugger. Bugger. Said, “How are things in the
pimp
business, Hey Sport?” (
You old pimpolino
)

Said, “Really how are things?” (
Needles and all
)

Words to that effect. Sport jerking beneath my hand in the dark. Said, “I’m here to see Iris.”

“Iris?”

“Don’t repeat!” (
You are mocking me
) I push him back hard into the dark part of that place.

“Wha . . . ?” Access to Sport to the pimp. To the open mouth of
it
at last.

Said, “Yeah, Iris . . .” Said, “Iris. You know anybody by that name?”

“No”

He shakes his head more than he should. More than is needed. Up against the wall Sport says, “Hillbilly, you’d better get your wise ass outa here and quick, or you gonna be in trouble?”

Stuff like that to that effect so brazen

I asked, “You carry a gun Sport?” (
old Pimpolino
)

Thinking I got a buck and I wanta fuck said Barnacle Bill the sailor, gotta buck and I wanta fuck Barnacle Bill the sailor, and Sport looking at me as if he finally knows I’m serious. Taking care of business. VSOP. Words to that effect, too.

Me pushing Sport even further against the wall with the butt end of my .38 special.

“Get it.” (
getitgetitgetitgetitgetitoldpimpolino get it
)

Sport all yellow suddenly saying: “Hey mister, I don’t know what’s going on here. This don’t make any sense.”

To Barnacle Bill the sailor.

I demand easy access. “Show it to me. Show me your piece old Sport.”

He takes this little pistol from his hand out of his pocket and holds it loosely, limply, a mouse by the tail.

Tail peddlar to Barnacle Bill over.

Got a Jones?

A horn?

A gun?

Splickety lick I stick that .38 into old Sport’s gut and pull hard.

An explosion. Someone’s screaming funny. Pain everywhere, and wet stuff on my hands, my coat.

“Now suck on that!”

Sport falling into his dark hole screaming.

“Suck on that!”

I turn and walk away toward the black staircase and Iris. I will open that door.

With the Magnum in my other hand. Also a .38 Special. Going up the stairs a step at a time with two guns Sport still screaming
help bloody murder you bastard it hurts you hurt me you
Hard to remember. What to that effect.

At the top of the stairs I opened that door and there was another door of heavy green metal and at the far end of this dark corridor the old man sat.

I opened the door to that old man the timekeeper sitting there a gun collector and as he started to get up Barnacle Bill with easy access squeezed his mighty .44 until the whole hall shook and rumbled.

One old man staggering a stump instead of a right hand. Fountain of red syrup pouring from the spigot of his right arm and
may day may day

I’m hit.

Explosions of blood in my neck and shoulder. Old Sport has me coughing pin pricks.

He’s fired this one shot after crawling up the stairs behind me

He’s put me in the shower with blood everywhere a bloody lather. Can’t find my .44.

Down the stairwell, Sport again, choking in his blood. He’s coughing a lot. A hacking cough. Must be dying. I’m wet all over when I fire one more shot into his back with the .38 well he must be dead by now I’ll just put a few more holes in his back

A few cunts.

That magnum is lying on the floor. This old man with his bloody stump still wobbling toward me.

I point the .38.

The door to room #2 which is Iris’ room is opening Iris carrying on a yell and the pudge has his blue shirt unbuttoned all the way, open like a door, with a service .38 in his hand

What’s he hollering at Iris what are you hollering at?

He explodes against my right shoulder until I can’t even find my .38.

I’m on the floor all greasy

The old man coming closer

My right arm smashed against the wall I feel something sliding down into my hand solid

Now I have the little colt .25 in my hand and I just keep squeezing on it at the face of Pudge .38 until he rains bloody craters all across the moon

Pudge falls backwards against his scream and then Iris she screams and someone else falls on me the old man old stump

I’ve lost my little colt

He’s watering my face with his spigot stump.

We’ve wrestled our way into room #2 which is Iris’ room no Iris any where in sight but somebody sobs behind the velvet sofa

I’m wrestling with this old man he is the corpse of all old men, of death, and I am strapped underneath his one good arm so I can barely reach that knife

Calf of my right foot this knife I bless against the large downrushing palm of the old man

His hand is stuck against my knife screaming pain and more pain:
Don’t kill me Don’t kill me

Why not? The police are coming. I can hear all their sirens.

I straddle him like a lover as he pleads:
Don’t kill me don’t kill me

One old man with an open mouth frightened of death.

Why not?

I’ve pinned him beneath me. I have this gun must be Pudge’s gun

Iris says, “Don’t kill him Travis. Don’t kill him.”

Why not?

I blew the back of that old man’s head off just to shut him up.

Well, why not? I guess I always had this pretty bad temper.

A very bad temper.

Why the hell not?

The thing spins around and around on me coming up for air coming up those stairs doors opening gray-haired bellies big pink blotches sticky stuff

Pain

Shouts

At the top of the stairs is all pink and a heavy smell

I opened that door and there was another door at the far end of this dark corridor old man sat pink blotches everywhere

One old man staggering with a stump instead of a right hand a fountain of red syrup pouring from the spigot of his arm and explosions of blood in my neck and shoulder from old Sport down the stairwell is old Sport, choking in his pink he must be dying and then the thing turns on me again

I blew the back of that old man’s head off, and I don’t recall he had another word to say to me, though I said INCORRIGIBLE

Because that’s what they always used to say to me in school

INCORRIGIBLE came to be my password my motto

You might also say ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT TEMPERAMENTAL ARTIST was another way the old folks at home put it. Also sometimes SOREHEAD and SORESPORT

The words don’t matter I blew the back of that old man’s head off coming up those stairs again and again slowly one stump at a time syrup pumping over and over again Sport too all sticky like cherry cough syrup

Well when I saw what a mess I’d made out of everything lottsa things started spinning on me again, including that old man’s brains, words of that sort, Sport, those three dead bodies, the blood everywhere. I felt as if I would probably have to throw up. Thought to myself Travis you went and blew it again. You’re always blowing things. There you go again letting your temper get the better of you again and look what a mess you’ve made now of everything, including yourself, with holes all over you. Bleeding. What would the folks think? The old folks at home? Why you’ll either bleed to death or die trying. Spend the rest of your life in the poke. In jail. You know. The declining years. Because you blew it.

Iris was also whimpering. She wouldn’t even come out from behind her sofa when I meant her no harm. Thought I might pass out at any minute. GO TO BLACK.

Whenever I’m going up those stairs to open that door I still do. Things turning black and blue. Sore-spots everywhere

Well, I didn’t like feeling so helpless. I felt so weak suddenly tired and drained, as if it had all exploded inside of me and there was nothing left. Nothing to live for blowing it that way.

I put that gun to my head.

Well I was going to kill myself. I opened that door: I LOVE YOU IRIS LOVE I LOVE YOU BETSY, I said, AND DOING THIS ALL THIS FOR YOU, as I started to squeeze that trigger, but my hand was weak from the knife sticking through it. Couldn’t squeeze quite hard enough before this police officer person bursts through the open door with his gun drawn and he shoots me

Shoots that gun right out of my hand.

Hits me on the wrist so it thudded on the carpet.

Then some other officers came through the door. My voice croaked inside of me. I pointed a finger at my head, went, “Pgghew.” “Pgghew” and that’s all I remember.

I musta passed out or something because when I woke up I was in the hospital. Flowers everywhere. I never went to jail. I still have all the clippings somewhere. They treated me as if I was some kind of hero. The
Daily News
gave me headlines:
“Cabbie Battles Gangsters.”
I even made the
Times: “Cabbie, Shootout, Three Dead.”

Well for the first time in my life I felt like somebody. I felt like a person. It was gratifying to be a hero to some people. People wrote letters to me and the Mayor and the Boro President came to see me in the hospital. I was even sent flowers.

When I came out of the hospital it was practically fall already. Nice cool air. I still had the same old place except I bought myself a new TV and a nice easy chair.

There was a letter waiting for me, too, from Iris’ parents.

Dear Mr. Bickle,

I can’t say how happy Mrs. Steensma and I were to hear that you are well and recuperating. We tried to visit you at the hospital when we were in New York to pick up Iris
,
but you were still in a coma.

There is no way we can repay you for returning our Iris to us. We thought we had lost her, but now our lives are full again. Needless to say, you are something of a hero around this household.

I’m sure you want to hear about Iris. She is back in school and working hard. The transition has been very hard for her, as you can well imagine but we have taken steps to see she never has cause to run away again.

In conclusion, Mrs. Steensma and I would like to again thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Unfortunately, we cannot afford to come to New York again to thank you in person, or we surely would. But if you should ever come to Pittsburgh, you would find yourself a most welcome guest in our home.

Our deepest thanks,
Burt and Ivy Steensma