>>> The Lady's Shave
By staff writer NG Hatfield
March 14, 2007
It was just… he was a big guy. But that wasn't all of it. I mean, he wasn't just a big guy; he was a fat, old bastard with a gray mustache and fat, hairy, gray arms and one of those black and white stickers that said “Leased to Driver” on his backseat. A guy with nothing to lose but his mustache, I thought. The kinda guy who'd spit on you during a football game from three rows up and after you realized it was him, you'd have to turn around and watch the rest of the game pissed off and smelling like chewing tobacco. The kinda guy that'd smack your girlfriend's ass one nice day when the both of you are walking down the street and you'd have to put up or shut up; and usually it came down to you shutting up and losing the girl a few days later to some hotshot with a gun. Or some prick with a motorcycle and a snake. He was the kinda guy who probably taught gym class for a few years before he was fired for punching a hole in the back of some kid's baseball helmet after the poor bastard missed a bunt or something. The kinda guy who didn't answer questions, who didn't ask questions, and who didn't know a goddamned thing about life. And that's why I was in the cab about ten minutes before I got the guts to ask him my question; it wasn't because I didn't want to. I definitely wanted to say something. It was just that he was so goddamned imposing that I couldn't.
“The fat sonuvabitch was trying to keep something from me. Bogarting a good time.”
I needed a guy like that to trust me before I could ask him what I wanted to ask. And I didn't know how to get a guy like that to trust me. The only thing I knew about fat, old bastards was from what my grandpa told me about them last summer. We were playing Hearts with his friends when he cracked open a beer and started preaching at me some life lesson trash. He told me a lot, and I forgot most of what he told me, but I do remember three things. One: that the only shit old men talk about are girls and the weather, and there's a lot of similarities between the two, so old men conversations are very natural. Two: that if you ever want a guy to trust you, you gotta talk about one or the other and have a “definite opinion” on each matter. And three: that if you want a hooker, all you have to do is ask a cabby where you can find “a good time.”
So, with all this remembered, I finally got the guts to make my definite opinion and get this fat, old bastard to spill the beans. When the cab stopped at the next light I said, “I bet this rain's going to change to snow later tonight.”
“Yep. I'll betcha it does too,” the cabbie said back, rubbing from his wrist to his elbow with his enormous right hand, “sure seems cold enough.” What a fat bastard, I thought.
Things were silent for the next few minutes, so I just watched the traffic sludge by and listened to the rain's soft pats on the hood. The wipers grated the windshield with their dull rubber. The heater was on, I could tell, but it wasn't making much of a racket. The silence gave me time to think, so I just wondered if me and the cabbie were on the same page. It seemed like we were; after all, the radio was off and his right arm was relaxed on the top of the seat in front of me. He's just waitin’ on me to talk to him about girls now, I thought.
Finally, I just said it. I tapped him on the shoulder and just said it. I said, “You know where a guy can find a good time around here?”
He looked back at me through the rearview, “Whaddaya mean?”
“You know… a good time.” I forced a wink at him in the rearview; he looked back to the road. I was never very good at winking.
“No buddy, I don't know anything about a good time.”
I wasn't prepared for his answer after all, so I just asked, “You sure?”
“Listen, bud, I got a wife and three-point-five kids,” He said, “And a mortgage. Yeah, I got a mortgage. So if you think I know anything about girls, the only thing I can tell you is that they ain't nothing but trouble.”
“That's good, cause I'm looking for trouble.” I was pretty goddamn happy with my response, so I winked again in the rearview. It really didn't matter that he wasn't looking at me… The fat sonuvabitch was trying to keep something from me. Bogarting a good time.
“If you're looking for trouble, you oughta get married.” He turned the wheel to the right, smooth and effortless, guiding the cab down some dank little alley with shit on the sides and a few stray cats eating whatever shit they could get to, without being hit of course.
“Not that kinda trouble.”
“What kind of trouble then?” The cab hit a something. I guessed a cat.
“A good time,” I jumped around to get a good look at what it was. Couldn’t see anything, so I turned back, “You know goddamned well what I mean… a good time.” I looked in the rearview hoping he'd glance back and understand me by another wink or a hand signal. He didn't, and there was a long pause. It gave me time to think again, so I just looked out the window. It had stopped raining.
The fat bastard finally spoke up: “I know what you mean, kid. Hookers. You're looking for hookers.” He clicked off the wipers.
“Yeah, so you know anything about them?”
“All I know is that our conversation here is over.” The cab slurred up the thin alley for maybe two seconds more and then stopped a few feet before an intersection. Three other cabs were in front of us maybe fifty feet ahead, waiting on a red light.
“Well, goddamnit, that's fine…. How much do I owe you?”
He kept looking forward, thinking, and finally said, “Nothin’. Just get out.”
“Okay, well how are you going to pay your mortgage if you don—“
He cocked his body around, shoved his dirty head towards the door. “To each their own, buddy.”
“Fine.” As I got out of the bastard's cab, the green light ahead sprang on and all the cabs in front turned left, speeding down whatever street it was. The old bastard waited for me to get out of his way and then passed me, trying to make the light. He got within a few feet of the light, but it caught him on red. He had to stop at the intersection. “Serves you right you fat fucking meatball,” I said.
I walked passed him with my head down and kept practicing my line: “You know how a guy can find a good time?”; “You know how a guy can find a good time?”… After about twenty steps and four more recitals I heard a honk, and knew it was from the fat bastard's horn. I revolved around very slowly, to show the fat old bastard that I didn't want his goddamned shit anymore; but all he was doing was pointing to the sky and smiling.
I looked up. Turns out, a few snowflakes had just started falling and the wind was picking up something fierce.
The light turned green and the fat old man drove past me, still smiling, still pointing up.
“Fuck,” I said, and started walking the other way.
It was time to go home, I realized. It was time to jack off.