Going by Gordon Glasgow
Phone missing and far from home, drenched in sweat after a long night out, I do something unusual and raise a Nazi salute hand in the air to hail, not heil, a cab. I look up in horror and crunch my hand into a fist.
Not many cars have passed on this particularly humid night. What a man my age is doing drunk at 3 AM on 14th street, I’ll never know. I consider turning the fist into a thumb and seeing if anyone would be open enough to allow a hitcher into their car. I consider the possibilities of the type of person in this era who would pick up a hitchhiker and decide against it.
Something like 20 minutes pass and a yellow cab with its light off appears in the distance. Gauging the very likely possibility that the driver might not stop, I step out into the middle of the road. Suppose he hits me, whatever, at this point. If he’s able to swerve past me, I’ll be privy to some very impressive at-the-wheel acumen.
He comes within an inch, breaks, honks, and yells at me to get the fuck out of the way. I ask if he can take me to Brooklyn.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m off-duty and going to Queens. Now get the fuck out of the street, you piss drunk bastard.’
I just begin to walk around the car to get into the back and he threatens to call the police, I tell him to go fuck himself. He looks around 50, dawning a beard and a checkered button-down. He goes back to the front seat and pulls out a baseball bat.
I decide to back off, picking my battles.
He drives away, calling me a loser and a pussy in an ethnically ambiguous accent. I sit down at the curb wishing I had a cigarette, too lazy to get up and go to a bodega around the corner. One minute later, a taxi with its light on appears down the street. I have a civil relationship with it, getting inside unscathed.
There are three candy corn on the floor and one on the seat. I become confused. We’re months away from Halloween. The driver’s name is Dimitri Hassapopolou, and I just stare at his ID card for a while without saying anything.
‘Hello?’ He says.
‘Yes.’
There’s a long pause. I stare at the candy corn again and consider how strange a creation that particular candy is.
154 Union St. in Williamsburg.
He more blinks than nods and finally we begin to move. My head shifts to the right and I start to drool. I look out the window for a second or two and see nothing but swift, hazy flashes of neon.
There’s an image of my late dog galloping through an indistinct park. I’m leaning back in between my wife’s legs. I can feel her supporting my body weight, as well as her smell, her energy. But when I look back to catch a glimpse of her eyes, I see nothing at all.
A bald man in a black t-shirt is sitting across from me in a fluorescent hospital room. Chest hair protrudes from the top of his shirt, and all I can hear are the beeps from the EKG. I blink but keep seeing the same thing. I close my eyes for five seconds and count to what to me feels like 10. Still, the same images are in front of me.
A sharp pain in my stomach is followed by the feeling of the entire world beginning to end.
‘You pulled out your cock in my car.’ The man says to me.
‘I what?’
‘You pulled out your cock in my car and began to masturbate. And when I pulled over, you hurled vomit all over, everywhere. When I got out of the car to come around and kick you out, you were completely passed out, I thought you were dead.’
I close my eyes again and count to what to me feels like 30. I hear my wife’s voice faintly in the background, she’s saying something about the crispness of flatbread. When I open my eyes, I’m still in the same setting, the man sitting next to me with his arms crossed.
‘Are you here because I owe you money?’ I ask him.
‘I’m here because I saved your life.’ He says.
‘How do you know that?’
He looks over to a group of nurses on the far side of the room.
‘I suppose that’s good enough of a reason to be here.’ I say.
‘And you owe me money.’ He says back.
We don’t say anything to each other for a while, just lying there in silence. He gets up and asks if I want anything, I shake my head. A nurse comes over to get my information, apparently, I didn’t have a wallet on me.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘We pumped your stomach and then you went into cardiac arrest. We had to resuscitate you.’ She looks down at her clipboard. ‘What insurance do you have, sir?’
‘Resuscitate me?’
‘Yes, you were gone, sir. Do you mind telling me your address and insurance provider?’
The beeps from the EKG seem to get louder. I give her the name of what I think my insurance provider is. She says thanks and walks away.
‘Do you have a ginger-ale?’ I try and say loudly, but it’s difficult to talk, and I find myself alone in the room.
I try to put the pieces back together. My wife and I had a fight in the morning. There was a big commotion in the apartment building that day, they were changing the laundry machines in the basement. The building staff and the super all seemed very excited. I went to work but couldn’t get much done. I asked my secretary to cancel a 3 PM meeting with the Malaysians. I went to an Irish pub on Pike Street and had a few beers alone. I called my wife twice, but she didn’t pick up. Our dog died two weeks ago and neither of us has really recovered. To be honest, though, that’s probably the least of our issues. At the Irish bar on Pike street I made a decision; I was going to go home and leave my wife. I ordered another beer to mourn past failures and celebrate new beginnings. Another beer and a shot of Glenfiddich. There was a women’s soccer game on the TV behind the bar. I can’t remember anything else.
When I wake up, the man is still here, looking oddly melancholic while eating a sandwich. I thank him for bringing me to the hospital.
‘Was good timing for you,’ he says. ‘I know a lot of drivers who would have thrown you onto the street. You never puke in the back of a man’s vehicle like that. Never mind with your dick out and everything.’
‘I’m sorry for puking,’ I say. ‘And for pulling my dick out. I still can’t believe the reality of what’s going on and I’m not sure if I’m in a dream.’
He lightly pulls my IV cord and I sort of jump up and twitch in pain.
‘You’re not in a dream.’ He says.
‘OK. I’m not in a dream.’
‘No.’
‘Can you remind me your name?’ I ask.
‘I never told you my name.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Dimitri,’ he says. ‘Hossapopolou,’ continuing after a pause.
‘Hossapopolou,’ I say to myself slowly. For whatever reason, it sounds familiar.
He takes a bite of his sandwich.
‘Are you Greek?’ I ask.
He nods.
‘My grandmother on my father’s side was Greek,’ I tell him.
He nods again.
‘I really am sorry,’ I say to him. ‘I promise you’ll be compensated properly.’
‘That’s not why I’m here.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Because I want to know what can make a man so fucking stupid.’ He responds, taking another bite. His sandwich, something with meat in it, I think, is beginning to make me nauseous.
‘Do you know where we are?’ I ask him.
‘Hospital on 13th and 7th. My cab is being cleaned. I’ll get your address and send you the bill.’
‘That’s no problem,’ I say back.
‘You rich people think you can just do whatever you want to the world and then use your dirty money to pay for it. And then, of course, everything will be OK, huh?’
I try and think how he knows I’m rich.
‘Can I use your phone?’ I ask him, his sandwich now finished. My wife must be worried sick. I begin to wonder if she’s tracked me down, if she’ll show up at any moment.
He hands me his cell phone, a flip phone, and I give it right back, not able to fathom that discussion right now.
‘You should call your wife,’ he says.
‘How do you know I… Oh.’ I say, realizing I must have been wearing my wedding ring, beginning to wonder when this guy will leave his information and then finally fuck off. Something about his presence, though, is oddly comforting. As soon as he leaves, I’ll be back to my own personal hell. He’s an external solace that a certain part of my soul must be leaning on, this hairy cab driver who supposedly saved my life.
‘In your cab, I was on my way home to leave my wife,’ I confide.
‘You wouldn’t have been able to articulate that to her.’
‘Yes but,—’
‘Yes. She would have ended up leaving you.’
‘Probably,’ I respond.
‘You cheat?’ He asks.
‘All the time.’
‘You seem the type,’ he says.
I want to ask him if there’s something he should probably be off doing, perhaps some yogurt to whip or a goat to have sex with, but I refrain from the usual rudeness that’s permeated my life. He is partially responsible for saving it, after all.
‘I left my wife five years ago,’ he says. ‘It was the worst mistake I ever made.’
‘How come?’
‘Because every woman I’ve dated since it’s the same story. The fights are different, so are the topics that bring us apart, but I’ve never been with anyone where there isn’t any conflict. And I’ll tell you one thing, at every point, in any relationship, the conflict will seem like it can’t be solved.’
‘Resolved.’
‘Yes, solved. It always seems like that. But then you realize that unless you accept differences, come to a compromise, and learn to live with each other, you’ll forever be dating the same woman in a different body. And that woman is yourself.’
I can’t quite follow what he’s saying, and moral instruction is the last thing I want at the moment, but from what I do understand, he seems to just be saying, in a longwinded way, that since every relationship is difficult, it’s far more rewarding to work on one over time, no matter how hard it gets. Yet, he did leave his wife, so who’s he to say. If there’s one thing I learned it’s never to trust a man who only speaks from regret.
‘I might be speaking out of regret,’ Dimitri continues. ‘But trust me. I’ve been around for a long time and have been with almost every woman in Queens. No part of my life was as special as when it was devoted to only one.’
‘Well, my life was never really devoted to one, even when I was with just one,’ I respond.
I look over to the nurses, two females aging poorly, poorer than my wife, their bodies seemingly decomposing by the minute. No treatment in the world could save that sort of downward spiral. I call out on the top of my lungs to ask if there’s any way possible to get the fuck out of this hospital.
But no one seems to hear me other than my Greek friend sitting bedside.
‘I don’t think you’ll be getting out of here any time soon. They had to resuscitate you.’ Dimitri says.
I sigh.
‘You might be in it for the long haul. Heart problems are no joke.’ He adds.
‘You know I’m afraid—’
‘I can tell.’
‘I’m afraid that I’ve dragged my wife down with me into the depths of hell. I remember her being a little more positive when we first met. And I guess after all these years, as we’ve grown older together, she was rarely the one to bring the bad moods, to start arguments, to do anything wrong.’
‘Shocker.’
‘You know, I had this rule with all my affairs. I would never get together with anyone who was prettier than her. If there was a woman who even came close, I wouldn’t pursue it.’
‘Maybe you just weren’t confident enough. If you felt you could have had more attractive women you probably would have fucked them too.’
‘Maybe, but either way, I deluded myself into thinking I had that rule. And if there’s one thing I can tell you, it’s that I’ve fucked a lot of ugly bitches over the years.’
‘We’ve all had our fair share.’ Dimitri says.
I try and reach over to grab the ginger ale but can’t quite grasp it. Dimitri places it in my hands and undoes the cap.
‘Thank you.’ I say.
‘I’m like your guardian angel.’
‘Sure.’
‘I am.’
‘OK. You are.’
‘Thank you.’ Dimitri says. ‘So what’s your plan? Still going to leave your wife? In reality, she’d be leaving you and you’d be liberating her. She’d be much happier without you, it seems. And you, you probably would fall off the face of the earth. Forget about the depths of hell, my friend. You’ll disintegrate down to the very core of this fucking planet. I take one look at you and I can tell that women is the only thing you’ve got. And it makes sense you’d want to get rid of her. What a suicide drive you’ve got on.’
Dimitri does a blatant head to toe up and down at my hospital bed, lifting his eyebrows as he does it, shaking his head. I consider hissing at him, trying to find a way for this annoying Hellenic man to leave me the fuck alone. But again, there doesn’t seem to be any escape from this dismal situation I’ve found myself in.
‘I don’t know, Dimitri.’
I begin to tear up and can’t even lift my hands to cover my face. Dimitri somehow manages to have tissues in his pocket and hands me three.
‘You know I met Sara — that’s my wife’s name, Sara, in Business School. I swear I was failing out. I couldn’t get anything done, thought I wasn’t cut out for it. The day I was going to drop out, resign, say goodbye to a life I thought I was always destined to be a part of, she threatened to leave. She said if I didn’t finish my assignment by 5 PM, the next day she’d be gone. And not because she didn’t want to date a failure, but because she couldn’t be with someone who gives up when things get difficult, because that would manifest poorly in our relationship, poorly throughout the course of our lives.’
‘So you did it?’
‘I stayed up all night and completed it. And from then on, little by little, I got into the groove of doing work again. And I finished, and I built a career, and as the career progressed, our relationship has in turn gotten worse.’
Dimitri pulls out his flip phone again, a Motorola Razr. I haven’t seen one of those in years.
‘Call her.’ He says. ‘Don’t mention the other women. Don’t mention the past. For some reason between heaven and earth, she’ll stay with you, she’ll take care of you while you’re sick, and she’ll put up with you as you get better. Don’t make the same mistakes as me.’
Dimitri places the phone into the palm of my hands.
‘Do it,’ he nudges.
I begin to dial.
‘And one thing to remember,’ he continues. ‘At the end of the day, life isn’t that exciting. You’re never going to find what you’re looking for. Relationships are made up of the boring afternoons on weekends where nothing much happens other than the close vicinity two people find themselves in. It’s all based on vicinity and shared experience, which is to say: nothingness. Just cherish that, and you’ll see things start to improve.’
Dimitri gets up to go to the bathroom, I assume to give me some privacy to call my wife. And call her I do, explaining where I am, apologizing for the disappearance, for the past few days, the past few years.
A nurse appears with a ginger ale I thought she never heard me ask for. I tell her I have one already, but when I look to my right, the bottle from before is no longer there. I wait a few more moments for Dimitri to return. I look for his cell phone and can’t find it, checking to see if it dropped to the floor.
I ask the nurse what happened to the cab driver who saved my life, to the man in the black t-shirt who’s been sitting at my bedside.
She laughs and tells me to try and get some rest.
I look around once more for any sign of Dimitri, of his old, beat up, Motorola Razr phone. Down the hall, I begin to hear my wife’s voice, her footsteps getting closer.