Day In The Life of a Getaway Driver

BONG. BONG. BONG. Three o'clock and all's well, I thought, peering out the front windshield of taxi 38, the black-and-yellow 2018 Toyota I've been carting New Yorkers around in every day for five years. Everybody knows me. I'm a fixture of the neighborhood. Tourists think I'm 'just the most WONDERFUL, most EXPERIENCED driver I've ever seen, don't you think, honey? Let's tip him extra!' Those are the bad days, sweetened only by the fact that I earn more money out of it.

Although every day's a bad day when you're a taxi driver in NYC. Because of--

Suddenly an earsplitting scream ruptures my lazy afternoon thoughts and brings me to attention, snapping up in my seat and practically ripping the car keys out of my pocket. I push my sunglasses up to my forehead, blinking at the sudden onset of blindingly white sunlight, and whip my head around, trying to find where it's coming from this time. But I don't need to strain myself, because a greenish, disturbingly long tentacle is slithering its slimy way up the skyscraper on another street, and I'm hitting the gas, probably breaking at least sixty-five laws at once as I careen through the streets.

But not away from the definitely-radioactive creature. Towards it. Because guess what? This isn't the first time I've done this.

I screech to a halt in front of the Blue Oceans office building, waiting for the inevitable. And...yup, the doors are sliding open, and there's Mr. Leonard Clark: young office boss, frequent customer of mine, and notoriously idiotic superhero Water Guy.

I press the button that opens the doors, and right on cue, he rushes in, already unbuttoning his shirt. Underneath is his swimsuit/super-suit/really dumb-looking outfit that I, unfortunately, have the privilege of witnessing approximately once a week.

Having taken off his shirt and unceremoniously stuffed it into his briefcase, Clark/Water Guy sticks a finger up and yells, "Onward, good sir! For I am...dun dun da dun dun DA DUN...OCEAN MAN!"

"Sure, Water Guy," I mutter, jerking my elbow and spinning the wheel like a maniac. Water Guy yelps from the backseat. In the mirror, I see him surreptitiously pick himself up from where he's fallen onto the floor. Stifling a smile, I add, "And by the way, if you wanna get there in one piece, you'd do well with a seat belt on."

There's a soft click, and I step on the gas. This time he screams.

Two minutes later, the car almost rams into the side of the already-destroyed skyscraper that is now populated by several dozen ruined desks and one gigantic, tentacled creature. Water Guy leaps out of the opened door and poses with his hands on his hips for a moment, as if waiting for cartoon trumpets to announce his arrival. 

Nothing happens, and the only heroic music that's playing is the muffled screams of onlookers. He shrugs and, with a snap of his fingers, rises on what looks like an oversized bubble to the roof, where the alien thing has stopped. I hear some disgustingly wet, squishy noises, which usually means the battle has begun. I am no longer needed, so I make my way back to the driver's seat and pull out of the lot, headed to Queens for my next round of taxiing.

I'm whistling as I drive. The radio's playing, and my hands on the wheel aren't clenched. The sun is shining. A perfect day in New York City, the greatest city in the world, I think.

Until I pause for a moment at a corner stop sign and hear, with a growing feeling of resentment, the shouted words:

"OI, TAXI! I NEED A RIDE!"

Great. It's Superman.