the fare

A NIGHT BEHIND THE WHEEL

A lengthy point-of-view shot from MIKE’s vantage-point behind the wheel.

We see the city as Mike sees it. The front windscreen is a little dirty, the lit-up meter juts up at the lower right screen. The intercom crackles with static and messages.

The lights turn green; we take off with a start. A short first gear-quick shift-a long second gear. The cab eases to the right of the street, checking out prospective fares.

Our eyes scan the long line of pedestrians. The regulars-bums, junkies, tourists, hookers, homosexuals, hippies-they mean nothing now. They only blend into the sidewalks and lighted storefronts.

Our eyes now concentrate on those that step away from the curb-is that man hailing a cab or scratching his head?

In the next block there are perhaps three, four fares-quick gas-up through this yellow light-brake sharply-check the action. The first: tourists, nickel tippers-let the next guy pick them up. Let the second go also, the third-there’s a live fare: middle-aged local woman, short fare to the East Side, good tip.

We pull over to the curb, waiting for her to get in. It is a long wait-a black streetwalker crosses in front of the cab. We focus on (as Mike would) a young couple embracing in the distance.

As we travel, we hear Mike’s random thoughts about selecting fares and tips.

MIKE:(Voice over) As simple as it is- (the meter is activated: $0.60 registers. Tick, tick, tick. A quick glance shows the woman is now seated. She says softly, ‘192 East 89’. We take off with another jolt. Cross back up 9th Avenue, then cut through the park. We’re zooming up 9th Avenue; how many green lights can we string together? Somebody sets out to hail the cab, but quickly steps back again. The meter is up to $0.90. It’ll be $1.40 fare. -I forgot to remember to forget my Blue period, when “the spectral teeth and the heat of their glare” were “snapping pictures out of place” this unconditioned connectivity, this seeming truth experience as pure as wordless as nothing as love painting with liquid motions of the spectral brush with all filters destroyed, unfiltered communication as simple as it is “For those who don’t know what it is, total freedom is dangerous.” Now through the park and we’re almost there. Check the numbers-134-140. End of the block. The fare comes to $1.40.

Check back mirror-she’s getting out two bills. Two quarters and a dime change. Tip’ll be either 0.25 or 0.35. The tip comes back: 35c; a good tip. Good lady. We take off again with a jolt.

This is Mike’s world: dark side streets, garnish glaring main streets, quick glances, quicker evaluations- a dozen instantaneous decisions a minute. Are these people, are these objects?

Mike’s taxi speeds down a darkened street.

Mike lets off a fare and pulls into line at the Plaza.)

MIKE:(Voice over) “The Poison of the Honey Bee Is the Artist’s Jealousy. The Prince’s Robes & Beggar’s Rags Are Toadstools on the Miser’s Bags. A truth that’s told with bad intent Beats all the Lies you can invent.”

MAN: (Out of shot) I’ve got to remember stuff like that.

(Mike checks the mirror: Scanning across the back seat, he recognizes the passenger….oooops just another tourist checking his watch and speaking) The back against this inside wall of this epic box containing boxes containing boxes and so on and so on (Mike puts out his cigarette.)

MIKE: (Interrupting) A very horrible affair-isn’t it, sir?

MAN: (Only mildly irritated and rattling off words) In and out mind carpet caramel colored round marble patchy pasty paisley plaid puff puff green pillows yellow light lamp known sexy legs.

MIKE: That’s enough of that you drunken sot, with your popless little popgun! It’s raining lead and steel around here, and it might put a dent in our precious person.

MAN: (Pleased; glances to check Mike’s license) Frames full-a picture with it’s blue lint fibers clear Pens smear automon plastic don’t sit blankets used rag bone carrier vcr fantastic pioneer bee honey candle wire plug that linden in time stereo ok useless hole being used antennae and vents draping beatles books papers and a water of glass to drink before ten or eight.

MIKE: (Turning the wheel) “Repetition is the mother of comprehension” (Mike pulls up in front of the Barclay Hotel. The man jumps out of the cab and leans in the window to pay Mike)

MAN: What was that?
MIKE: “Repetition is the mother of comprehension.”

MAN: Huh?
MIKE: “Repetition is the mother of comprehension.” Got it?

MAN: Yes-straight for it. It’s something to swim for- that light or something (he steps back and watches Mike pull away)


DATE NIGHT

Manhattan street. Early evening.

Mike, dressed up to the eyeballs, walks brightly down the sidewalk. His face freshly shaved, his hair combed, his tie straightened.

He pauses in a store window to check his appearance.

Under his arm he carries the gift-wrapped Dylan record album.

Outside the Palestinian headquarters KATHY, smartly dressed, waves goodbye to another worker and walks out the door to greet Mike.

A short while later Mike and Kathy are walking down Broadway towards Times Square. Kathy does not let their bodies touch as they walk although Mike contemplates edging closer to her.

Kathy has opened the package and is admiring the record-or, rather, Mike’s sentiment behind giving it.

Mike looks around with pride: this is a moment to savour in his life-one of the few.

KATHY
Having fun?

MIKE
Yes. Thanks for bringing me here.

KATHY (Pointing to album)
What do you think of running track?

MIKE (Sly smile)
An odd ritual. You run as fast as you can to get somewhere. But never enjoy the sights or the company.

Mike thinks about this, the SPRINKLERS suddenly go on. Mike shrieks and runs out of the spray. Kathy’s face backtracks a bit. Maybe she was wrong to go out with this fellow she doesn’t know.
She makes a polite laugh.

Later. Mike and Kathy are in Times Square, turning the corner from Broadway to 42nd street. Mike carries the album under his arm.

They approach the garish marquee of a large midtown porno theatre advertising The Swedish Marriage Manual. The box office is flanked on both sides by glass cages filled with explicit publicity stills. Offending portions have been blocked out with black tape.

Mike steps over to the window and buys two $5 tickets. Kathy befuddled, watches him. She doesn’t know what to say. Mike returns with the tickets.

Kathy still has not fully comprehended what is happening.)

KATHY
Mike?

MIKE
Water! It is our life force.

Mike dances through the spray. He makes ALIEN GUTTURAL PURRING sounds. Kathy enjoys his playfulness.

KATHY
You are destroying life forms.

(Mike seems confused. He is so much a part of his own world, he fails to comprehend the other’s world. Compared to the movies he sees, this is respectable. But then there’s also something that Mike could not even acknowledge, much less admit: that he really wants to get this pure white girl into that dark porno theatre.)

MIKE
I know, but these are green, fang-faced, blood sucking Mutoids.

KATHY
Mike, I know Mutoids. They live two planets over from Xela.

MIKE
Okay. (stopping playing) You knowing these guys take the fun out of vaporizing…you can stop shaking your head.

KATHY
No I can’t. I feel really weird.

MIKE
You’re an alien, Kathy. You define really weird.

KATHY
It’s not that kind of weird.

Mike makes an awkward gesture to escort KATHY into the theatre. Kathy looks at the tickets, at the theatre, at Mike. She mentally shakes her head and walks toward the turnstile. She thinks to herself: ‘What the hell. What can happen?’ She’s always been curious about these pictures anyway, and-like all women, no matter how intelligent- she’s been raised not to offend her date. A perverse logic which applies even more in offsetting circumstances like these.