The Taxi Ride in the Rain

Aspen’s loneliness came in the form of a shadow person that only she could see. It followed her everywhere she went. Her loneliness lived in her house. It sat next to her on the train. Even at her last book signing, where she was surrounded by loving fans and her agent and the press. She could feel her loneliness lingering. While she peered at the many faces of the people who admired her, she knew that she would never see them again. Aspen would eventually go home to a bed that felt far too big for just one person and without any ‘goodnight’. 

“What advice would you give to an aspiring writer?” asked a journalist, who was apparently doing a piece for the ‘books’ section of the New York Times. Aspen’s book of retold fairy tales had been a #1 best seller for weeks. 

“Read as much as you can. Talk to interesting people. Go to plays. Travel. Have as many experiences as possible,” Aspen said, smiling. 

“Brilliant,” the journalist replied, jotting down the answer. Aspen continued to talk and answer questions the way she had been prepared to do so by her agent. Aspen was brilliant-- at pretending to be so successful. She knew that once this article was released, she would gain more readers. More people would follow her and love her work. 

As Aspen sat in the taxi on the way home, she stared out the window. After having achieved so much, she felt empty. Every apartment building and newsstand and coffee shop that she passed by seemed to trigger a memory from staying in London. She had a flight to catch the following morning, but she didn’t want to leave. There was nothing waiting for her in her hometown. 

Aspen leaned towards the driver. “Excuse me?” 

The taxi driver met eyes with Aspen in the rearview mirror. He looked startled as if he didn’t know she was there. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but is there any way you could drive for longer?” 

“We’re almost at your destination, ma’am.” 

Aspen sighed. “I’ll pay you extra-- I just can’t go back yet.” The driver nodded and Aspen leaned back into her seat. 

The atmosphere fell silent again. Raindrops began to appear on the window. Aspen watched as someone scurried down the sidewalk, using their jacket over their head as a shield against the rain. She began to imagine that he was running through the rain to profess his undying love to someone, someone who was in that apartment building she had passed not too long ago. This was a game she had played since she was little: imagining silly, dramatic lives for strangers. She liked to pretend everyone was connected in some way.  

The taxi driver suddenly interrupted Aspen’s thoughts. “Hey, aren’t you Aspen Church?” 

“Yes,” she admitted. 

“I knew I recognized you. You’re some famous writer, huh?”

“You could say that.” 

The driver paused, shaking his head in disbelief. “Those fairytales are full of shit, man.” Aspen laughed out of his surprise at the bluntness of his comment. No one had ever criticized her work in person, but she was impressed by his honesty. “What?” the driver demanded as if she was mocking him. Then he let out a little chuckle too. 

“That’s the point,” Aspen said. “In real life, there are no happily ever afters. People die and there’s war and climate change. Fairy tales are nothing like reality, and that’s why people read them.” 

“I don’t know. I doubt pessimists are reading fairy tales,” the driver said skeptically. 

“You’d be surprised.”

“So, what led you to write them, then?” 

For some reason, she told him the truth. Maybe it was because she felt like, for once, she didn’t have to put on a show for a camera or for someone who was jotting down her every word. Or maybe it was something in her that longed for someone to see her for who she really was-- even if it was only for a brief time. So she told him her story, how her father died when she was young and her mother worked multiple jobs to support her. While her mother was at work, Aspen stayed with the next-door neighbors and would read fairy tales. She began to live in her head, wishing for some prince to come and save her from reality. Then, when she was eighteen, she received a creative writing scholarship to her dream school. 

“That scholarship was my equivalent to a prince,” is how Aspen described it. “It was just enough money so that I could afford to go. College was my opportunity to really make a life for myself, you know?” 

“Wow,” the taxi driver remarked. Then he chuckled. “They don’t tell your story in the papers like that.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m telling you, my life hasn’t been so magical.” 

It began to rain harder. Aspen looked out at the street through the window once again. 

“Mine either,” the driver said. “But let me tell you this: be grateful for the family you do have. Sounds like your mom did a lot more for you growing up than mine ever bothered to. And now you make a lot more than any of us taxi drivers.” 

Aspen scoffed. “We haven’t talked in months.” 

She wasn’t sure why, but that statement tasted bitter compared to all her previous words. The atmosphere in the car became silent and unchanging. As Aspen watched the road, she thought of all the times she had pretended to ‘just not get’ her mother’s voicemails, and washed the regret away with expensive wine. 

Suddenly, Aspen realized they had arrived at her hotel. 

“What are you doing? I said I can’t go back,” Aspen said anxiously. 

“Listen, I’m not going to do this all night.” 

Aspen sighed and looked away, refusing to budge.  

The driver turned around in his seat. It was her first time really seeing his whole face. He was much older than she had realized, and he looked tired. “I don’t know your situation,” he said. “My son stopped calling me two years ago, and I pray every day he stops being so stubborn. I’m sure your mom feels the same way.” Although his words were so personal, his voice was still cold. 

Aspen looked at him sympathetically. 

“Get out of my car, lady,” the driver insisted. 

“Okay, okay,” Aspen said. She grabbed her purse and finally jumped out of the taxi into the pouring rain. The coldness felt shocking as she ran under an awning. Puddles were plinking on the ground, and the rain was hissing incessantly with noise. 

Hesitantly, she dialed her mother’s number.