Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Hey, this is crazy. But he's a KILLER.

This past weekend I was out of town. I needed to take a cab to where I had left my car, only there was a slight hiccup.

I had never called for a cab myself. Or ridden in one alone. Or tipped a driver.

I've watched a few movies in my day and lots of the ones with cabs ended with people getting murdered and left in a back alleyway. I didn't have time to get murdered that day because I needed to be somewhere within the hour, but I really had no other choice.

As I had someone call the cab for me (blessed be missing phone books and incredibly helpful front-desk receptionists) I felt myself get a little apprehensive.

I was wearing sandals with slippery bottoms. If I needed to say, stab the cabbie, I would have preferred to be wearing stilettos. Those suckers can do some damage. So I've heard. However, that type of shoe is not often worn at 8am on a Saturday morning, and even if I WAS wearing that style shoe, running from the wounded, and by that time pretty pissed-off, now-cyclops driver would cause an entirely different issue. Then again, slippery bottoms weren't going to help, either, so I was pretty much screwed.

I began to run through a series of situations and different actions I could take in order to free myself and undoubtedly end up famous on the 6 o'clock evening news and eventually star in a Lifetime Original Movie when I realized the cab had arrived.

I snuck a look at the driver, whom I found to be surprisingly young and innocent looking. Typical. I was going to sit in the front where I could keep an eye on him. You just can't trust that wholesome type.

I opened the door and the driver greeted me.

KILLER: Hey Em. Get on in. [pats seat]

Me: [screaming in head] OH MY GAWD HE KNOWS MY NAME. I AM GOING TO DIE.  [realizing I gave my name to the receptionist and she had passed it on to the company. Feeling foolish]

KILLER: Your legs are long.

Me: [again, to self] TO MAKE LAMPSHADES OUT OF! OMG!

KILLER: There's a thing between your legs. [makes like he's going to assist or shank me or break my kneecap]

Me: [Trying to remember whether or not my Last Will and Testament is current]

KILLER: [pulls his hand back, looks at me weird] Just push on the bar and move the seat back.

Me: [cough] I know what you meant. Erm, thanks.

I had a mildly embarrassing moment where I had to give the guy directions to my destination via an educated guess and hypothesis because I never pay attention to important details like WHERE I LEFT MY CAR. Which he found hilarious and proceeded to tease me.

Okay, Guy-I-Just-Met, go ahead. And we'll see who is laughing when I tell you I'm paying you in quarters from the floor of my car, sans tip, because you're a punk.

I defended myself bravely by pointing out that I didn't live in the city and had just been there for a visit. Sensing a challenge, he began to ask me if I knew where 26th Ave was and had I ever been to this place over on 134th and it was right by his house on 55th (which made ZERO SENSE).

Me: You realize that by asking me that, you are basically speaking to me in hieroglyphic's and I can't understand you, right? The only place I know over here is a Chinese place. And I'm not even sure about that.

KILLER: OH! I know that place. It's the best in the city.

Me: [skeptical] In this huge city with about a thousand Chinese restaurants, you think you know exactly which place I'm talking about?


KILLER: Yeah. It's Ding Dong's.

Okay, I obviously changed the name of the restaurant. But what if I DIDN'T? Wouldn't that be AWESOME?!


Me: That was a lucky guess.

KILLER: Nope. I know my stuff.

Me: [self again] OH HOLY CRAP! It's a PREMEDITATED MURDER!

About this time, I had spotted my car and pointed it out to the driver.

We pulled into the parking lot and I fished for some cash. Because if I did scrounge for quarters it would have involved me taking my eyes off of him while I crouched down on the floor of the car and that's the opportunity he would have used to strike. I watch CSI. I know what happens.

KILLER: So. Ahem. Can I give you my number?

That's weird. Is that like, his calling card? They'll find it on my body and the first forensic guy will say to the other, "Hm. Radio Cab strikes again." No thanks.

Me: Ahm. [shaking head no] I'm married to a huge 350 pound man with anger issues. Who owns a tiger. He's actually meeting me here. With the cat [fake-craning of neck like this big huge lie will magically come true because things like that TOTALLY HAPPEN ALL THE TIME].


KILLER: Okay. [laughs] How about the next time you need a cab, call and ask for me. And if it doesn't work out with your huge husband, call me then, too. [hands over a card]

At this exact moment in time, something odd happened.

I realized the radio was on.

The song playing was Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen.

Now. Given the fact that this tune is played every third rotation on every single radio station, twety-four hours a day, I have created an equation. See below:

Call Me Maybe length: approx 3:20.
Song played every 9 minutes.
1440 minutes in a day.
Divide crap math no one is reading this anyway because they're all skipping through to read the answer and I know that because I would do the same thing so:

Answer: The odds of hearing that song at the exact moment Killer was handing me his number were not just ironic, but actually pretty good. Like, I wish I had a bookie that followed me everywhere because then I could have bet on it and won like, five bucks.

Killer was unaware. I shoved his card in my purse, paid him and left.

I made sure I went the opposite direction Killer did because after all, he knew too much.

Like my license plate.

CRAP.
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