Slowly the cab forged through the blizzard. There were no pedestrians to be seen on the sidewalks. Who but madmen and cabdrivers would be out in this frozen chaos?
At a red light the driver slid open the glass partition.
"You all right back there?"
"Yes," said Harry. "Thank you."
"Your buddy still breathing?"
"Yes, sleeping peacefully."
"You think this is bad?"
"What?" said Harry.
"This," said the driver. "This snowstorm."
"Oh," said Harry. "Yes, I suppose it's pretty bad."
"This ain't bad," said the driver.
"It isn't?"
"No," said the driver. "It ain't."
"Oh?" said Harry.
This was a good thing about being too impoverished to take cabs anywhere (even though Harry rarely wanted to go anywhere anyway). If you never took cabs you didn't have to listen to cabdrivers talk. Now if he could only find a way not to have to listen to barbers. Perhaps he should start shaving his skull?
The light changed, the driver yanked the gear shift, the cab shuddered and groaned and began to move again.
"You know what was bad?" said the cab driver.
"What?" said Harry.
"You know what was bad?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about," said Harry.
The driver turned around in his seat, still driving. He took the cigar out of his mouth and gestured expansively with it.
"I'm talking about this," he said. "This goddamn blizzard. That's what I'm talking about. What the hell did you think I was talking about?"
"I'm sorry," said Harry. "I didn't know."
"Then pay attention," said the driver. "This is the problem with people. Nobody pays attention to nobody."
"I'm very sorry," said Harry, "but –"
"But what?"
"Do you think you could watch the road while you're driving?"
Probably despite himself the driver took a brief glance ahead at the snowy street, and then turned back to Harry.
"Don't tell me how to drive this cab," said the man. "I can drive this cab with my eyes closed."
"Okay," said Harry. "Sorry. It's just I would feel safer if you would keep your eyes on the road."
"You just leave the driving to me, pal. I know what I'm doing."
Suddenly the car jolted with a dull loud thump and Harry's face was thrust into the leather of the seat-back in front of him.
"Ow," he said.
"Now look what the fuck you made me do," said the driver.
"What happened?" said Harry, touching his nose with his cold fingers.
"You made me bump into a parked car, that's what happened."
"Okay," said Harry, "look, just let us out here, okay?"
"Bullshit," said the driver. "I said I'd take you to Sullivan Street, and I'm taking you to Sullivan Street."
The car's internal mechanisms whined and growled as the driver shifted gears again, reversing and then once again plowing forward.
"Just please keep your eyes on the road," said Harry.
"I told you before," said the taxi driver, and he turned around to look at Harry again, "don't tell me how to drive this hack."
"Okay, fine," said Harry.
"Good," said the driver, but at least he turned once more to face the road. "That is all I ask."
He drove in silence for a minute, and then he said, again, "Yeah, this ain't bad."
Harry said nothing. The drive would be over soon. Maybe they wouldn't crash, and after all, even if they did crash, they were driving very slowly.
"You know what was bad?" said the driver.
"What?" said Harry.
"You know what was really bad?"
"I know many things that were bad," said Harry.
"Don't crack wise with me, pal," said the driver. "You crack wise with me I'll kick you right out of this cab, and keep the sawbuck you give me. Now you want to know what was really bad?"
"Okay," said Harry. "What was really bad?"
"Napoleon's retreat from Moscow," said the driver. "That was bad. A hunnert thousand Frenchmen started out that cold winter. You know how many made it back to France?"
"Not off hand," said Harry.
"Not too many, pal," said the driver. "Not too many at all. How many? I don't know. A thousand? Couple o' thousand? Three thousand, tops. Not too many, buddy. And the ones that did make it back? They was never the same. Scarred for life. And not just physically, but mentally. Psychologically. Shattered.
Mere husks of men, crippled in body, mind and soul. Standing on street corners shaking tin cups. 'Cept for old Napoleon of course. What did he care? Just another walk in the park for old Napoleon, he didn't give a shit. What do you do?"
"Pardon me?"
"What do you do for a living?"
"Oh, I'm a writer."
"A writer?" said the driver, and he adjusted his rearview mirror, so he could see Harry's face.
"Like a journalist?Newspaper guy? Sportswriter?"
"No, I write stories, novels."
"What kind of stories?"
"All sorts."
"You know what kinda stories and novels I like?"
"No," said Harry.
"I like stories about guys who get like caught in a web of deceit and violence, and betrayal. You write them kind of stories?"
"Sometimes," said Harry.
"You ever need any story ideas, you come to me."
"Okay," said Harry.
"I got a million of them."
Harry said nothing. Everyone had a million stories.
"A million of them," the driver said again.
They were stopped at another light. The cab's motor hummed and coughed, and outside the cold wind and snow roared and whined as snowflakes drummed on the roof of the cab like frozen plagues of locusts.
The light changed, the driver shifted the gear and the cab lurched forward.
"They say there's eight million stories in the naked city," he said. "That's a lie. There's eight billion stories in the naked city. And every one of them stories ends the same. You know how they end?"
"What?" said Harry.
"I said you know how every one of them eight billion stories in the naked city ends?"
"With somebody dying?"
The driver turned around and looked at Harry.
"How'd you know that?"
"Just guessed, I guess," said Harry.
The driver continued to stare at Harry.
Harry knew he should tell the man to watch the road, but he had been down that conversational cul-de-sac before, so he held his tongue. Finally, after half a minute, the driver turned to face the road again, of his own volition.
"You ain't so dumb," he said. "Not so dumb as you look, anyway."
He drove on, and after another minute, he stopped the car.
"Sullivan Street," he said. "You want me to cross the street or stop here."
"I think it's 175 Sullivan."
"That's acrost the street, on the right."
"Okay," said Harry, "across the street then."
The driver took them across the snowy street and stopped. Through the snow-shrouded window Harry could see only more snow, and beyond it what must have been a house, with dim yellow rectangles that must have been windows.
The driver turned around again.
"Give me a fin, and I help you get your buddy into the house."
"No thanks," said Harry.
"Two bucks," said the driver.
"I think I can manage," said Harry.
"Suit yourself, pal," said the driver. "You probably think I'm only in this for the money. And you know what? You're right. But I got bills to pay. Expenses. They say life is cheap, but you know something? Life ain't cheap. Life is expensive. Very expensive. Give me a buck and I'll help you get your friend up to the house."
"Thank you," said Harry, "but I think I can handle it."
"That's what Napoleon said," said the driver. "And you know what happened to him."
"Yes," said Harry.
"So you know what happened to Napoleon?"
"I think so," said Harry.
"What happened to him?"
"He met his Waterloo?"
The driver paused.
"That's right. He met his Waterloo. Maybe you and your chum are gonna meet your Waterloo tonight."
"That's quite possible," said Harry. He shook Livingston's shoulder. "Livingston, wake up. You're home."
Livingston opened his little eyes.
"Um?"
"Yes," said Harry. "You're home."
"Um," said Livingston, again, and he closed his eyes.
"You woulda thought Napoleon woulda learnt his lesson after that retreat from Moscow," said the cab driver. "But oh, no, not Napoleon. He weren't happy. Just like you guys. Just like everybody."
Harry shook Livingston's arm again.
"Livingston," he said. "Wake up."
"Yeah," said the cab driver. "Wake up, Livingston. Meet your fucking Waterloo."
