Taxi Driver
‘Where are you from? It was the question I asked the taxi driver whose name was Dragan.’
That is the opening line of my short story ‘Taxi Driver’ published in 2018 in Mindfood Magazine.
My first publication. In English.
I remember the day I wrote it.
It was a hot summer day in mid-February. I had taken a long vacation from the office, hoping to write. Like every year. Even though I have long learned that writing does not happen on schedule. Listening to silence for hours on end to distil a few words that may (or may not) reflect what had come out of that silence rarely, if ever, fits into allocated time-slots.
Still, that summer I, was determined to try again. Harder. When the stiffness of limbs and the hot, heavy air of the room became too oppressive, I ventured out for a walk around the neighbourhood, sometimes picking up a few groceries on the way back. It was during one such excursion that I met a man whose taxi — and our exchange during the short drive — gave birth to the story. I remember writing it as soon as I came home. In a breath. As if to capture the words before they dissipated into obscure crevices of memory.
A few days later, I saw a small advert in the magazine calling for short-story submissions. I gave it only a fleeting thought. I have always been very reluctant to submit my work. A friend of mine whose working life once revolved around printed words told me that there is an old rule in sport, attributed to many old sports stars, that says, ‘You miss 100 per cent of the shots you never take.’ That made me smile. A couple of days later, I asked the same friend to proofread ‘Taxi Driver’ for me, then emailed it to the nominated address.
As the weeks rolled by and the ordinary rhythm of a working-life returned, I forgot all about it. When an email arrived asking me for a photo and a short bio to go with a story, I realised I had neither. The same friend was kind enough to help with both. The next email confirmed that the story was to appear in New Zealand’s June edition.
I remember the day I saw my words in print. I was standing in the lunch-hour queue that looped around the magazine stand in the supermarket not far from my office. A woman in front of me was leafing leisurely through glossy pages, waiting for the queue to inch closer to the cashier. Out of boredom, I peered over her shoulder. As she turned the page, I saw it. The title in bold font, and my face in the tiny square at the bottom of the page. I remember the feeling of discomfort that rose from inside me. I dropped my gaze to the floor and raised the collar of my trench coat further up. In those few brief moments, standing behind an unknown woman while her eyes briefly scanned the words I wrote, I knew that what I was feeling was very different from anything I ever felt before about my writing. I felt exposed. Unsheltered.
I did not wait for the queue to move. I left my place and walked back to the supermarket’s long aisles stacked floor to a grown man’s height with the quantity of food nobody could possibly need. I wandered amongst an endless variety of bread, crackers, chips, snacks, biscuits. Then I reached for my phone and called my daughter.
I remember the sound of her voice when she answered with her usual, ‘hey mum, what’s up?’ To which I responded, ‘hey love, how are you? Guess what; they published my little story. The one I was telling you about. In that Australian mag. I just saw it. In the supermarket. Someone was reading it. Feels odd.’
A little squeal of joy travelled out through my phone. Bouncy, playful, delighted. Like summer sunshine. Warm. In a rapid deployment of words and laughs, she told me how happy she was for me, how much it means to her and how she will look for the magazine. I said not to worry about it; it is not a big deal and that I will have a copy for her anyway. Then we exchanged a few bits of news and hung up. She was on a lunch break too.
Less than three months later, while collecting her things, I found a copy of the Mindfood magazine amongst them. The pages folded where the story appeared.
The sight of it enraged me. Each line cut into me like a knife.
I tore it into shreds with my bare hands. Wailing. Scorching hot tears of sorrow, of regret, of injustice.
I can hate the story. But I cannot disown it.
