Copyright (c) 1996

                       People Before Highways
                         by David A. Bright
     
     "Taxi!" A woman's voice cut through the darkness, and I
automatically hit the brakes.
     I had just dropped off a fare downtown and was flying up decaying,
depressing old Columbus Ave. in my junkheap of a taxi so I could make it
back to the home base for another fare as soon as possible. Boston was
teeming with activity on this hot, humid Saturday night, and there was
money to be made.
     "Call me when you get to Franklin Park," Eddie the dispatcher had
ordered when I told him I was clear.
     I slowed down as I came upon Egelston Square so I could check the
street corners, taxi stand and bus stop for good fares to steal. If
things went right, I could find a fare that was heading in my direction,
conveniently "forget" to throw the meter, and then pocket the money
without Eddie ever knowing the difference.
     I was almost through the square, getting ready to shoot up the hill
on Seaver towards Franklin Park, when I heard her. Skidding to a stop, I
looked behind me and saw a black man and two black women rushing over
from in front of the brightly-lit Pink Squirrel Lounge where a small
crowd was gathered. 
     At first nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so I waited. They were
at the curbside passenger door in almost no time flat, and as soon as I
turned around to take a closer look, I knew I had made a big mistake,
for the man had no shirt on and was bleeding from the neck. He held one
hand firmly clamped against the side of his neck, and there was bright
red blood on his collarbone and upper chest. The women looked okay: the
thin one was wearing a short, tight black dress, and the other, curvier
one wore lipstick the color of the man's blood and was squeezed into a
greenish, iridescent pantsuit. 
     The door was open now, and they were jumping in. Before I had a
chance to say "Sorry, can't take you", the woman in the pantsuit called
out, "City Hospital. Hurry!" through the opening in the bulletproof
partition (which I never closed, foolishly choosing convenience over
safety).
     This was not good. What they needed was an ambulance, but as soon
as the door slammed shut I instinctively reacted to the destination
information by stepping on the gas, as younger cabdrivers so often do
instead of using common sense.  Hoping to get rid of the fare quickly, I
banged a U-turn right there in the square and zoomed back down Columbus
Avenue. I checked the odometer and made a mental note of the last two
digits so I could calculate the fare according to distance without
throwing the meter.
     The man was sitting in the middle of the seat between the two
women. I glanced at him in the rear view mirror, but couldn't tell how
badly he was wounded. He said nothing, just sat there holding his neck,
but the women jabbered away to each other. I only caught pieces of their
conversation because I was concentrating on the road and because they
were speaking in a rapid-fire "somebody-else-said-he-said- she-said"
type of dialogue. I tried to figure out what had happened, but the best
I could tell was that the man had been stabbed in the neck and it
had something to do with a fight over a woman. I surmised that the
woman's boyfriend or husband had done the stabbing.
     Columbus Ave. was bumpy and riddled with potholes, and the cab
rattled along well above the thirty mile-per-hour speed limit. I
wondered if the harsh ride in this shockless, secondhand cab was
bothering the guy's neck. Despite his injury, the woman in the pantsuit
was making his ride even more unpleasant by scolding him like a child.
     "You had no business messing around with her in the first place. I
don't even know why I'm bothering to help you."
     The man didn't respond. I found it surprising that she wasn't
displaying more compassion, even if he had done her wrong and this was
his own fault.
     "Where are you now, Mattapan Seven?" Eddie's voice was relatively
smooth and controlled, almost cordial, but I didn't expect the
cordiality to last very long. I have to admit that I was afraid of
Eddie. Although he was a small, wiry guy in his late sixties, he had a
sharp wit and a quick temper and wielded a lot of power over the fifteen
or so drivers of varying ages on the night shift. Sometimes it
seemed like he had control over the comings and goings of the entire
city.
     "Mattapan Seven, near Egelston, I answered." This much was true,
although I didn't tell him I was traveling rapidly in the wrong
direction.
     "Alright, call me when you get to American Legion and Blue."
"Blue" was Blue Hill Avenue, the formerly grand thoroughfare which made
a two-mile, downward sweep into Mattapan Square, and which had many of
the additional checkpoints that Eddie would soon be calling out.
American Legion was a little further down from Franklin Park. In a few
minutes he would be expecting me to be at Talbot and Blue, the third
checkpoint along this stretch, but of course I would be nowhere close to
it.
     "Okay," I answered, and continued hurtling down Columbus Ave. past
the projects, shabby tenement buildings, junky little stores and bars.
Here and there the landscape was dotted with stripped and burned-out
cars. Despite the need to get the guy to the hospital and get all of
them out of the cab as soon as possible, I automatically stopped at
the first red light that we came to and nervously waited for it to
change.
     The man spoke for the first time, complaining, pleading: "Come on,
man. We can't wait for no light to change. Please. I'm bleeding."
     "Okay." I checked to make sure the intersection was clear, then hit
the gas. I did not plan to stop at any more lights. The passenger had
essentially given me license to run them. I was surprised that the woman
in the pantsuit didn't also say something about wasting precious time.
Since telling me to hurry when they first got in the cab, she hadn't
said another word about speed.
     To my left, a grimy, concrete bridge abutment which held old train
tracks and ran parallel to the street was nearly covered with graffiti,
most of it tired, dirty and muted. One message, painted in big, bold
white letters, stood out from all the rest:

STOP I-95
PEOPLE BEFORE HIGHWAYS

I had never noticed this particular slogan before, and thought it might
have been painted that very night. I immediately understood that it was
in reference to the proposed U.S. Department of Transportation project
which would cut a wide swath through Roxbury for a major highway
interconnect. It was a very controversial issue, since scores and scores
of residential buildings and businesses would have to be razed to make
way for the highway, and many people feared that the construction would
further separate Roxbury from the more affluent sections of Boston,
hopelessly deeming the area to permanent ghetto status. I had never
really thought about the human side of the project before--only looking
at the new road as a timesaver--but now I began to understand. In my
nervousness I read the words out loud as we passed, fairly softly, but
just loudly enough to be heard.
     "What do you want?" asked the girlfriend in the pantsuit.
     "Oh nothing. I was just reading what it said on the wall back
there."
     "So what did it say?" I sensed some irritation in her voice.
     "It said, "Stop I-95. People Before Highways."
     "Damn straight," she said. "Fuck the highways. They want to come in
here and turn everybody's lives upside down. Just kick people out on
their ass. Fuck that shit."
     Considering that we were transporting a wounded, bleeding man to
the hospital, a man who it seemed had done her wrong, I was surprised
that she would display an interest in anything but the crisis at hand.
     Her boyfriend seemed to feel the same way. "Well fuck the people,
too," he yelled, but his voice had no real conviction to it, and I
wondered whether he was weakened from loss of blood. "I don't care about
no people. Just get me to the fucking hospital."
     "Shut up," she retorted. "Shut the fuck up. You don't know nothing
about nothing. I hope you die, you stupid black motherfucker. It'll
serve you right. And don't be bleeding on this man's seat."
     Uh-oh. My eyes shot up to the rear view mirror but I couldn't quite
see what was going on back there. Now I would have to mess up Eddie's
game plan even more by traveling empty all the way back to the lot to
switch cabs.  I certainly didn't feel like wiping up blood. Maybe I could
just hose the seat down. Either way, I would be wasting precious time.
     I became aware of Eddie calling "Mattapan Seven" again. He sounded
perturbed now, and I feared that I had missed some of his calls.
"Mattapan Seven?" I answered tentatively.
     "You were supposed to call me at American Legion and Blue and you
should have been there a long time ago. You have to keep in touch.
That's how you make money, remember?"
     "Ya, I know. Sorry. I got stuck behind a bus. It was kind of slow
and I couldn't get around it."
     "Ya, ya. Sure, sure. Tell me another one. Call me at Morton and
Blue. I may have something for you."
     "Mattapan Seven. Right."
     I heard a sharp intake of breath from the back seat. At first I
thought it had something to do with the guy's neck, but then I became
aware of the smell of marijuana. The girlfriend held a joint up by my
shoulder. "Hey man, you want some of this?" she said, holding her breath
so as not to let the smoke out.
     I hesitated for only a moment. "Sure. Thanks."
     Again, I was surprised at her detached way of communicating
with--and around--her boyfriend. It didn't sound like she was making any
effort to tend to or fuss over his wound, the way one might expect in a
situation like this. I took a couple of good-sized hits and handed
the joint back to her. Quality stuff. I heard her take another hit.
Taking my eyes off the road for just a split second, I quickly glanced
over my shoulder and saw her lean across her boyfriend so she could hand
the joint to the other woman. "Don't even think of it, you fool," she
said to him. "Smoke be coming out your fucking neck."
     The other woman tittered and then the girlfriend joined in. Even I
laughed a little.
     He was not happy. "I'll kill you, you bitch," he muttered.
     "Looks like somebody almost killed you, so shut the fuck up and
save your breath."
     That part about saving his breath finally made me understand that
perhaps she did care about him after all. I thought about this as we
passed the joint back and forth a few more times and I started to get
stoned, and the more I thought about it, the more I liked her.
     Stepping on the gas a little harder, I vowed to get this woman to
her destination as quickly and in as much style as possible. Once my
mission was accomplished, she would be genuinely, down-deep happy and
would love me so much that whenever she needed a cab--no matter where in
the city she was--she would call Mattapan Taxi to request me, and only
me. I would be the one. No one else would even be considered. Briefly
crossing the faded center line, I surged past a big Buick Electra that
had been in my way. The driver must have thought I was crazy, or maybe
he was envious, for anyone could see that on this journey I had become
an accomplished driver. Deft. Smooth. Strong. In control. The Best
Cabdriver in the World! The ride did seem to be taking a long time,
however. Though I was traveling fast, passing other cars and running
lights, I began to worry that we would never get there.
     One of the new drivers, in Car Twelve, was having trouble finding
tiny little Mammelon Circle, just down the street from the dispatch
office. Sometimes, if Eddie was in the right mood, he would give some
beautifully precise directions, but this time he didn't sound too
understanding or helpful. "It's there, Mattapan Twelve, unless they
moved it," he said sarcastically. The name Mammelon made me think
of mammary glands, and I had the urge to lay my head on the woman's
breast.
     I glanced over at her as we turned right onto Massachusetts Avenue,
bringing us just a few blocks from the hospital. I liked the way her
profile looked in the tired glow of the streetlights: upright posture; a
proud, full, kindly-looking face with high cheekbones; big black curls
in perfect position; and that alluring, bright red lipstick. I looked at
the road, then quickly turned back to check on my bleeding passenger.
His hand was still on his neck and the blood had spread onto his
shoulder, down his chest and probably onto the seat. He glared at me,
but said nothing, and I figured maybe he was too weak to speak.
     "We're getting close now," I called over my shoulder to the woman.
     She said something in return but it was overpowered by Eddie's
near-yell:  "Mattapan Seven! What's your exact location?"
     I figured I would answer him in a minute. Right now I was
concentrating on finding the emergency room and I couldn't think of what
to say. A left off Mass. Ave. and we were there. I pulled into the
emergency room drop-off area, but there were two ambulances near the
front door, so I had to park on the side of the lot.
     "That's five dollars even," I said with relief in the direction of
the woman in the pantsuit. She jumped out first and held the door all
the way open. The other woman got out of the door on my side and ran
toward the emergency room entrance.
     "Let's go," commanded the girlfriend. "Move it. This man has work
to do."
     He obediently tilted toward the door but then fell onto the seat.
His hand remained clamped on his neck.
     "Don't be pulling that shit on me now. Let's go."
     "Get me outa here," he moaned.
     She smacked the vinyl seat above his head, grabbed his free hand
and started pulling. "I said move it. You want to die in a fucking
shit-ass taxicab?"
     That was all I needed. "Okay buddy, you're at the hospital now," I
said, trying to sound authoritative. "Get out of the cab, okay?"
     No response.
     I opened the door to get out and help, but then the other woman
showed up with two white-suited orderlies carrying a stretcher. A
security guard followed. As the orderlies positioned the stretcher, the
passenger lifted his head a little--this must have caused him a fair
amount of pain--scowled at me and mumbled, "People Before Highways. What
a bunch of shit."
     I didn't answer.
     "MATTAPAN SEVEN...." Eddie's voice had gotten even louder, as if he
were actually inside the radio now. I half expected him to materialize
right there on the front seat and start berating me in person.
     The girlfriend leaned in and handed me a ten dollar bill. "Here,"
she said. "Keep it."
     "Thanks."
     She yelled at her man a little more as they slid him off the seat
and onto the stretcher, but the intensity of her abuse had diminished. I
took one last look at her as she shut the door, and then I got out of
there in a hurry.
     I picked up the microphone and thought about what I should tell
Eddie. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him about the
possibly soon-to-be-dead passenger. I wanted to confer about who may
have stabbed him and why. I wanted to tell him about People Before
Highways and discuss the massive changes that the new highway would
bring. Most of all, I wanted to tell him I was in love with a beautiful
black goddess with inviting red lips and a nicely rounded body and
because of her I now had a better, truer view of life. I wanted to
discuss so many things with him, but couldn't. And at some point I
would have to break the news that I needed a new cab because mine had
blood on the seat. I pushed the button down, holding the mike open while
getting ready to speak, to somehow lie about my whereabouts, but still
had no idea what was going to come out of my mouth. Finally, the words
tumbled out, seemingly of their own volition: "Mattapan Seven, clear at
City Hospital." I knew that Eddie would be livid with rage, but for the
moment, at least, I didn't care. 

                    -end-
