luck's tor part three

        On his way to the cabstand Rhys-Jones visited a liquor store and bought a pint of Early Times. There was a security mirror and in it he saw himself and remembered how people long ago said he looked like Chet Baker. The jazz genius had been a gorgeous human being before falling away to junk. A babyfaced beatific hipster with a lonesome horn. The mirror showed that Rhys-Jones had aged as horribly as Mister Baker. He could have passed for the poor dope at the end of his rope.
        The slick blond pompadour had wilted and thinned. He had cavernous cheek hollows and eyes with a thousand-yard stare. The tanned and leathery skin of his face was lined with so many creases that it resembled a map of all the roads he had travelled.
     


                                                                                            *


        Rhys-Jones was a sartoral jamboree.
        He wore hemp sandals bought in Sonora or Durango or Chihuahua or some damn place and a greasy tropical shirt with hula girls. A string of cowry shells rattled around his wattled throat. His jeans were frayed and threadbare. The most significant part of his wardrobe, however, was a sweat-stained yacht captain's cap with an anchor patch.
        So when he rapped on the roof of the cab with a mercurochromed knuckle he was greeted with a stony glare. Quickly he drew forth his battered wallet and showed a fold of lettuce to prove he wasn't a hobo. The toad sitting there on a beaded backrest smirked and muttered something in Farsi.
        Then in lilting Hammersmith or Brixton: "Where to, Skipper?"
        Skipper? What does he mean by that?
        Insults seem to fly from everywhere like darts.
        He tugged down the visor of his cap and climbed in with his grungy knapsack. He read the name of the driver and rasped, "Step on it, Nasrudin."


                                                                                  *


        The cab rocketed up Biscayne Boulevard, using all available lanes. Rhys-Jones watched as if he were centerstage in a madyak Third World movie. In the rearseat he tried to marshal his thoughts but could not. An absurd cacophony jangled  his mind. He was too dazed to think. Blood pressure was near-stroke level. Stress and anxiety brought on by low self-esteem pumped his pistons harder and harder. He was an unexploded bomb. He became enraged easily and was constantly flipping out with unspeakable tantrums. Diabetes destroyed his  keen vision and deviled his feet with the pins and needles. Defeated, all he could do was to sit in this wretched cab and inhale secondhand smoke from bidi cigarettes.
        An unbridled itch prompted him to scratch his testicles.
        Nasrudin crossed 79th Street and was caught by the next traffic light. He asked his passenger for an explicit update on the directions. He received no response. He glanced backward and swore in Farsi. The passenger appeared to be playing with himself.
        "No masturbating! No masturbating!" He swerved the cab to the curb and parked. "Give me my money now and get out!"
        Totally flummoxed, the passenger sat agape.
        "Out! Out!"
        Rhys-Jones tossed a couple of bills at the driver. "Keep the change, frog face."
        The cab scooted back into traffic. The last thing he heard Nasrudin say was: "Uncivilized!"