Open Letter to a Boston Cabbie

Dear Sir,
First of all, allow me to apologize. If you are reading this, I am sorry that I was unable to give you your cab fare. You might remember me, you picked me up outside my dorm at 6:30 am on Friday, November 6th. Upon hopping in, you agreed to take me to South Station, a walk that I could have made, but was unwilling due to the cold and early morning circumstance.
I’d like to make it clear that it was never my intent to stiff you. In fact, I tried exceedingly hard to make sure that didn't happen. Allow me to explain my situation. I woke at 6am and gathered my things for my weekend trip home to Doylestown, PA, a land that you may not have heard of. I was scheduled to take the 7am bus to New York City from Boston’s South Station, and upon my arrival to New York, I’d figure out the logistics of the second leg of the trip home. But that part is of no relevance to you, sir.
After leaving my room and heading downstairs, I followed my pre-decided plan to go to the ATM in the lobby of my building. And what do you know? Broken. But not to worry, the majority of cabs accept credit cards. Alright.
So I hop in, give you directions and immediately note the credit card machine on the plastic median divider, perfect. I entertain the $4.60 ride and you pull up directly outside the entrance to the bus terminal. It is 6:42, everything’s coming up roses, sir.
I preface my payment with “Hey, I’m really sorry, but…” and explain my plastic predicament. You groan, take a sip of your XL Dunkin Donuts coffee, your second one of the day, you explain to me, and you say,
“Yech, that thing, it hasn’t worked all morning. Do you see my cab number on the screen? Broken.”
Okay. Well, okay. I still have enough time, as I’m actually running three minutes ahead of schedule (a rarity for the traveler in me), and I inquire about the nearest ATM. Inside the terminal, up two escalators and down the corridor you say. Fine, I’d be much obliged. You brought me $4.60 closer to my destination. So in, up, and up I go.
Citizen’s Bank ATM. Well that’s ok, I bet they’ll give me a surcharge, I don’t have time to worry about it.
Swipe. No dice. What do you mean my card can’t be processed? I try again, again I go unprocessed. And again. Again.
I walk away, ask a security guard, who tells me the closest one is next door at the train station. A walk I know is 8 minutes, from prior experience. It is 6:50. Again, no dice.
I go back to the Citizen’s Bank ATM, someone else got it to work! I wait and try again, and still, my card cannot be processed.
It is then that I had to make the unfortunate decision that I could not pay you today sir. I scour my wallet for some kind of compensational currency; one dollar, a Barnes&Noble gift card, a gift certificate from Wet Seal. None of these things seem appropriate. It is 6:53.
I make my way to my gate and think about you, two escalator rides down, and out the double doors, sitting in your MetroCab with a broken credit card machine, sipping your second XL Dunkin Donuts coffee of the morning, curious about whether your passenger will actually return and pay you.
You are incredulous, you’ll be pleasantly surprised if she does. She’s clearly a student, she looks pretty decent. She definitely has it, but kids, they were trained early to cut corners. And everyone’s shackling down because of this recession bullshit, that you just don’t know how the cab industry is going to keep it together.
I understand, Mr. Cabbie with white hair, long face, and Red Sox cap, that I took on some bad travel karma, when I made the decision to stiff you this morning. That’s something I can’t take back. But I can try, either by giving $6 extra dollars to the next cab I get in, or by a method I haven’t yet come up with.
I just felt an immediate need to apologize to you, and I had to get this off my chest. I wish you the best of luck sir, and I hope that one day you find 4 dollars and 60 cents on the ground, and you are compensated for our short ride together. I’m sorry, white-haired, long-faced cabbie. I hope I didn’t ruin your day.

With all the best intentions, and immediate regrets,
Micaeli C. Rourke

PS. Phuck the Yankees. For your sake, go Sox.

White Winter Hymnal

I was following the pack
All swallowed in their coats
With scarves of red tied 'round their throats
To keep their little heads
From fallin' in the snow
And I turned 'round and there you go
And, Michael, you would fall
And turn the white snow red as strawberries
In the summertime...

It has been an excellent weekend.

Thanks for lookin' out. =)

wait, really?

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/8282356.stm

It's 5:30 am.

And I can't stop reading. And writing. And thinking. And crying. (but only because I'm inspired, and my creative juices are flowing, so it's excusable.)

I was watching a tv show tonight about three lifelong friends that were kidnapped. They were all starters on their high school's varsity soccer team, and were due to graduate in one month. They were locked in a cell, without food or water, and were told, by their captor that they would be released in one week's time, except only two of them would survive. The third would be killed. 

Now, after about 3 or 4 days in a frigid, dank cell, one of the three became aggressive, always looking for a way out, and becoming hostile at the other two. One fell ill, and became weak, often sleeping in a damp corner of the cell. The third was moderate, often helping their ill friend, encouraging her to get better, while persuading the aggressive friend to relax, because her anger and hostility was only conceding to their captor's intent. The intent, of course, was to pit them against each other, using sensory deprivation, in hopes to tap into the slumbering evil that rests within all humans, notably among 18 year old girls. 

The next day, the alpha female takes the moderate aside while the weakest is sleeping. She convinces her that the only way any of them will ever survive this ordeal is if they chose the weakest to die. She is the closest to death, and has not displayed any will to try and solve their problem. Now, the moderate immediately refuses, and becomes sick just over the thought of it. These girls had grown up together, they were lifetime companions. Yet, the alpha reminds the moderate to think of her mother, undoubtedly frantic at this point, who is all alone, save for her daughter. If they don't make it out of the isolated cell, her mother will surely think her daughter is dead, and upon realizing she is completely alone in the world, she will spiral into insanity and utter madness.

After hours of coaxing, and mental anguish, the moderate consents. She realizes that there is a small chance any of them will survive, so she might as well do what she can to save her own life. The alpha immediately declares to the ever-eavesdropping walls of the cell "Alright, we've made our choice." All this happens while the weakest lays unresponsive, and proven unconscious in the corner. 

Immediately, two hammers are dropped through a slot in the cell door. The moderate and alpha realize that their captor's intent is for the girls to kill their friend themselves, and they are both aghast, one more so than the other. 

The alpha takes a hammer, and attempts to persuade the moderate again, although she is still rather appalled at the idea. The moderate realizes what a dangerous position she is in. In a cell where survival is the only goal, anything goes. Alpha could just as easily bludgen her into oblivion, and be the sole survivor. She has no idea what to do. The two girls are standing face to face. The moderate is wringing her hands. The alpha is standing, inauspiciously with the hammer. 

Then, the alpha's face goes tense. Her head bobs forward briskly. She crumples to the floor. The weakling is standing behind her with the remaining hammer, now bloody from the pulp of her best friend's skull. She is silently heaving with sobs, obviously appalled with what she had just done. The moderate stares in utter disbelief at her friend who had, up until that moment, been laying semi-catatonic in the corner. "I had to. She had chosen me. She was going to kill me."

The two girls were released from the cell exactly one week after their abduction. They were driven to their high school football stadium, and released in broad daylight. The captor put a cell phone in a hand of the moderate, smiled, and drove away. His ultimate plan had been achieved.

NOW how fucked up is that? Not the type of thing I expected to see on a detective show (Criminal Minds) on A&E at 1am. 

Untitled

When i met you, i stopped writing. i also stopped waking up to a face full of post it notes saying things like its bad luck to see the woman before the driving test, or my house smells like apple cider and bluebottles have eyes, or i've got static in my arms. i stopped feeling sorry and i stopped falling down the stairs. i noticed the stars at night could have a story and you could have taken the ocean and put it in your eyes. i also stopped writing. when i met you, i stopped trying to be a nice person and just was. when i met you, i discovered post it notes and then i couldn't use them. i realised my house was not just a picture of a house and that your silence is so loud and my loud is so quiet. when i met you, i stopped writing and i cut star shapes into my blanket because i couldn't reach the sky, even with a ladder. when i met you, i traced the map of your bones and filled my hands with yours because i stopped writing. i also stopped walking backwards because i noticed that i could miss the view, and the view was mostly beautiful, and the view was mostly you. i also noticed that some people are like trees and the forest on your face and the paths in your mind are endless, but i have them memorized. the way you are thinking the same thing as me, but ask me what i'm thinking anyway, i noticed. i noticed that your silence means something. when i met you, i stopped writing and i listened. once i started writing again, i became a seedpod with no purpose but to write to you, are arrivals and i am departures and how it was windy that day and our eyes might have met and we might have smiled. i wrote to you that words are never enough and i sighed and i stopped writing. i made a tower of cards and the wind knocked them over and i walked home in the rain because i think i fell in love with that again. when i met you, i saw your eyes and i stopped writing. when i met you, i learned to read the creases in my hand and i stopped writing. when i met you, i did not float in the tub, i did not run to catch the last plane leaving. when i met you, i stopped writing. then i went to your house and i wrote and i wrote and i wrote. when i met you, i stopped writing and then i couldn't stop writing. when i met you, i couldn't stop writing and then i stopped writing. when i met you, words weren't enough anymore and i stopped writing. then i wrote and i wrote and i wrote.

Freedom

So I got in my first car accident this week. I'm totally fine, and Delilah only has a broken turn-signal light on her front left side, but I guess it counts as an accident. Ironically, I wrote the following prose two days before my accident. Life's funny like that, right?

Freedom

I am lumbering forward, onto worn asphalt that is a rural quilt of patches and scrapes. Steam is rising from the ancient road, recovering from an early-summer deluge that preceded my ride by a few hours. I am passing through familiar, bucolic countryside that has since prepared for its nightly slumber. I show no regard to my inky still surroundings, and I disrupt the black night with the two beams of light emanating from the front of my ride. With the windows down, loud and fast music wafts into the night. I know I'm instigating an awakening--albeit a brief one, yet I show no regret, or cause for concern. I am preoccupied with my own dissatisfaction. With a cigarette in my left hand, and my fell phone in my right, I manage to fumble the wheel in the right general direction, using my knees, and the car's intuition to do the rest. No, this is not safe. But that's never been my biggest priority. At this moment, I am deep in thought.

Some people have their designated nook or cranny in the world, where they can go and allow their mind to diffuse, or mull over something. My place just happens to be on wheels. It acts as a place for travel, for recreation, for 'business meetings', and as an occasional cure for boredom.

At this point in time, it is helping me to solve my most recent self-inflicted problem, loneliness. For some reason, I've been stricken by a dampening mood, and no desire to see anyone. Paradoxically, I am sad because of my solidarity. You could call this self-induced discontentment. I would prefer to call it PMS.

I go through the mental motions of restless, nostalgic, self-doubting, and plain gloomy. I feel the best solution would be to drive, with no destination. I have an immediate desire to get lost. Maybe the land of the unfamiliar will cure me of my current funk. Or maybe it will scare me out of my adolescent ho-hummings, and make me thankful to get back to familiar terrirory; counting my blessings as I safely close my front door behind me at the end of my adventure. At this point, either outcome is possible. I'm not planning the now that's unfurling itself before my four wheels. Rather, I'm just auto-piloting through silent territories of countryside, pioneering a trail to my own mind's content. 

Stories, Shotgun

So I have this new summer project. It's more of an intellectual challenge,  but I'm stubborn enough to try it. I've decided this summer I'm keeping a list, "the compendium", of all things that happen to me this summer that make for a good story. I will, every so often, look at the memories from the list, and reflect upon one like a narrative. These things are stories of funny/bizarre things that happen to me, shitty things, and great days. I'm calling it Stories from Summer (a working title). It will be something to look forward to in the future. I have a few of the stories written, theyre fun. This project was inspired by a book I'm reading called 'I Was Told There'd Be Cake' by Sloane Crosley. It's kind of a girl-version of Tucker Max (much less vulgar), and is reminiscent of the writer's voice and setting of a young Carrie Bradshaw. DEFINITELY read this book if you come across it, its hilarious. 

Also, I'm considering starting another smaller project that documents all the people who have/will ride shotgun in my car this summer. It would be aptly called "Shotgun Summer 09" and I'm thinking of having a log or some kind of documenting of who rides as my co-pilot. I just think at the end of the summer it would be cool to see how  many people I've chilled with in my car, and the variety of people as well. It would also be neat to see who do I actually drive around the most? Who's the most random person, things like that. I thought it would be cool to have a disposable cam over on that side of the car, for entertainment purposes,  but I'll probably nix that idea. Flahsbulbs at night in cars don't make for flattering photos.