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By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

by Robert Buckley © 2004

He grasped his coat below the collar and shivered against the raw dampness that seeped into his bones.

This was too much, the third time in two weeks that she had failed to pick him up on time.  No more.  From now on he would order up a company limo.  But for the moment, he needed a ride.  He loathed riding in cabs, but he had little selection in the matter.  Besides, the homeless were coming out and beginning to pick through the remains of the day in the financial district.

A red checkered vehicle pulled around the corner and came toward him.  He stepped off the curb and waved it down.  He winced as he opened the rear door, but at least it was warm inside.  He slid onto the seat, laying his briefcase beside him.

"Do you speak English?" he inquired.

"All my life," the driver replied, eying him laconically in the rearview mirror.

"You're white," he said.

"Yup, been white all my life too."

"I didn't think there were any white cab drivers left."

"It's not my preferred line of work, just something to tide me over.  But since you think it's such a novelty, maybe I should levy a surcharge."

"I can see that a smart-alecky attitude still goes with the job," he huffed.

"Look, mister, I got to make a living.  We can chat all night in one spot if you want, but I'm gonna flick the meter anyway.  Or would you rather tell me where to?"

"Can you drive beyond the city?"

"Yup, but after a while we get into flat-rate zones."

"I'm going to Manchester-by-the-Sea."

"Uh-huh.  That'll be thirty-six bucks flat."

"Very well—get moving."

The driver pulled away, making his way to the tunnel that would bring them north of the city.  His passenger sniffed, pinching his face into a scowl.

"I don't like cabs," he said. "They smell."

"Hmm, you think so?"

"Yes, they smell of the people who rode in them—unwashed."

"You should have been in the cab I drove a couple of days ago—it smelled like pussy.  I didn't mind."

"Are you serious?"

"Yup, someone was well and truly fucked in the backseat before I got it.  Damn, made me randy all day."

"That's disgusting."

The driver shrugged.

They just entered the tunnel when the passenger asked, "Did you say you were between positions?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah.  I lost my regular job seven weeks ago.  It was outsourced."

"I see.  Well, you'll just have to adapt.  It's an evolving world, you know."

"Evolving? Outsourced? Do you remember when they called it 'downsizing'? It seems every decade or so they come up with another euphemism for tossing people out on the street."

"My company outsources," he said with a hint of satisfaction. "It's a global economy—workers in this country—in the entire developed world—will just have to adapt and evolve along with it."

"Really? I suppose we're supposed to evolve into a Third World work force."

"Labor is a commodity, young man.  Those are cold hard facts, but facts nonetheless.  Adapt or perish."

The driver rolled his eyes. "I have two degrees, and I haven't even paid off the student loans on the first one.  Am I supposed to go into debt to get another—to adapt?"

His passenger sniffed again. "It smells like stale popcorn back here."

"What are you, some top-suite executive?"

"Yes—yes I am."

"So, if you hate cabs so much, what are you flagging one down on the street for?"

"My wife was supposed to pick me up.  I don't know what's happened to her.  I can assure you; this is the last cab I'll ride in if I can help it."

"Maybe you just missed her.  What does she drive?"

"A Jaguar."

"Hmm, seems I recall seeing a Jag in the area a few times last week—not tonight though.  Oh, well, sit back and enjoy the ride."

"Not likely."

"Really, mister, a lot of strange and wonderful things happen in cabs."

"I can believe the 'strange' part."

The driver chuckled. "Well, yeah.  Like for instance, remember I told you about the cab I drove all day that smelled of pussy."

"Yes," he winced.

"The reason it smelled that way is because the night before I drove it, my pal, Raul, was at the wheel."

"Oh? Does he rape his passengers?"

"Ha! That's funny.  No, sir.  It was Raul who was nearly raped.  See, he had picked up this woman in the financial district—a handsome babe she was.  She had a buck too.  Anyway, as soon as she got in the cab she started coming on to Raul, talking dirty to him.  At one point she says—now get this: 'Give me some of that greasy spic cock.'"

"Sounds like she had issues."

"Issues? Man, she had issues soaking her pants, is what she had.  So Raul fucked her in the backseat.  She took him every possible way she could.  Finished up with an inspired ass-fuck."

"Driver, you really don't need to share this with me."

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.  I thought you might be interested.  You see, she was obviously a well-to-do woman.  Who knows, she might live in Manchester-by-the-Sea."

"Driver, I really am getting irritated.  There is a number here that I can call to complain, in case you've forgotten."

"Sorry, Sir.  I really did think you'd be interested.  I'll shut up."

The passenger nodded.  He was silent for a few miles, then he peered at the driver in the rearview.

"Why did you think I'd be interested—in the woman, I mean?"

"Huh? Oh, it's just—well she was something of an enigma, that is until she came on to me."


"Yes, sir.  I was getting to that.  You see, this chick has been showing up off and on in the same area for about a month now.  She parks, then trolls for cock.  She isn't fooling anyone.  And it isn't just cabbies she picks on, I've spotted her pick up guys stumbling out of bars, any guy who looks a little rough and ragged.  You see, I figured she had some sort of self-humiliation thing going—some women are really into that."

"Like I said, she must have some serious issues.  I think she needs help.  I hope, for her sake, her family finds out and gets it for her."

"That's a nice thought, sir, but that isn't what she's about."


"No," the driver said. "People who are into humiliation—well, they get off on the their own degradation.  Picture a soccer mom allowing herself to be fucked by some greasy slob.  She's thinking, 'Oh, I'm so pure and wholesome, and this dirty beast is defiling me with his dirty cock.' But she loves it—see what I'm saying?"

"Hmm, are you some kind of psychologist or something?"

"Amateur—but you get my meaning."

"Yes, driver—degradation, fresh scrubbed soccer mom allowing herself to be violated." He tried to sound bored.

"Exactly—hey you're a lot sharper than a lot of the execs I run into."

"You're very close to having a complaint lodged against you and your company, young man."

"Sorry—you still want to hear about the woman, right?"

Feigning exasperation, he sighed. "Go ahead."

"Well, you see, she wasn't into degradation—not her own anyway.  She was just looking for a stud.  She liked them rough and dirty, but she made no bones about it, she was in charge."

"How do you mean?"

"When she fucked Raul, for instance.  She called him everything: lousy spic, grease ball, taco fucker.  Told him he was a dirty, greasy mongrel, and how she was privileging him by letting him fuck her rich, white suburban ass."


"Maybe.  Now, Raul, he doesn't give a shit.  He's getting his balls drained, and she can call him anything she wants for all he cares."

"Well, no one's cheated if everyone's satisfied," his passenger sniffed.

"Hey, that's good.  I have to remember that." The driver laughed, a sharp hard laugh.

"Now," he continued. "This same crazy bitch came on to me just the other night.  She waved me down and told me to drive to the waterfront.  We parked in a lot and left the meter running.

"This babe—well, she might have been in her early fifties, but she took good care of herself.  Nothing sagged—I'm saying she had a body as taut as a 20-year-old girl.  She was rich, you know? And she looked like she'd paid top dollar all her life to keep her body in pristine condition.  She smelled good too—expensive."


"Hold on, I have to tell it right.  Anyway, she says, 'It's your lucky night.' And she kneels on the seat and lifts her skirt up.  She's got no panties on, and she pats one cheek and says, 'You get to fuck this fine piece of ass'.

"So, I say, 'Yes, ma'am' and I climb in back to oblige her.  Then she hands me a jar of some nice-smelling cream and says, 'Grease my asshole', and I say 'Yes, ma'am'.

"So I'm sliding my finger in and out of her back door and she's snarling: 'That's right, grease me up good, I want your whole cock in my bowels.'

"Did—did you?" his passenger said, his voice hoarse.

"Mister, I pushed my pole through her pucker hole in one thrust—no stopping, right up to my balls.  Then I began to pound her, and she started talking real dirty.  She says, 'Yeah, come on, shitfucker—you filthy lout ... fuck me.'

"So I decided to give her as good as she's dishing out, and I say, 'What's up, princess? Can't your old man get it up for you?'

"Just then she gets real squirrelly.  She says, 'You dirty pile of shit—my husband makes more in a day than you will your entire, pathetic life.  Now shut the fuck up and fuck me, that's all I want from you, you fucking insect.'"

The passenger chuckled.

The driver eyed him through the rearview. "Yeah, she thought it was funny too—right up until the second I pulled out of her ass and shoved her through the door."

"You did what?"

"Threw her out.  Damn, you should have seen her face.  There she was crawling around the pavement on all fours.  Her stockings were torn, her clothes all muddy, 'cause she fell right into a puddle."

"What—what did she do?"

"Glared at me.  She said, 'You prick, I'll have you charged with rape.'

"And I said, 'Go ahead, you twisted bitch.  And I'll tell the cops how you've been slumming for meat—I'm sure the pudgy Honduran driver you fucked yesterday will back me up, and if he doesn't do the trick, then those truckers you sucked off in the alley beside Cabot's Bar and Grille.'"

"What—what did she say?"

"You kidding? She didn't know whether to shit or go blind.  Her jaw dropped to the pavement where her knees were.  I shut the door and drove away laughing, but not before I took my fare from her purse and tossed it out the window."

"Hmm, that's quite a story, young man."

"You don't believe me?"

"It seems preposterous that a woman of the caliber you describe would risk her position, her marriage so recklessly.  It's an insightful fantasy, though."

The passenger directed the driver off the highway and through the rustic, tree-lined streets of the town.  They passed a row of mansions, set well back from the road, then the passenger directed him to turn into a crescent drive.  The cab stopped in front of a huge brick house, just behind a dark, green Jaguar.

The passenger got out and counted out $36 exactly. "I hope you didn't think that fairytale you told would earn you a tip."

"People with money don't generally tip well," the driver said.

"In that case, here's a dollar for your imagination—that's about what it's worth."

The driver grinned. "You know, mister, I was thinking—what you said about a woman like that not wanting to risk her marriage and such."

"Yes, what of it?"

"I don't think she looked at it that way.  See, I figure she really wasn't getting satisfied at home.—You know what I think she was doing?"



The man glared.

"And I just realized another thing—she drove a green Jag—just ... like ...  that."

The driver grinned and pulled away. "Have a nice night, Sir."

He left him standing in his driveway—shaking.

© 2004 Robert Buckley. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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