James Siegel - Detour

The man who walked over to the cabdriver’s window seemed constrained by his own clothing, tight maroon sweatpants with a simple T-shirt that appeared more like a straitjacket.

He made a motion with his hand— roll down the window.

The taxi driver was in no mood to comply. He’d lost his smile, he was muttering in Indian.

“Roll down your fucking window,” the man said, now that his hand motions had gotten him nowhere.

The taxi driver now made a hand motion of his own. A wave of dismissal— go away and leave me alone .

The man didn’t react well to this.

“Who you fucking waving at, huh? You like to blow your fucking horn at people? Open your window. I got something for you, you fuck!”

The taxi driver was not going to do that. No. He waved his hand at the man again and turned his head, banishing him from his presence.

“Hey, you fucking towel-head! You understand fucking English? You don’t, do you? You don’t understand a fucking word I’m saying. Here, I’ll make it easy for you. Roll. Down. Your. Goddamn. Window .” He pounded the window on each word with a hand that appeared to be the size of Lower Manhattan.

The taxi driver had locked the doors. Paul realized this when the man began pulling on the door handle and it didn’t open. This only seemed to make him angrier.

He began kicking the driver’s door.

Paul couldn’t tell whether the man had noticed that there was a passenger in the backseat. Even if he had, Paul didn’t think it would’ve deterred him.

“Open the fucking door, you pussy!” he was screaming at a now seriously alarmed-looking taxi driver. The taxi driver in fact seemed to be looking around for help—first left, then right, then finally, inexorably, behind him.

“Maybe he’ll just stop,” Paul said, staring into twin eyes of pure panic.

“He’s goddamn crazy,” the taxi driver said.

Paul had to agree with him there. Two thoughts were racing through his brain. One: He was not going to be able to hold it in. Two: If the crazy man made it into his car, he was going to kill the taxi driver and Paul would not make it to Jersey City in time. Even if he could hold it in.

Paul rolled down his window.

“Look, could we just calm down?” he said to the man. His words sounded pained and filled with anguish—even to him.

His tone seemed to momentarily mollify the man. He looked at Paul as if he’d just come across an interesting artifact worthy of his attention.

“Tell him to open his door,” he said.

“Look, I’m sure he didn’t mean to blow his horn. He was frustrated. All this traffic. Can we just forget it?”

The man smiled at him. “Sure,” he said.

Then he reached into Paul’s window and pulled the door lock up. He pulled the door open —accomplishing this in a matter of seconds. Before Paul could actually react, the man yanked Paul out of the taxi by his arm.

Paul stumbled, almost fell.

“Hey, come on, stop this,” he said.

Somewhere between stop and this, the man’s fist connected with his chin.

Paul fell straight back onto the pavement. Smack. That wasn’t the worst part. No.

He’d just spent hours fighting to keep the drugs inside of him, battling with his own body over this unwelcome and unnatural intrusion.

In one humiliating moment, he lost.

EIGHTEEN

They found an Exxon station somewhere in the Bronx.

A Middle Eastern man pumping gas pointed to the back of the station when Paul asked for the bathroom.

Paul had made it back into the taxi in the middle of the Triborough Bridge, with the assistance of a middle-aged woman who’d magically materialized from a white minivan. He’d refused the woman’s offer to obtain medical assistance. He’d told the taxi driver, who’d remained snugly in his front seat, that he wasn’t interested in going to the police. No. Just 1346 Ganet Street in Jersey City.

First he’d needed a bathroom.

The taxi driver closed the plastic partition between driver and passenger as Paul sat half on his hip the entire way.

When he got into the stifling gas station bathroom—which wasn’t so much a bathroom as a hole with toilet—he discovered pretty much what he’d expected.

Everything he’d swallowed back in Bogotá had come out. The condoms were still intact.

He dumped them into the filthy sink, washed them off with warm rusty water. He took off his pants and slathered them with the yellowish gunk that came out of the soap dispenser, then soaked them under the faucet. He cleaned himself up as best he could.

He wasn’t going to swallow the condoms again. He couldn’t. He would get to the house in Jersey City and tell them what happened—that they’d come out just a few miles from delivery.

He carefully placed the drugs in the overnight bag he’d dragged into the bathroom with him. He went back out to the taxi and crawled into the backseat. The driver had aired it out during his bathroom break. Both doors were wide open, both windows rolled down.

At least the driver didn’t say anything to him. Paul had taken one on the chin for him.

His gratitude must have outweighed his disgust.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER THEY ENTERED JERSEY CITY.

Paul was looking on the bright side. Yes, there was a bright side. He’d made it this far. Consider the percentages.

He was blocks from delivering his cargo. From fulfilling his part of the bargain.

The taxi driver turned into an area festooned with Arabic signs. They passed a yellow mosque complete with gleaming minaret, an open-air market dripping with exotic-looking fruits and vegetables. They crawled past several women covered head-to-toe in black burkas, drifting down the street like shadows.

My name is Paul Breidbart. I have something you’ve been waiting for.

He pictured Joanna’s face as she got off the plane. Still hollow-eyed and fatigued, but flush with gratitude and relief. She would have Joelle pressed to her chest. They would go home, where their best friends, John and Lisa, would’ve tied bright pink balloons to the doorknob of their apartment.

My name is Paul Breidbart. I’ve got something for you.

The taxi stopped. The driver was craning his neck, peering out the side window.

“Are we here?” Paul asked.

“Thirteen forty-six Ganet Street?” the driver said.

“Yes. Is this it?”

“This is Ganet Street,” he said.

“Good,” Paul said. They were in the middle of a block. A grocery, a drugstore, and two check-cashing places were situated on one side of the street. The other side looked residential, which must’ve been the side he was looking for.

Only something was wrong. The taxi driver was shaking his head and sighing.

“Thirteen forty-six?” he asked again.

“Yes.”

“It’s not there,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s gone.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look,” the taxi driver said. “It’s missing.”

NINETEEN

Morning.

Joanna could smell fried plantain and smoke. And the familiar musky odor of her baby. Her soft head was tucked under Joanna’s chin as she guzzled the pale yellow formula provided by Galina.

Paul had left hours ago. Or was it days?

She’d tried to be brave about it. She’d tried to stay strong for Paul—he’d need it. When he left, when he actually departed from the room, it was as if hope had left with him.

This is what it feels like to be utterly alone, she thought.

And yet there was Joelle. So she wasn’t.

Galina had come back soon after Paul left, and Joanna had latched onto her baby like she used to clutch her pocketbook in the face of a possible 84th Street mugger.