The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy. Nic Tatano
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CHAPTER SIX
Friday night couldn’t have come fast enough. I felt like my soul had been magically transferred into another body.
The old Belinda Carson, now known as “frumpy girl,” had apparently died last weekend. Oh, I was still the Brass Cupcake, but I had become that rare crossover hit in the broadcasting world, an “infobabe” who actually had credibility.
Not that viewers noticed the latter any more.
At this point I was totally conflicted. I was surprised, but I had to admit I loved the attention I was getting from men. Hated that my appearance had become secondary to my reporting talent. Loved getting dressed up and fixing my hair (which also surprised the hell out of me), hated that the first comment I heard in the newsroom had to do with my outfit or hair or makeup rather than the previous night’s story.
I would deal with it later, along with a bottle of wine that was chilling in the fridge with my name on it. First I needed a cab, one of the hardest things to get on a Friday night during rush hour in Manhattan.
Well, it used to be hard. I previously endured a yellow blur as taxis sped by me, often splashing me with slush in the process since I was apparently coated with invisibility spray.
Now I step one foot off the curb, raise my hand, awkwardly stick out one well-turned ankle in a stiletto heel, and it’s a lemon-colored NASCAR race to grab my fare. It felt weird, like I was in some bizarre dance class, but I’ll take it.
Ten seconds after I engaged my sexual hail, a shiny cab crossed three lanes of traffic and screeched to a halt in front of me. The rumpled middle-aged man in a business suit ten feet away who’d already been at the curb when I got there rolled his eyes at me.
I opened the door and got in, then noticed the new-car smell, which is rather rare in a Big Apple taxi.
“Where to, Miss?” asked the cabbie, making eye contact by using his rear-view mirror.
“1042 East 82nd, please.”
He didn’t pull away, and just sat there staring at me in the mirror.
“Well?” I asked. “Is there a ride somewhere in my future?”
“I knew it,” he said.
I furrowed my brow. “Knew what?”
I saw his eyes brighten in the mirror and then he turned to face me.
Oh shit.
“You! Vincent!”
“Oh, you remembered my name this time. I’m impressed.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“What does it look like? Driving my cab.”
“You said you worked on Wall Street.”
He shrugged. “Rox told me to say that. Besides, I do pick up a fare there from time to time.”
“So you’re a cab driver?”
“How very perceptive of you. I can see why you went into journalism.” He smiled, then gave me the once-over. “Anyway, like I said, I knew it.”
“I’ll repeat the question. Knew what?”
“That there was a serious babe under all those bad clothes.”
A tap on the window interrupted us. It was the guy who’d been waiting. I rolled down the window.
“Look, if you’re not going anywhere, can I have this cab?”
“No,” I said, rolling up the window as Vincent took off.
“You look spectacular,” he said, keeping his eyes on the traffic. “Huge improvement.”
“You lied to me.”
“Like I said, Rox told me to say that. Besides, you should be used to it in your line of work.” He hit his horn as another car cut him off. “And you never would have talked to me if I said I was a cab driver.”
“I don’t judge people by their profession.”
“Not what Rox told me.”
My jaw tightened, then I noticed the meter wasn’t running. “You forgot to start the meter.”
“No charge for one of her friends.”
“You’ll get in trouble with your boss. They monitor those things.”
“Pffft. I’m pretty tight with the boss. That’s why I got the new cab. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
“I don’t want your charity.”
“Well, I can see charm school isn’t in session yet. When you get to the class on saying thank you, let me know.”
My eyes narrowed as I stared daggers into the rear-view mirror. He looked into it, locked eyes with me for a moment, and smiled. “Don’t you laugh at me!” I said. I was getting a lecture from a damn cab driver!
“Why not? You’re funny.”
“This is not funny.”
“Let’s see, gorgeous woman gets into my cab, I tell her she looks nice, she proceeds to bite my head off. Funny, don’t you think?”
“Just drive.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t call me ma’am. I’m not old.”
“Fine.” Long pause. “Cupcake.” The sonofabitch continued to smile at me.
I grunted and folded my arms in front of me as my blood pressure spiked. A quick look out the window told me we only had ten blocks to go.
And then the cab came to a sudden halt.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Traffic. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s a concept involving too many cars and not enough road, which dictates that two pieces of matter cannot occupy the same space at the same time.”
“Wow, you got an ‘A’ in high school physics. Congratulations.”
I was trapped in taxicab confession hell. Last week I would have jumped out and hoofed it, but ten blocks in these heels when I’m only on week one as a five-nine woman would’ve killed my feet.
The silence was deafening. “Wanna listen to the radio?” he finally asked.
“Anything’s better than listening to you.”
He didn’t respond and turned on the radio. Sports talk. My pulse slowed down. I’m actually a sports junkie and listen to this station all the time.
The current caller with the Jersey accent was ripping the Mets ownership after making yet another ridiculous trade. “You tell ‘em,” said Vincent. “Worst trade in years.”
I suddenly forgot my anger. “No shit,” I muttered.
He looked at me in the mirror as traffic began to slowly move. “You follow baseball?”
I nodded.
“Football too?”
Another nod.
“Giants or Jets?”
“Giants,” I said, before hitting him with the old line designed to take any Jets fan down a notch in case he was one. “There are no Jets fans, only Giants fans who can’t get tickets.”
“You’re right about that. I’ve got season tickets for the Giants. Had ‘em ten years. Forty-yard line. Great seats.”
“Good for you.”
The cab sped up and the blocks began to pass quickly. I saw my building through