The cabbie turned off onto Route 6, now well-launched into his own monologue.
‘So I says, “Blow it outcha you-know-where.” I mean, the kid is a smart-aleck, right? I don’t have to take a load of horseshit like that from anyone, including my own boy. I been drivin this cab twenty-six years. I been held up six times. I been in fender-benders without number, although I never had a major crash, for which I thank Mary Mother of Jesus and Saint Christopher and God the Father Almighty, know what I mean? And every week, no matter how thin that week was, I put five bucks away for his college. Ever since he was nothin but a pip squeak suckin a bottle. And what for? So he can come home one fine day and tell me the president of the United States is a pig. Hot damn! The kid probably thinks I’m a pig, although he knows if he ever said it I’d rearrange his teeth for him. So that’s today’s young generation for you. So I says, “Blow it outcha-you-know.
where.”‘
‘Yeah,’ Johnny said. Now woods were floating by. Carson’s Bog was on the left. They were seven miles from Cleaves Mills, give or take. The meter kicked over another dime.
One thin dime, one tenth of a dollar. Hey-hey-hey.
‘What’s your game, might I ask?’ the cabbie said.
‘I teach high school in Cleaves.’
‘Oh, yeah? So you know what I mean. What the hell’s wrong with these kids, anyway?’
Well, they ate a bad hot dog called Vietnam and it gave them ptomaine. A guy named Lyndon Johnson sold it to them. So they went to this other guy, see, and they said, ‘Jesus, mister, I’m sick as hell.’ And this other guy, his name was Nixon, he said, ‘I know how to fix that,
Have a few more hot dogs.’ And that’s what’s wrong with the youth of America.
‘I don’t know,’ Johnny said.
‘You plan all your life and you do what you can,’ the cabbie said, and now there was honest bewilderment in his voice, a bewilderment which would not last much longer because the cabbie was embarked upon the last minute of his life. And Johnny, who didn’t know that, felt a real pity for the man, a sympathy for his inability to understand.
Come on over baby, whole lotta shakin goin on.
‘You never want nothing but the best, and the kid comes home with hair down to his asshole and says the president of the United States is a pig. A pig! Sheeyit, I don’t…’
‘Look out!’ Johnny yelled.
The cabbie had half-turned to face him, his pudgy American Legionnaire’s face earnest and angry and miserable in the dashlights and in the sudden glow of oncoming
headlights. Now he snapped forward again, but too late.
‘Jeeesus.. -,
There were two cars, one on each side of the white line. They had been dragging, side by side, coming up over the hill, a Mustang and a Dodge Charger. Johnny could hear the revved-up whine of their engines. The Charger was boring straight down at them. It never tried to get out of the way and the cabbie froze at the wheel.
‘Jeeeeee…
Johnny was barely aware of the Mustang flashing by on their left. Then the cab and the Charger met head-on and Johnny felt himself getting lifted up and out. There was no pain, although he was marginally aware that his thighs had connected with the taximeter hard enough to rip it out of its frame.
There was the sound of smashing glass. A huge gout of flame stroked its way up into the night. Johnny’s head collided with the cab’s windshield and knocked it out. Reality began to go down a hole. Pain, faint and far away, in his shoulders and arms as the rest of him followed his head through the jagged windshield. He was flying. Flying into the October night.
Dim flashing thoughs Am I dying? Is this going to kill me?
Interior voice answering: Yes, this is probably it.
Flying. October stars flung across the night. Racketing boom of exploding gasoline. An orange glow. Then darkness.
His trip through the void ended with a hard thump and a splash. Cold wetness as he went into Carson’s Bog, twenty-five feet from where the Charger and the cab, welded together, pushed a pyre of flame into the night sky.