"Just a Little More"

"Come on, push a little harder, would you?"

Old Margaret gripped the end of the canvas sack with her wrinkled hands. Joe was wedged against the driver's door, wrestling with a green duffle bag that had to weigh sixty-some pounds.

"Lady, this is what movers are for, you know that?"

"Movers? They'd charge me a hundred dollars. That's exactly why I called you."

And what do you think my rate is? Joe muttered to himself, then bent his knees, dug in, and shoved. The bag slid grudgingly onto the back seat, and the door shut — barely.

"There, see? You managed just fine."

Margaret climbed into the passenger seat, completely unruffled.

"So, where to?"

"Straight ahead. Just go straight."

Joe started the engine and pulled out onto the Bronx streets beneath a flat, overcast sky. Red-brick apartment buildings drifted past. One traffic light. Then another turn on her say-so.

"Right here. Right here — stop."

"...Here?"

"Yes, right there. Stop the car."

Joe glanced at the meter.

Two hundred feet. No matter how he looked at it, two hundred feet.

Less than a minute on the clock.

The fare read three dollars and fifty cents — the minimum.

He swallowed his sigh, got out without a word, yanked the bag from the back seat, and set it down on the sidewalk. His lower back gave a slow, dull throb.

"Thank you, dear. You were a real help."

Margaret counted out exactly three dollars and fifty cents, pressed it into his palm, and disappeared through the front door, dragging the bag behind her.

Joe stood there for a moment.

She could've walked that.

But then he thought about those thin arms. About how heavy the bag had been.

He got back behind the wheel, let go of any thought of a tip, and decided not to think about it anymore.

​

From the novel: TAXI

Novel & Photographs: Keisuke Togawa