The Taxi Ride

A Short Story By

 Tina Appleton Bishop

It was a dreary, chilly Thursday afternoon in New York in October, and Maggie’s day had started badly. It began at her hairdresser’s when she walked out with an entirely wrong color in her hair. Of course she shouldn’t have dozed off, she ruefully thought as she looked her new, far too blonde image in the mirror.

At 81, she had begun to nod off on more and more occasions: at the Philharmonic, the opera and even as a member of a grand jury. At the bridge table, however she was as alert as a tightrope performer, and on her Thursday bridge nights she could count on returning home with enough cash to pay her weekly grocery bill.

That evening she was happy to own a well-styled gray wig, which she used in emergencies. She was in no mood to suffer catty remarks from her fellow players, three very rich older women who met each week at each other’s apartments. They were a strange trio, not the types she would have chosen: much too rich and lazy. Secretly she named them “The Idles.” In describing them to her daughter she said, “I wouldn’t exactly call them bitches, but their personalities could be described in canine terms. Lucille, the widow of an incredibly wealthy real estate man is extremely tall, with shaggy gray hair. She’s an Irish wolf hound. The heavyweight of the group, Jeanette, has the pushed in face and waddle of a Pekinese. Sara, the shy one, is brown and friendly like a Cairn.”

Lucille Richards, the hostess that evening, lived in a huge, high-ceilinged apartment on Park Avenue in the mid 50s. The place was a clutter of objects collected during the Richards’ cruises around the world in their ocean-going yacht. From time to time, as in a museum, the exhibits were changed. Each new object had a long story to go with it. It was quite a problem for Maggie to look interested and enthusiastic, but the others could keep up an endless flow of gushing comments. She often wondered why she spent every Thursday with such boring women. They were well educated, well groomed and well bred— but deadly dull.

There had been little change in the bridge routine over the years, nor in the faces, shapes and costumes of the trio. Despite her wealth, Lucille always draped her angular body in heirloom fashions: thirty year old Chanel suits and pale, out-dated mink coats. On grand occasions like opera openings, she had the hauteur to trot out in an ancient chinchilla evening wrap.

Jeanette Blake, a banker’s widow, strove to fend off age and weight with diets, face lifts and hair dyes, but she always looked and acted the same: an overweight selfish, empty-headed woman. Sara Norman, daughter of a shipping big-wig, was the only unmarried woman in the group. She was always called “Poor Sara” by her friends when discussing her. A nice woman of average looks, her father’s wealth had made her so wary of fortune seekers that she remained in her own words, an “unclaimed treasure.” Her mouse brown hair was worn in an old fashioned bun and her clothes, like her personality, were noncommittal.

As the oldest of the foursome and the best bridge player, Maggie Bennett had the respect, if not the liking of the others. Fortunately she did not care if they liked her or not. Always polite but never in awe of her financial betters, she exuded a confidence that irritated the others. She who never exercised or turned down a second helping of dessert, had the figure of a teenager. She who lived on a modest income, looked the best dressed, and most galling of all, she had the whitest teeth—and they were all her own. Maggie usually made it a point to arrive late in order to minimize the pre-game chit-chat.

Before her arrival Maggie was often the subject of discussion.

“Maggie’s really something! Did you know she finally quit going alone to the Shakespeare in the Park after she was knocked down and her purse stolen? Was she fearless or just plain foolish?” asked Jeanette as she briskly shuffled the deck. She handled the cards expertly and dealt with aplomb. She made a flashy start, but was a disappointment as a player.

When Maggie finally arrived there were no apologies. They started play immediately. Nobody remarked on the wig as she had worn it at other times of crisis.

“We’re a little late getting started but let’s try to get in four rubbers as usual,” said Lucille rather briskly. Although most slept late in the morning, the women tried to end their play by eleven when their doormen were still on duty. It was 11:15 by the time their scores were tallied. As usual, Maggie was the big winner, though Jeanette had a surprise win when she (partnered with Maggie) managed to make a grand slam doubled and redoubled.

“What gave you the courage to redouble, Maggie?” Jeanette asked as she put on her mink coat. Simple black dresses, pearls and mink coats were obligatory uniforms on their Thursday night outings. Maggie’s mink looked old and tired, a poor relation of the others, but on those nights she felt more comfortable conforming to the others.

Maggie, who had taught bridge for years, laughed, “Well, I’ll let you in on professional secret. You may have noticed that I never sort my cards. The top players at my bridge club taught me that. Those pros are so crafty about watching the players’ hands as they draw out their cards, that in a matter of minutes, they can dope out the holdings of each player. Once you’ve learned that trick it’s as good as having X-ray eyes.”

“I’ve always admired your baby blues but I never thought they had such power. You won’t catch me sorting my cards next Thursday,” said Sara, laughing a bit uncomfortably.

“But I won’t be there,” thought Maggie for she had regretted her words immediately. Now the group would have one more reason to resent her. She made no attempt to keep up with them financially, but in terms of brain power, energy and family background she belonged in a different world. She stayed with the “Idles” because her social life had become more and more limited. Single women were not welcome at dinner parties. As she contemplated her future desertion from the bridge foursome she wondered what they would think about her recent defection from the Republican Party. They would probably be as shocked as if she suddenly decided to become a Zen Buddhist. Perhaps it would be kinder not to tell them that she’d been a closet Democrat for years.

It was 11:25 by the time the three women were helped into a taxi by Lucille’s doorman. Maggie lived the furthest away on Park and 85th Street, so the others agreed to pay a portion of the total. Sara, who lived just five blocks away, put a dollar in Maggie’s hand as they came to her house. As a rule Jeanette contributed three dollars as her share of the ride to her apartment on Park at 69th Street. Light-headed from her Grand Slam, Jeanette tried to press five dollars into Maggie’s purse. “I want you to take this,” she insisted as the cab approached her building.

“That’s too much.” Maggie protested. “Just give me your usual share. That’ll be fine. Let’s not make a big deal out of this.”

The bickering continued. “Don’t be silly. It’s only two dollars more. Let me celebrate my Grand Slam—please!” Jeanette sounded petulant.

The cab came to a stop at the entrance. The women were still arguing. Angrily, the unshaven, heavy-jowled driver turned around and faced the two women. His expression implied, Oh, here we go again. Two dumb bitches fighting over a few bucks. His voice was raspy as he said, “Ladies, it’s been a tough day. I have to get this cab back to the garage, then take the subway back home to Brooklyn. For God’s sake, make up your God damned minds.”

Jeanette was shocked into action, peeled off three bills and thrust them at the driver as she said, “Well, Maggie, if you’re going to be so obstinate, I’ll pay him.” She clumsily forced her bulk out of the taxi door.

It was an unfortunate ending to her last evening with the “Idles”, thought Maggie who sensed that her confession about her “X-ray eyes” had forever changed her relationship with the group, who now would regard her as a predator, some sharp-eyed pro. She had never felt comfortable with the women and often felt a bit guilty each time she tucked her winnings into her wallet. Obviously she would have to give a few more bridge lessons to fill the gap, but the time had come for her to move on.

She too, had been shocked at the cab driver’s outburst. To think that she had been relieved to have a nice, old fashioned New York type of cabby instead of a bearded, turbaned stranger at the wheel. He had been very rude, but thank God, he was a good driver, she thought as she looked at the meter as the taxi arrived at her apartment. The fare came to $7.00 Jeanette had already paid him $3.00 so Maggie calculated her share at $4.00 plus tip. Though he was skilled at the wheel, his crude manners made her unhappy about giving him a tip of any kind. Finally she settled on a dollar tip which she added to her portion of the fare.

Otto Bauer, the doorman, was still on duty and helped her out of the cab. He stood nearby as Maggie handed the driver a five dollar bill.

They turned towards the entrance when the man yelled, “Hold it, lady! Can’tcha read the meter? You gave me a lousy five dollars. You’re two bucks short.” He leaned out of his seat and shook a fist towards them.

The dignified doorman, in his new maroon uniform, had been standing erect, his mouth agape. When he saw the enraged cabby emerging from the taxi he tried to stop him.

“You keep outta this. It’s between me and that old broad. Who does she think she is—conning me outta my fare!” the driver shouted.

Maggie tried to control a rage that was making her voice tremble. “This ‘old broad’ paid you exactly what she owed you. Besides, my friend gave you three dollars as her share of the ride. I saw her hand it to you. I refuse to pay you one cent more.”

“Whatsa matter? Spent all your dough on that mink coat? Poor lady. I feel sorry for you.” There was a nasty sneer on his face.

Otto’s grip on her arm kept Maggie from rushing at the driver in her fury. “Just because I’m old, don’t think you can browbeat me. I’m tougher than you think. Don’t deny that my friend gave you that money.”

“OK,” he admitted, “but that was just a tip.”

“A tip! A tip for that rude treatment. That’s outrageous! I could call the Hack Bureau and report you.” Her voice had become shrill and she looked ready to strike him.

“And I could call the police and report you for disorderly conduct,” he shouted back.

“Do it. Do it. I dare you. You can’t frighten me into giving you one more penny,” she taunted. The very idea of being arrested was exhilarating, gave Maggie a rush of adrenalin as she winked at Otto. The poor doorman looked ashen. Mrs. Bennett was his favorite resident, a real lady. She was not a heavy tipper, but generous in important ways. He would never forget her offer to give blood when his son had been injured in an accident. “Otto,” she had said when she returned from the hospital, “I’m so sorry. They turned me down because I am too old.” To his embarrassment, Otto had broken down and wept.

The driver had returned to his seat in the cab where he seemed to be making a call on his cell phone. Was he faking, or was he actually calling the police? Otto was shocked.

“Mrs. Bennett, this is a terrible thing for you. Don’t worry, I’ll stay with you no matter what.” Normally, after midnight, he would have changed into his street clothes and returned to his wife in the Bronx. When the police officer arrived a few minutes later and booked Margaret Van Buren Bennett for disorderly conduct, Otto insisted on going to the police station with her. As they sat in the police car Maggie couldn’t resist smiling as she thought of the “Idles’” reaction to her arrest. Horrified, no doubt. This kind of thing was unheard of in their social circle. She remembered when she was a child in Central Park how her nurse had pointed to the fortress-like building near the zoo and had warned, “That’s a police station. That’s where they put the bad people.” Would that Irish nurse have considered her a bad person, Maggie mused as they approached the local precinct station a few blocks away. At least she was not going to that fearsome place in the Park.

“So now I’m one of the bad people,” she said half aloud.

“What did you say, Maam?”

“Oh, nothing, Otto. You’re incredibly kind to give me your support.” She patted his hand. His eyes filled with tears as he gave her hand a squeeze. Suddenly he recalled that he had not called Emma at home.

“I can’t say much now as I’m on my way to the police station with Mrs. Bennett. She’s in real trouble and needs me as a witness. We may be here for a long time, so don’t worry. Love you.”

As they got out of the police car and walked towards the building they were approached by a scruffy looking young man, a police reporter from one of the tabloids. The sight of the dignified, mink-coated older woman on the arm of a handsome, grey-haired doorman in full Park Avenue regalia was too enticing to resist. He aimed his camera at them.

“No, no. No pictures,” cried Maggie as she pushed him aside.

Tim Walsh, the reporter, did not give up easily. This dowager and her doorman could be front page stuff. Who was this woman, anyway? Too old to be a film star, well dressed but not super rich. There was an aura about her, a poise and sense of self which tagged her as a person of importance. Well, when her case came up he would learn the whole story—and get a picture, too.

The police officer led them into a large square room and pointed to two vacant spots on a bench along the dingy, phlegm colored walls. After all her years as a subway rider in the city and a volunteer in the wards of Bellevue Hospital, Maggie had thought herself inured to the seamy side of New York, but the chaos and misery in the place was a shock. It was as if all the drunks, drug addicts, petty thieves and prostitutes had been gathered up in one gigantic net and dumped into that room. Among the sad faced losers who lounged around the walls, their lawyers and gaudily dressed pimps hustled about.

Maggie was glad of Otto’s comfort on her left side. There was an empty place on her right which was soon filled by a sallow, bone-thin young girl dressed in filthy jeans, topped by a poncho-like, multi-colored garment. She had the vacant stare of an addict, and one bare arm showed signs of a needle. A good meal and a hot bath would have done wonders for her, Maggie mused. An overwhelming urge to sleep came over Maggie, and soon she was leaning against Otto’s shoulder and nodded off. A few minutes later she awoke to feel a touch on her right sleeve and turned to see a thin hand with black painted nails which was stroking her mink coat.

The young woman gave a fuzzy sort of smile. “Nice coat. Buy it yourself?” The envy in her voice made Maggie want to cry out, “Take it. You need it more than I.” The girl continued fingering the sleeve, eyes closed. Maggie did not have the heart to stop her, but Otto glared at the girl.

“Good quality?” she asked.

Maggie had always suspected that her husband had bought the coat at the Gotham Thrift Shop, a spot notorious as a place where kept women sold their trophies when their affairs had ended. Best bargains in New York, they said, if you don’t mind a mink with a past. Before she could answer, a harassed looking middle aged man in a well tailored tweed coat walked up to the girl and silently led her away. A father, no doubt, who had been through this scene before. Before he left he gave a sharp look at Maggie and Otto, who had remained erect on the bench, a disgusted expression on his face as he watched the action around him.

Again Maggie drifted off to sleep. It was almost 5:00 a.m. by the time the officer led them before the magistrate to answer the charge against her. The reporter was standing nearby when she gave her full name and address to the magistrate. The driver, Leonard Kowalski, seemed pale and subdued as he told his story and his hands trembled as he filled out a form. A short, fat man with scant red hair, the magistrate looked sleepy and bored as he told Maggie to pay a $50.00 fine.

“Fifty dollars! This is ridiculous. We were arguing about two dollars. I wouldn’t think of paying this fine. Disorderly indeed. Look at me. I’m 81 years old. I don’t smoke, drink or use bad language.” She glared at the driver.

“Then you’re not pleading guilty?”

“Of course not. I refused to be bullied by this man. He may think I’m old and helpless, but I have news for him. He’ll have to meet me in court where he’ll regret he ever tangled with me.” As she spoke her fatigue left her and she felt exhilarated and more alive than she had felt in years.

Shrugging and giving a crooked smile, the magistrate replied. “If that’s your wish, I’ll put you down for a court date next Friday at 9:00 a.m.”

By the time they arrived at Maggie’s building her energy had gone and suddenly she felt drained, just another old woman who needed Otto’s support as she opened the door to her apartment. Dizziness and weakness in her legs forced her to lie on the sofa, where she slept for the next five hours. The ringing of her phone finally roused her. In her half- awake state she could hardly recognize the voice.

“Maggie, this is Lucille. My maid just showed me a copy of the Express. I can’t believe this story about you.”

“What story?” Maggie mumbled, her voice blurry from sleep.

“A terrible piece, right on the front page headed ‘Dauntless Dowager.’ There was a picture, too, of you and Otto standing before the magistrate.”

“Good God. A young reporter tried to take a picture of us as we arrived at the police station but I shoved him away very rudely. A ‘dowager’ he called me? I guess he got his revenge. I never saw him taking that picture.”

“Let me read you the story,” said Lucille.

A mink-coated dowager, Margaret Van Buren Bennett, accompanied by the doorman of her apartment, Otto Bauer, caused a stir when they arrived at the 87th police precinct on Friday. Mrs. Bennett was booked in the early morning on a charge of disorderly conduct. She and cab driver Leonard Kowalski of Brooklyn had engaged in a heated dispute over a taxi fare charge, Kowalski claiming that the slightly built 81-year-old woman had short changed him by two dollars. She threatened to call the Hack Bureau. He called the police.

At the police station Mrs. Bennett, whose ancestors include early Dutch settlers of New York, refused to plead guilty and pay the $50 fine. She gave Magistrate Thomas Haydock a lecture about the indignities endured by the elderly at the hands of cab drivers.”I may be stubborn, but I’m not disorderly,” she said.

She will have another chance to state her case next Friday at Foley Square when Bennett v Kowalski goes on trial.

“At least he didn’t call me feisty. How I loathe that expression,” said Maggie laughing.

“You may find it amusing,” said Lucille sourly, “but this kind of trash can really hurt you. Have you called your lawyer?”

“No. I just woke up. I didn’t get home until after five this morning.”

“Well, I felt I had to warn you about this front page story. Let me know if I can help.” Her tone was glacial.

“Don’t worry Lucille, I wouldn’t dream of dragging you into this,” said Maggie as she hung up. (As the saying goes, with friends like her, who needs enemies?)

As she expected, her lawyer, Thornton Dunham, was dumbfounded by her call. For thirty years he had guided the Van Buren family through conventional legal matters, with no serious problems of any kind.

“What would your mother have thought about this situation?” he asked after Maggie told him the whole story.

“She might have been almost as shocked as she was when I told her I’d voted for Adlai Stevenson,” laughed Maggie.

“This is no time to joke. That story’s done a hatchet job on your reputation, not to mention your credit rating. You could sue for that, but I think your best move would be to have his hack license suspended. Let me put in a call to the Hack Bureau.”

An hour later Dunham phoned with the news that the driver’s license had been suspended until the outcome of the trial. “For him that means a week without earning a nickel. He’ll feel that, plus the effect of a bad press. Believe me, the media will be lined up on your side. Do you want me to go to court with you?”

At four hundred dollars an hour? She declined with thanks. “I wouldn’t want you to waste your valuable time on a two bit case. I really think I can handle this alone. Yes, I know about that old saying: the man who’s his own lawyer has a fool for a client.” The prospect of a new experience was always exciting for Maggie.

Before long she was dismayed to hear Jeanette’s languid drawl over the phone. “Darling, what an awful thing for you. That driver was impossibly rude. It was idiotic of me to hand him that money, but you were being so pig-headed about taking it from me…”

Maggie cut her short. “That’s the point. I’ll need you in court to tell them about the money. Otto’s promised to be there, too.” She gave details about time and place.

“Did you say Friday morning at nine o’clock? I’m afraid it’ll be impossible for me to be there at that time. As you know, I rarely get dressed before eleven. I’m really sorry, dear.”

“I’ll bet you are,” Maggie thought grimly. There had been no talk of a bridge game on Thursday night. They’d probably kicked her out of the club, she figured. Jeanette’s testimony would have been a huge help, but she remained confident that, with Otto at her side and public opinion against the cab driver, she would win out. Her lawyer however had warned her, “If you should lose the case you might have to pay a lot more than that fifty dollar fine.”

“Like what?”

“Like paying him for his week’s loss of income. That could cost you plenty. Think again about being your own lawyer.”

The Daily Express was a new arrival on the tabloid scene, but it had a lot of readers, as Maggie soon found. It was the kind of tasteless sheet that her friends would never admit buying but received wide exposure at hair salons, supermarkets, and doctors’ and dentists’ offices. She was amused as she counted the phone calls to see how quickly her social circle had expanded. Nobody had actually bought the paper, but somehow they’d all read the story. Naturally she was curious to see the front page story for herself, but remained in her apartment, wary about going out. Finally at four o’clock there was a knock on her door and Otto came in, the newspaper in hand.

She had never seen him with such a wide grin on his face.

“We’re famous now aren’t we? He laughed. “My wife went out and bought twenty copies. She feels famous, too.” He watched Maggie’s expression as she studied the front page picture. “What do you think?” he asked.

“I don’t know what to think. You look very handsome. Otto, but I look a bit aggressive as I face the magistrate. I never realized what big teeth I have.”

Obviously Otto was enjoying his sudden celebrity but Maggie dreaded leaving her apartment, and the flood of phone calls was making her more and more irritable and agitated. “For heavens sake I’m no Joan of Arc,” she snapped at a well-meaning supporter. “All that back slapping is giving me a pain,” she said to her sister. “I wasn’t making a statement of social significance, simply got sick of being pushed around.”

“But you must admit you can be awfully hard-headed at times,” her sister laughed.

Yes, she agreed, but was it simply pure stubbornness or was it her sense of justice that had landed her in such a ridiculous situation? When she finally forced herself to leave the apartment it was a relief to find that nobody recognized her from the news picture. With her over-blonde hair and her simple black coat it would have been impossible to identify her as the imperious mink clad woman of the tabloid. That old fur coat and the wig must be given the deep six, she decided. They would no longer be needed for those tiresome Thursdays with the “Idles.” The very thought of quitting the group lifted her spirits. Sara was the only one of the trio whom she liked, and even she was too neurotic to be called a friend. She had not phoned. Shocked into silence, perhaps?

As she came up to the counter at the local stationer’s the owner gave a sharp look at Maggie who picked up a copy of The Wall Street Journal then feigning a last minute choice, took two copies of the Express. The owner looked at her with curiosity for a moment.

“We’ve had a big call for that paper today,” she said as she handed Maggie her change. “You know, that woman in the picture lives right around the corner. I kinda feel bad for that driver, though. He’ll be out of work for some time. Imagine making such a stink about two dollars. It’s a crazy world, isn’t it?”

Maggie was surprised by the woman’s sympathy for the cabby and had to stop herself from saying, “But that poor woman didn’t deserve being treated like that. At her age to wind up in a police station!”

Until then Maggie had received nothing but applause for her part in the incident. “Mrs. Bennett what you’ve done is brave.” Some gushed, “Maggie, we’re all so proud of you for sticking to your guns.” Others said, “Terrible picture of you, Maggie, but it shows the gutsy kind of woman you are.”

Much as she disliked Leonard Kowalski, the driver, she felt a surge of pity for the man. He was about forty years old, possibly had college age children, was burdened with a high mortgage or a wife who was dying of cancer. Perhaps his fury about the cab fare had been a symbol of real want, not bad temper. She walked back to her apartment building and found the doorway blocked by a resident who was busy slapping Otto on the back. To her relief she managed to sneak past them.

Already she had become sickened by all the hearty congratulations and looked forward to a change of scene at her bridge club. Saturday night was always a special time at the Clayburn, four blocks away. Situated in a stately private house between Madison and Fifth Avenue it had served as a second home to her ever since her husband’s death ten years ago. It was a club for serious bridge players, many of them nationally known, and it also served excellent food. Maggie had no qualms about dining alone, though she often shared a table with friends. Dinner on Saturday nights was usually more elaborate and Maggie, who had eaten little since the taxi cab episode felt quite hungry as she changed her clothes.

Always a popular member she was greeted with even more warmth than usual when she entered the club dining room. She had decided against wearing the wig though her new hair color made her feel foolish. Herb Feldman, not one of her favorite bridge partners, approached her, smiling.

“Well, Maggie, I know you don’t drink, but we all think this is a time to celebrate your new celebrity. Can we talk you into taking a glass of champagne”

Maggie smiled and shook her head.

Herb persisted. “You look different tonight. What is it, the new hair do, or your new status?”

“Herb, lay off. Can’t you see the lady needs a little quiet. You must have had a Helluva day, right?” Chris Ketchum, a young prematurely bald man led her to his table where he had been dining with three men. All of them were top players who usually played at the high stake tables.

“Goodness, I’ve moved into the high rent zone. I don’t play in your league,” Maggie said.

“Never mind, dear. We don’t expect you to join us sharpies. We just want to tell you how proud we are about the way you handled yourself. Disorderly conduct! That’s a laugh. Off hand, I can’t think of a more orderly person—no drinking, no swearing, perfect bridge manners. But, let’s face it, you do act like a bandit at the bridge table. Bet you haven’t had to pay for a meal in years.”

Though she played at the more moderate stake tables, Chris was right, Maggie invariably was a winner and always had a surplus in her account at the club. At the Claymore money did not change hands. The club acted as a banker where the members’ winnings and losses were entered. After dinner she felt too tired for cards, left early and walked back home. As she had feared, there were many messages on her answering machine.

“Sorry, we weren’t able to reach you about your dispute with the cab driver. We’ve had an interview with Mr. Kowalski and would like to hear your side of the story. We’ll try to contact you later,” said a reporter from Fox TV.

This was the kind of human interest story that the channel loved. Human interest? Class war would have been a better name for it, she thought. Imperious rich old lady battles blue collar Brooklyn cabby. Of course Kowalski would have jumped at the chance to appear on TV, his thirty seconds of fame. She waited until ten then turned on the news. Sure enough, there he was, in his living room, wife at his side. He was dressed in his usual drab cardigan and turtleneck, but his wife was gussied up in a new dress and had an elaborately styled hairdo. She was smiling. His grumpy face matched his story.

“I been workin’ a long shift, and was dead tired and ready to call it a day when this last fare, an old dame in a mink coat, starts fightin’ me about a lousy two dollars. She calls the Hack Bureau, has my license revoked for a week. Cab drivin’ is a tough way to make a buck, and sometimes it’s dangerous, but I don’t have to put up with a rich old (blip) who tries to cheat me. I’ve lost seven days’ work. She’ll be sorry she ever started this. Never worked a day in her life, I bet.”

“Never worked a day. How wrong you are, Mister.” Maggie muttered to herself. She remembered her early years in the Depression. Her stockbroker father had lost it all and she, as a young woman with no college degree or training of any kind, had been happy to work very hard at a series of dull, ill-paying jobs: walking dogs, five on a leash, in Central Park; demonstrating face creams in a department store; slaving as a companion for a mean-tempered old woman, and most boring and unproductive of all, trying to sell magazines by telephone.

Her reveries were interrupted by a second call from Fox Television to cajole her into an interview. After she declined the reporter persisted, “Don’t you want a chance to answer Mr. Kowalski? He sounded rather threatening, didn’t he?”

The man’s sass made her angry but she couldn’t make any statement until the case was settled. “I’ve already endured too much publicity,” she said in a chilly voice as she put down the phone. She overcame an impulse to cancel all the waiting calls on her machine. Tomorrow she would deal with them.

Before getting ready for bed, she took another look at her picture in the Express and noticed for the first time that her wig was slightly askew. It must have slipped when she’d fallen asleep, leaning against Otto. Luckily the camera had not recorded that scene for it would have been a perfect shot of a drunken old woman sleeping it off. Too keyed up to retire, she slipped on a bathrobe and went to the guest room where her desk and the answering machine were located. Sara’s was the only message she wanted to hear.

“Maggie, I’m really distressed to hear about your news. Something like this could cost you real money. If I can help you on that score, please let me.”

Hoping that Sara’s help would never be needed, Maggie was heartened and touched by her offer. Trust quiet, modest Sara, to say and do the right thing. The unexpected kindness made Maggie’s eyes tear up as she climbed into her heirloom four poster. She had not felt so forlorn and frail in years. She slept poorly and awoke to see a rosy sliver of daybreak between the buildings across the avenue. Dawn was her favorite time of day. To her it meant a beginning, a new start. It energized her. Sunset, on the other hand, was the ebbing of the day, a time for reflection, a time of melancholy. Maggie was an optimist. Perhaps it was that hopeful nature that drew her to the card table where each deal, like the dawn, was full of promise.

After her usual breakfast of orange juice, instant coffee, bran flakes and a banana she turned on Channel CNN for the morning news reports. She preferred that channel to the network news which was full of relentlessly bright chit chat. CNN served up its usual grim recital of wars, starvation, murder and burning forests before switching to the political problems of the day. Fifteen minutes of that kind of news was enough to take the shine off one’s day, she thought as she picked up the phone to call Sara.

“Sara, I’ve had a lot of calls, as you can imagine, but yours was the most meaningful. You’re right to warn me about that driver. He may have been caught in the claws of some greedy lawyer who’s promised him millions if he sues me. You were so thoughtful and generous to think of helping me, Sara, and I’ll never forget it. At the moment I’m simply concentrating on winning my case on Friday.”

The Thursday night bridge game which was to have been held at Maggie’s was not mentioned, nor was Jeanette’s refusal to cooperate.

Sara replied, “Are you still determined to fight this thing alone, even without an important witness?”

“Ah, you’ve heard about Jeanette’s behavior. I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me.” Maggie tried to hide her bitterness. “I’d been toying with the idea of leaving the group and that decided it. Apart from you, Sara, I’ve never felt comfortable with the others. Those years with you all weren’t a total washout, for any of us. The three of you got free bridge lessons and I always walked away with some very welcome cash. You’re a true friend, Sara, and I promise to call on you if I need further help. Meanwhile, say a prayer for me on Friday.”

Among the other messages were three from other TV stations. Ignore them, she thought. They would soon lose interest and regard her as stale news. The calls from friends and family were a mixture of shock and admiration. By them Maggie had long been considered a “character” but had never achieved front page stardom. Only one message caught her attention.

“Mrs. Bennett, we don’t know each other though we live in the same building. I think we both could be of use to each other at this time. I’ll try to reach you later.”

The man’s baritone intrigued her. She had always been interested to men with deep pitched, well-educated voices. He had left no name or phone number and she found herself eager for his call. What did that mean, “could be of use?” Even at her age, Maggie was still reacting to attractive men. She checked her looks in the mirror and decided to put on one of her most becoming suits, a black wool jacket over a black and white mid-length skirt.

She was proud of her legs and seldom wore slacks. Unfortunately she had tossed her wig down the incinerator so there was no way to hide that absurd looking hair. She was tempted to return to her hairdresser and have her hair restored to its usual ash blonde tint, but she was afraid to miss the stranger’s call.

Who could that caller be? There were many tenants in her building, and Maggie had a nodding acquaintance with a few of them, but she was not a mixer. How many of them would have seen her picture in that notorious sheet and gossiped about their disreputable neighbor. Disorderly? Never.

Somewhat unconventional, and always eager to experience a new adventure, she was hardly the type to end up on the lurid pages of a tabloid. It shamed her to admit that she now was feeling a sharpening of her senses, a pleasant kind of excitement, as she paced about her living room, waiting for his call.

Just she was about to turn on the TV her phone rang. It was that attractive, deep voice again. “I’m Daniel Slocum, your neighbor. We’ve never met though I’ve lived here for five years,” he said, as he explained that he was a retired public relations man. “Would you feel up to a visit today? You must be fed up with all that uproar about your encounter with the cabby. But I think I could be of real help to you—and to myself. Could I drop by in an hour or so?”

There would not be enough time to run out for some croissants, but she could brew a pot of coffee and toast some English muffins. Suddenly she regretted her hasty disposal of the wig. Oh, well, he’s not coming to admire my looks, she told herself. Quickly she set out her best coffee mugs with cream and sugar on a tray, split the muffins for toasting and made the coffee. She was flicking a cloth over the coffee table when the doorbell rang.

A smiling, round faced man greeted her. Daniel Slocum was a bit shorter than she’d imagined, with deep set dark brown eyes and a mouth that turned up at the corners. There was a warm and comfortable look about him. His mere presence brought Maggie a feeling of trust and relief. There was charisma there. As a doctor the man could have made millions with his reassuring manner. Or he could have been a world class confidence man. Ever wary of men with too much charm, Maggie knew that she couldn’t afford to be judgmental.

“Your call intrigued me. I need help, that’s for sure, but where do you come in?” she asked as she led him into her living room.

As if he read her mind, Slocum said, “Of course, you know nothing about me and you’re wondering why I’m poking my large nose in your business. When I saw that surly man on the TV I thought: this could be trouble. In the hands of a greedy lawyer he could be talked into starting a law suit against you. Heavy numbers. Not to get personal, but your type, with your mink coats and finishing school accents aren’t exactly beloved by a lot of people in this town. To them, the cabby is seen as the victim of an overbearing society woman. Of course you’re in the right, but you’re going to need help. Don’t kid yourself into thinking you can fight this alone.”

Maggie was silent as she passed the cream. “I never really saw myself in that light,” she admitted, as she realized that for years she had judged the “Idles” in exactly that way: rich, idle and totally useless—not even likable. Blushing, she protested, “But I’m really not rich or very social. I have a modest income, live in a rent controlled apartment and manage to squeak by on my winnings at bridge and what I earn as a bridge teacher.”

“You’re an attractive woman, and obviously intelligent, but it’s going to take more than that to win your case.” He took a sip of coffee before continuing, “I have a confession to make. Tomorrow morning on the Times editorial page you’ll see an article written by me.”

“But you’re a PR man, not an editor.”

“Right, but over the years I’ve made a lot of friends in the news business. I’m also, as a volunteer, the publicity chairman of the AARP. Our organization has been fighting for senior’s rights for a long time and your story is a great way to publicize the bad treatment older people have been enduring.”

“You didn’t drag me into it, I hope.”

“Never would, without your permission. I wrote the piece without mentioning your name. Your experience was a perfect springboard to launch a plea for better protection for seniors. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Heavens no. I guess I never figured that public opinion might be against me. I can’t wait to see tomorrow’s Times,” she laughed as led him out of the apartment. She had been picturing herself as a heroine, a victim fighting for her rights, not as a pampered member of the priviledged class.

“Thanks to the media, I’ve been tagged as the ‘upper dog’ versus the ‘under dog,’” she jokingly told her daughter over the phone.

Daniel Slocum’s visit had forced her to face reality: playing the role of the gallant older woman, might let her off her fifty dollar fine, but it might not save her from a nasty lawsuit. She went into her tiny kitchen with the coffee things and found the forgotten English muffins. The stimulus of her talk with Slocum had made her hungry, so she popped the muffins into the toaster oven. Soon her hand was on the telephone, as she prepared to tell her friends the good news about the promised editorial, but she changed her mind about calling them. Better wait until it was a sure thing. Instead, she decided to do something about her hair.

Her appearance at the hairdresser’s created quite a stir, as she had feared.

“Mrs. Bennett! What’s next!” cried the owner, Babs Russo.

“What’s next is a change of color. As you probably know, I have a court case coming up on Friday, and with this color I don’t want to look silly. In a crazy moment I tossed out my faithful wig. I’d worn it the other night because, frankly, I wasn’t happy with this brassy effect.”

Visibly distressed, Babs said, “But why didn’t you tell me. I wouldn’t want a customer to walk out feeling upset.”

Putting an arm around her, Maggie said, “Oh, Babs, it wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have dozed while you were working on me. I need your help now, though, and while you’re at it, how about returning me to my real self.”

It had been many years and many tints since Maggie had seen her true color so she was somewhat shocked to see how white she had become.

“I guess my real color’s no color,” she laughed, as she looked at her older, but still attractive, self in the mirror.

She decided to accept a cocktail invitation at a neighboring apartment in the hopes of seeing Daniel Slocum. He was not there, but it gave her a chance to try out her new look. The hostess and the eight other guests, whom she barely knew, were far more interested in her story than the color of her hair. Being lionized for several hours was a strain, and Maggie was happy to get back to the quiet of her own apartment.

The following morning she eagerly picked up the Times outside her door and turned to the editorial page. Global warming was apparently more important than elderly women fighting cruel cabbies. Deeply disappointed, she was glad, however, that she had refrained from telling friends about the promised editorial. At nine o’clock the phone rang.

Slocum’s baritone sounded a little less seductive. “I guess you thought I was a champion con artist when you looked for that piece in the Times this morning. I’m not only embarrassed but disappointed, too. They’ve promised me to run it tomorrow. This kind of thing often happens. I shouldn’t have raised your hopes. Don’t worry, there’s still plenty of time before your case comes up.”

The following morning, after another restless night, Maggie was feeling light-headed and headachy when she picked up the newspaper. When she saw the lead editorial the headache left her:

The Elderly Fight Back

Riding in subways and buses is often too strenuous for the older population. Like it or not, they are sometimes forced to travel by taxi, an expensive and at times unsatisfactory means of transportation. More and more frequently we are hearing stories of seniors being victimized by cab drivers: being charged outrageous fares for being driven by roundabout routes, refusing to help with baggage or aiding in getting in or out of the cab. Others are treated with rudeness and outright hostility. The AARP (American Association of Retired Persons) has long fought for the rights of the elderly. Recently a dignified older woman who resisted being overcharged, stood up against her bullying driver, was charged with disorderly conduct, and spent several hours in a police station. Her refusal to pay a fine resulted in a court case which will be tried next Friday morning. It is hoped by the AARP that a large number of her peers will be on hand at the Civil Court at Foley Square at 9:00 A.M. to give their support.

Elated, Maggie immediately called Daniel Slocum. “What can I say? You’ve done a wonderful job!”

“Well I used to be a writer on the Times, and as I told you, I have pull. Let’s hope the piece can draw a few votes to your side. This isn’t simply a battle between the haves and the have-nots. Incidentally, are you a member of the AARP?”

Maggie had to laugh. “Oops, I was afraid you’d ask. All my life I’ve resisted joining groups, except for the Democrat Party. What do I have to do to be a member of the AARP?”

“Easy. Just be fifty or over.”

“You might call me just a shade over that number.” Suddenly she feared she had been too coy. This man was years younger than she.

“Tell you what. Let me drop off a form, and you’ll be a member before Friday.”

If he was surprised when he saw her white hair a half an hour later, he did not show it. Nor was he surprised when she gave him a hug on arrival. As she studied the enrollment form he looked at her.

“Is it just my imagination, but do you look er, a little different today?”

“Different is right. The hairdresser washed out that awful pinkish rinse out of my hair. What you see is the real me.”

“Good girl. That was a smart move. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, that color made you look a bit flaky.”

Maggie then told him about dozing off and waking up to find herself looking like a “flirtatious old woman.”

“Don’t knock yourself. I said ‘flaky’ not unattractive’. Your present look, a serious, mature woman, should help a lot with your case. By the way, would it help if I gave you a ride downtown on Friday?”

Stunned by his offer, Maggie found herself lying, “You’re good to think of it, but my lawyer wanted to come with me.” It was only a half-lie. For the next three days she spent manic hours, talking constantly on the phone and rehearsing her courtroom speech. No longer did she consider her victory a done deal. The cabby would have all the blue collar readers of the tabloid rooting for him, millions of them. Who would she have in her corner?

Several of her acquaintances had phoned her after the editorial appeared, offering dinner invitations. Determined not to be used as a conversation piece, she gracefully declined. “Sweet of you to ask, but I’m so nervous and edgy these days I’d rather wait until the case is settled.”

On Thursday, the day she would have been preparing to entertain the “Idles” at bridge, she was dismayed to hear Jeanette’s whiny voice on the phone.

“My dear, I’ve felt so guilty since I talked with you the other day. Of course I’d be glad to come to court as your witness. I was being so-“

Maggie cut her off. “Jeanette I really don’t feel that you could do me any good. Forget the whole thing. Otto will be there. He is so loyal.” She hung up, feeling an enormous elation. Rudeness did not come easily to her, yet she felt like dancing like Dorothy in Oz when the wicked witch was dead. On the other hand, a part of her brain reminded her that she’d just killed off an important witness. Had she been too impetuous?

“Don’t let that selfish, idle woman bother you,” Daniel said when they talked a few hours later. “This case is about your abuse at the hands of a bully, not about the damned two bucks. The judge will have to decide which story to believe, yours or his. Even if he cleans up well, the man won’t have a chance against you.”

“I hope you’re right,” she sighed.

On Friday morning, after an almost sleepless night, she got up at 6:30, showered and put on her most conservative oxford grey suit, ate a meager breakfast and turned on the CNN News. It was the same old stuff: suicide bombings in Baghdad, trapped miners in West Virginia, floods in Ohio and the usual backstabbing among the politicians.

As she stood in the elevator she mentally rehearsed for the hundredth time her speech before the judge. The gist of it was: look at me, at 81, a quiet responsible woman, who refused to be intimidated or browbeaten. I am not a cheat, a liar or a disorderly person. Look at my record.” When she reached the sidewalk, Joseph Branco, the doorman on the morning shift, was making a call on his cell phone.

Maggie said in an irritated voice, “Joseph, I’m in a hurry, and I need a taxi.” Of all times, must he stand about chatting on that damned machine? To top it all, he had the sass to smile and say, “Are you sure you want to take a taxi?”

She was about to say, “Joseph, my sense of humor isn’t working too well this morning,” when a taxi drove up. The driver, a nice looking, clean cut, thirtyish man, smiled at her as she said somewhat grimly, “Foley Square, the court house. Do you know where it is?”

“Absolutely. Been there a number of times. By any chance, are you the woman in the ‘ Dowager versus the Cabby’ tabloid story? There’s a kind of resemblance there. I read about her case. And I read the editorial, too.”

An editorial reading cab driver. How extraordinary, she thought.

She had to laugh as she admitted, “The white hair didn’t fool you, I guess. You sound like an educated man. How come you read a rag like the Express? Don’t tell me a fare left it on the seat of your cab. Well, at least the story didn’t describe me as ‘feisty’. Spunky, maybe, but not ‘feisty’. I detest that word.”

They continued driving downtown in silence. At a traffic stop the driver turned to look at her. “Speaking of how-comes, how come you don’t have a lawyer sitting beside you? Have you seen so much Court TV that you think you can be your own lawyer?”

Maggie soon found herself telling her life history to this stranger. It was in part, a rehearsal of what she would tell the judge: family background, varied volunteer activities, financial struggles after widowhood, conservative life-style. Bryan Freeman listened without comment as she told him about her trying years with the “Idles”, the saga of the taxi ride, and Jeanette’s disloyalty.

Maggie’s account of her confrontation with the bullying driver and her consequent sojourn in the police station, made him protest. “This makes me really angry. Do you mind if I go to court with you and try to help you?”

“Mind! It would be a real comfort. But what could you do?”

“I think it’s time for me to tell you I’m a lawyer. I got my degree the hard way, law school at night, driving by day. I don’t like to see cab drivers get this kind of press, nor do I like to see people like you being mistreated.”

“But what would you do with the cab?”

“Parking in this town’s no problem as long as you’re willing to pay for it. There’s a parking garage two blocks from the court house.”

As they walked along, Maggie said, “What an amazing coincidence that of all the drivers in New York, I get one who’s a lawyer.”

It was time for Freeman to confess, “I knew your name and address and the date and time of your court case. I hung around the corner and simply waited until your doorman called me on his cell phone. He was only too happy to help you when I explained my plan.”

“And to think I was ready to scold poor Joseph.”

When they reached the court house Otto was waiting on the steps. He was almost hidden in the group of grey haired men and women. The large court room seemed filled with spectators.

“Guess that editorial must have done the trick,” Bryan muttered as they pushed their way up the middle aisle to the front of the room. Maggie looked in vain for Daniel Slocum who had promised to speak to the judge about Maggie’s character and her long history of good citizenship. As she scanned the courtroom her eye glimpsed three very familiar figures: the three “Idles” in their inevitable mink uniforms.

She nudged Otto. “Would you believe those women actually turned up?” Was it conscience or simply curiosity? The women were so busy chatting to each other that they failed to see Maggie and the two men. Perhaps that white hair and nondescript outfit had served as camouflage. Her opponent, Kowalski, looked different too, dressed in a navy blue suit, his hair neatly trimmed, he was a model of upright conservatism. As Daniel had predicted, the cabby “cleaned up well.” His lawyer, a weasel faced man, stood beside him. At first neither disputant recognized the other, then they shrank from each other and stood on either side of the center aisle just as the judge entered.

Judge Benjamin Silberfeld was not impressive looking, but had a benign expression which Maggie found encouraging. He was carrying a number of documents as he approached the bench.

“Mrs. Bennett,” he said as he peered over his glasses. “I find it very strange that a woman of your age and dignity should stand here, defending a charge of disorderly conduct. It appears that you’ve had no previous arrests, do not drink or smoke and have a long record as a responsible citizen of New York City where your Dutch ancestors settled more than three hundred years ago.”

Her new friend, David Slocum, had evidently done a good job on her behalf, thought Maggie.

Looking at the cab driver, the Judge continued, “Mr. Kowalski, you’ve been driving a taxi in this city for fourteen years with no arrests for traffic violations. Nor have there been any reports of passenger complaints or conflicts.”

At that point the judge overheard Maggie as she muttered, “I can’t believe it.” His benign look became stern as he warned, “No interruptions, please!” There was a moment of silence as he frowned at Maggie. Turning to Kowalski he said, “Please tell me what caused this unlikely situation to occur?”

“My client was simply trying to stop his fare from cheating him, and when he threatened to call the police she dared him to do it.” said Kowalki’s lawyer.

The judged looked astonished. “Is this true, Mrs. Bennett?”

Maggie turned very red before she replied. “I felt so outraged by the very thought of it. I said it before I knew what I was doing.”

“And now you know,” said the judge with a glimmer of a smile.

Continuing his account the lawyer told of Jeanette’s three dollar tip to the driver.

“A tip of three dollars for a sixteen block ride, six or eight minutes at most? Your client must have given her some very special attention to warrant such a tip,” said the Judge. He was suddenly interrupted by Kowalski, who pointed at the spectators.

“I think I see the witness over there in the crowd, that heavy set woman in the mink coat. She’ll tell you how it was.”

Now it was Maggie’s new lawyer’s turn to speak up. “Your Honor, my client tells me that this same woman had previously begged off coming to court because of – er – illness. Since she is now present, I ask that she testify for my client.”

“So granted. Kindly come to the front of the court,” said the judge.

Very, very reluctantly, Jeanette left her seat and lumbered up the center aisle. The mink coat and her massive size impressed everyone, including the judge. After dealing with the preliminaries, Judge Silberfeld asked, “Madam, was this man your driver on the night of Thursday, October 22? At that time did he assist you in getting in and out of the taxi?”

“No sir. That was the doorman’s job.” And quite a job, thought Maggie.

“Did you require any special attention carrying luggage or other heavy objects?” the judge continued.

“I had only one small purse with me.” She said.

The judge removed his glasses and addressed her. “Well what did he do to merit that three dollar tip?”

Jeanette glared at the driver. “Nothing, nothing at all. In fact he was very rude and impatient with us for arguing about my share of the fare. When my friend refused to take my money I simply gave it to the driver and left the cab.”

“Did you consider that three dollars a tip?”

“Heavens no! Would you, if you’d been told to ‘make up your God damned mind’?” She seemed on the point of tears.

With a rap of his gavel the judge announced, “I don’t think we have to waste any more time on this matter. Case dismissed.”

Maggie stood still, too stunned to move. For a week she had been planning her big courtroom scene. Like an opera diva, she had been practicing her high notes, and the curtain had rung down before she’d sung her famous aria.

With a wry smile, she shook hands with Freeman, her new lawyer, and thanked him. “It was over so quickly, I hardly knew who won and who lost.” She looked at her watch. It was exactly 9:07.

“Believe me, you were the winner. Some of those New York cabbies will think twice before giving their fares a hard time,” he said.

Daniel Slocum, who had joined them as they walked down the court house steps, put an arm around Maggie’s shoulder. “You may find this a bit pushy, Maggie, but I’ve been thinking. You’re a very inspiring woman, and we need someone like you to dramatize the problems of older persons. In other words, would you consider being a poster girl for the AARP? It might involve some travel and speech making.”

She began to laugh. “If it means showing off my legs, count me in!”

 

The End