I didn't need this job.
I just liked driving. And meeting new people.
However, I wasn't prepared when I arrived to pick up this fare. A group of circus performers, still in costume, waited at the curb near the Big Top.
An engram of the old punch-line reasserted itself: "How many clowns can you fit into a VW Bug?" My Hybrid, though roomy, would be put to the test.
"You must be waiting for more than one car," I said. But no one seemed to hear me amid the noise and confusion. There were various, "excuse me's," and, "if you don't minds." Even the occasional laugh followed by the distinct slap of a hand to face.
"I really should protest," I said. It was all I could manage. I tried to survey my fare and remember what the company rules said about passenger limits. Not to mention my insurance policy. Forget the State driving manual, that test seemed a lifetime ago.
Four little people sat in the cargo area. They faced out the rear view.
Two contortionists entwined themselves on the bearded lady's ample lap. Who sat on the passenger bucket seat.
Others had already fit themselves in, too.
Four of the last eight to pile in created the most fuss. Not contortionists per say, yet each wore colorful tights showcasing their well-toned legs. Legs that dangled in the air, upside down. Side-by-side, one pair each shared the floor-board space behind each front seat. They rested on their shoulders, upper backs and necks. Their raised legs all but hid the last four performers who squeezed into the two back bucket-seats.
Those four were clowns, in full makeup and costume. While climbing in they complained, but now sat nonplussed. Their eerie, painted masks, though they grinned at me between the upturned legs of their fellows, also seemed to dare my final and most vigorous protest.
I quickly turned back around. What could I do?
By now all chatted happily. As if this were the most natural way to travel by passenger sedan. And all were oblivious to my, by now, less insistent objections.
The bearded lady was the first to speak to me. "Hi, I'm June," she said. Then pointed first to one, than the other of the two friends twisted on her lap. "And this is April. and May."
"Hello," I said. In spite of myself. For by now I knew that, if I dared to drive off with this fare, I'd be stopped for a ticket. Possibly booked.
In any case, I'd be sacked. Because, even if neither of those fears came to pass, even if I never headed into traffic, it was too late.
The local Chanel Eight News crew were on the scene. Filming us. Me. And this entire ridiculous predicament of mine was broadcasting live on the late evening news.
Unfortunately I'd just rolled down my window. You might imagine the air inside. Not that my passengers were unclean, necessarily. It's just that, well, cramped like this I needed oxygen.
That's when the reporter shoved her microphone through my window. And before I knew what was happening, I was answering her questions. Including this second one:
"And what is your name, Sir?"
*~the end~*
Story © by KT Fabler - more below:
- HARD KNOCKS and Soft Landings, Part 1 and Part 2
- MONDAY WASH DAY - A Gobbler Brother's Tale
- HONEY, the (Not) Farmer's Wife - A Gobbler Brother's Tale
- "RESCUE ME." "NO, ME." - A Gobbler Brother's Tale
- UP A TREE And Scared Frozen - PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, and PART 4
- BREAKING THROUGH A LONG LINE... To Myself