The cabdriver’s radio was cranked so loud I had to tell him three times where to drop me off. He’d tuned in a faint, staticky AM talk show that sounded like it was broadcasting from the moon. Against the buzzing and whirring a man’s voice crackled, “Racial profiling at airportsh ish shomething we’re gonna have to conshider, and I think Arab-Americansh undershtand the shituation.”
The cabdriver slapped his other hand to the wheel and wrenched it as if he were trying to put the whole steering column into a headlock. We banked to the right, and the squad’s siren sang past us. I could hear the radio again–and behind us the blaring horn of the Buick we’d almost crashed into.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
The cabbie threw up his hands and pleaded, “I’m so sorry.”
I slammed the door shut and said, “Nobody had to ask me, you crazy bitch.”
I started to tell him my side of the story: “This fucking bitch is crazy.”
She erupted again, and I went back to telling Gene what happened. He kept looking at something over my shoulder. When I got to the part where all I did was say the cop had come out of nowhere, Gene raised his eyebrows and said, “Shit, dude.” I turned around.
