THE SECOND JOURNEY

***

A guy on the radio was rambling boring night philosophy stuff.

"If the USA is the Roman Empire of the new millennium, does that mean that Washington is the new Rome? Tell us what you think. Call us at 800 432 009, Wash FM."

I was about to change the radio station, but then thought about what I had just heard on the radio: big words. They are the most dangerous ones. 'Empire', 'Rome', 'world domination'. But people loved them and liked to live in the country that ruled the entire planet.

That was one of the reasons why I asked the UN refugee organization, UNHCR in Pale, to move my family to America. It wasn't just to escape the war or to get a chance for economic prosperity. It was a question of long-term safety that only the United States could provide. I had grown tired of all the bloodshed in Bosnia and neighboring Yugoslav Republics, where I had spent most of my life, with just brief ventures in Angola, Libya, Iraq and Kuwait, as an employee of a Yugoslav building and construction company. Although peace, as fragile as it is, had now been established in Bosnia, I knew that the curse of Yugoslavia could reach any country, except the most powerful one. Spain had Basque Separatists, France had Corsica, and the UK had Northern Ireland that could break out into dirty conflicts and terrorist attacks at any time. It was hard to find a single country without a similar problem with some of their ethnic minorities. Only living in America could provide a normal life.

As an additional assurance measure, I decided to move to Washington D.C. I knew from previous experience that the government is the biggest enterprise in any country, and while particular industries have their ups and downs that may affect the state's wealth, the federal government always has money and the impact of a crisis is least felt when you live in the capital city.

Truth be told, another reason why we moved from Chicago is because of my wife, Selma. She wanted to go far from the Serbian community and my numerous affairs with the ladies there. Pretty much, apart from Pittsburgh and New York, all the other cities were up for grabs, so we all agreed to move to the federal capital. I didn't mind this too much because I like life in the capital, full of big shots. Not ordinary celebrities like actors and singers, but rulers. The big guns of politics! Most likely a consequence of living in the Bosnian capital, Sarajevo, in time of war and crises when leaders became more popular than any other superstar; and had the status of gods. Not just Bosnian politicians but also American politicians, who often influenced our everyday lives in Bosnia as much as, if not more than, the local rulers.

"Well, I really think that Washington is hardly anything like the new Rome. It is more like Ravenna. I'd say your comparison is not adequate because our government is pretty decentralized. I mean, not only do we have states, but we even have federal agencies' headquarters in various cities and states..." said another radio listener, whose obvious involvement on radio talk shows compensated for their lack of sex in real life.

I switched the station to something 'cruisier', some late-night jazz. Not exactly my cup of tea, but at least it was something I could stand. I checked the mirror. There were many lights behind, but none of them seemed to be following me. We were already in the city and approaching the hotel. I woke the Arab guy.

"Come on, boy. We arrived to hotel. Come on."

The boy woke up. He didn't seem to mind that I was calling him 'boy'. I could be his father, no doubt. Abdul lazily opened the door and stepped out.

"Good night, sir."

"Good night, boy."

Just when Abdul was about to close the door, someone grabbed his arm.

"Please don't close the door," the doorman said to Abdul, then stuck his head in the car and said to me, "Hey, pal, can you wait a minute? A guy called me needing a cab. It sounds like a long ride.

"Sure." I didn't mind waiting for a while. I looked in the direction of the building's entrance waiting for this customer to arrive, but all I saw was Abdul, who was heading towards the hotel lobby.

Suddenly, the doorman knocked on my side window. "Can you open the trunk, pal?"

I nodded and opened the trunk. I saw a small figure in the mirror. I didn't know how I missed seeing her come out of the building. She was tipping the doorman. I was hoping that there were perhaps some tips for me too.

***

'She', was actually a 'he', a very old and unusually short man. A one-on-one basketball game with Danny DeVito would be an interesting match. He poked his head through the back door and asked me, "Can you please help me with the luggage?"

"Certainly, sir." I stepped out to help the old gentleman with his bags. I would have thought that the generous tip should have been enough to get the doorman to do that instead of me.

The old man smiled at me showing a mouth full of perfect porcelain teeth. I thought for a second how expensive dental services have changed our perception of other people based on their teeth. Nowadays, wonderful white smiles had replaced jewelry as a status symbol for people who weren't lucky enough to have been born with perfect teeth. As I remembered, this wasn't much unlike Gypsies from Bosnia who used to be proud of their gold teeth that would depict wealth. However, other European nations broke off with that custom, probably straight after the holocaust, which proved its impracticality in rough times.

I closed the trunk and got in the car. The old man was already in the backseat. This was starting to look like a 'driving Miss Daisy' experience. I turned back to ask him for a destination, but he was quick to start the conversation.

"Thank you, sir."

"That's not a problem. Where are you going tonight?"

"Well, I'll have to check with you on that. That's if you'll be able to drive me to where I need to go."

"Wherever you like, sir." I was trying to be as nice as possible in case I got decent tip.

"That's very nice of you, but I need a ride to New York."

"New York City?" I thought it was some kind of joke, but I wasn't in the mood for gags. Especially gags like this one.

"Well, I know that it's not a usual request, but I have an important meeting tomorrow morning..."

"Why don't you fly there or take a bus?"

"I have my reasons. I don't like planes. I never use buses. I don't have a ticket. Just tell me... Can you do that and how much would that cost?"

I stopped for a moment, still holding the microphone in my hand as I planned to tell my route to the operator. I was puzzled. I didn't want to go to NYC again. No, it couldn't be preplanned. I was only there because of the Arab kid. Can't be a setup... Definitely not a setup, in fact, it might even be good for me, apart from the money that is. Dr. Jain did suggest that I should drive to New York as part of the healing process. Let's hope she knew what she was talking about. After all, that was her job. This was the perfect opportunity. An unbelievable one, but I knew that the Lord worked in mysterious ways. Then I forgot about everything that had just happened and, instead, reminisced about Selma. Usually, I would ring her in extraordinary situations like this one to let her know about the long drives or other extraordinary events that were usually just cover-ups for my adventures with other ladies. Ironically, now that I had a legitimate excuse for a genuine customer, Selma was no longer there. I missed her terribly.

"Well?" The old man was still waiting for my magic answer.

I went through the pros and cons one more time in my head, and although my gut feeling was against it, I tried to be brave and took Dr. Jain's advice.

"I'll do it for two hundred dollars."

"Make it a hundred. Is that OK?"

I really didn't think it was something to be bargained with, and decided to use it as the ultimate conclusion. If I couldn't get at least two hundred dollars, I wasn't going to do it.

"Sorry, sir, two hundred dollars is my price."

"Hundred and fifty." The old man was persistent.

"I don't think that fifty bucks will make any kind of difference for you, and I really need those two hundred dollars."

"You are just taking advantage of the situation."

"You can try to find another cab. Nothing stops you."

On my remark, the old man smiled. "OK, you will get your two hundred bucks. Boy, you are a tough negotiator."

"I am probably tougher than you think," I said half jokingly. "Actually I have another condition."

"And that is?" The old man raised his thick, white eyebrows.

"To pay right now, with your credit card."

"I planned to pay cash..."

"Well, that is condition. And I have to report your details to base. I'm sorry, but I recently had very bad experience."

"Huh? I am afraid you will have to take my luggage out of your car. I simply do not want to use my credit card. I also had some bad experiences and cash should be fine." The old man looked at me. He thought for a while and then continued. "If you really want assurance and protection, I can give you my name, but no credit card!"

I understood that credit cards have definitely become a touchy area, but I was just trying to protect myself. Perhaps somebody had abused his credit card. I would be cautious too. Besides, his offer sounded reasonable enough.

"That sounds OK with me. I can take your cash. I really apologize, sir, but strange things happen to cabbies. I have to protect myself."

"No problem, mister. We'll have a nice journey, if you like to talk." The old man smiled. "You know, this could be my last business trip. I plan to retire, but I don't know if my bosses will allow it."

I smiled, but I didn't really pay much attention to what this man was telling me. I was thinking about the trip ahead - another trip to New York on my first day back at work. Who knows, it might even be good for me. Like my shrink, Dr. Jain, suggested. She insisted on several occasions that I should go there again to confront my fears in that same environment but without the pressure. I almost laughed at the thought of it all. I was probably the only taxi driver in Washington D.C. with my own psychiatrist, at least among migrants like myself, since a private therapist wasn't an unusual concept for the average American. On second thoughts, most cabbies probably should have one after everything they have encountered at work. Yeah, I had a therapist. I had made it - I had become a true American!

The old man cleared his throat and said in a tense, but still polite voice, "Can you please hurry? I plan to be there at seven a.m. We have just six hours to get there!"

"That's plenty of time. Don't worry, sir. You will be there before six.