Johnny, or Cold Comfort
By Mike Margolin and Andrew Palmacci
So the cabbie…Is it all right to say “the cabbie?”
Anyway, he had a moustache that I could fathom wrapped around his upper lip. He was a dark-haired man and so in
the poorly-lit front seat of this cab it was difficult to discern his exact facial-hair placement. But, I could tell you this
with the utmost confidence, the type of confidence that borders on the psychotic, the type of confidence derived
from an unhindered scrutinization of this man’s appearance: I could tell you with confidence that his facial hair
coverage on the right side of the cranium was not perfectly aligned with my expectations of a well-shaven face.
Luckily, he had to keep his eyes on the road and couldn’t appreciate the time I put into examining the texture and
topography of this, his, face. It was as though the appliance he used to shave himself was an untamed beast,
furiously fighting the conformity that other beasts like it have been forced to attain; no, this one was not going to give
up without a fight. It jerked this way and that, at times attempt!
ing to kick free of its master altogether. This historic struggle, the likes of which this unsuspecting cab driver may not
have previously seen, resulted in what you’d call a half-assed job—the kind of shave that you’d attempt while revving
the rpm’s at a red light or being holed up in the tundra with your closest neighbors being the grass-loving caribou.
Although, it might not be a completely fair assumption to make that these wanderers of the great white north lack the
ability to appreciate a man’s closely-shaved façade just because they own hooves, graze, and inhabit some of the
coldest climes on Earth.
If a certain caribou ever wanted to brush up on culture it would certainly designate Boston as one of these must-see
places that one, well, must see. Suppose this caribou (from now on simply referred to as Johnny) is tired after a day’
s cultural work and is going to visit another friend that is getting a bachelor’s at a local college. Now, standing at the
T-stop and freezing its hooves off, Johnny soon realizes the bloody T isn’t materializing anytime soon. Furthermore,
the suspicion that a certain MBTA policy may exist effectively preventing the caribou, or any other non-service four-
legged-ers, from using the T (and for free, at that, as—in those days—outdoor, outbound service was free of
charge) begins to gnaw at Johnny’s little, but law-abiding, brain.
“No assisting equals no T-assistant,” (this last was a word he had picked up while trolling Québec province; a French
piece of verbage that was the gerund of a verb of which he had forgotten the exact meaning. To explain: Johnny had
taken a season off from his herd, settled round-abouts Saskatchewan, to head to Montréal’s branch of the University
of Québec—to broaden his horizons, eat some cheese-drenched fries, and pick up some Québec-French. He did
pick some up, though he was no longer immersed in it all the time, so he—as he kept telling friends and people he
met—just wasn’t maintaining it. He was planning on making a return trip, but at the moment he was a couple of states
south of the friendly Canadian border.) Johnny thought to himself.
This is where the two worlds hypothetically could collide.
At this very moment, seeing a caribou in distress, our beloved, nature-loving cab driver makes a nasty u-turn just in
time to pick up his distraught passenger. The end of the B-line is the chosen destination. And they’re off. After a bit
of the warm, but brief chatter that all caribou—it is well-known—enjoy so much, silence falls upon them. The engine
steadily hums, carrying them ever-further along on their voyage. The caribou is really taken by this interesting man
with no antlers. “He probably left them at home so he could fit into the cab,” Johnny again deftly thought to himself.
Johnny couldn’t pay the fare (“No pockets equals no cash,” Johnny realized), but knew it was impolite not to tip, and
so left a timely suggestion upon leaving the cabbie: “Dude, get a new razor.”
-Mike Margolin & Andrew Palmacci
By Mike Margolin and Andrew Palmacci
So the cabbie…Is it all right to say “the cabbie?”
Anyway, he had a moustache that I could fathom wrapped around his upper lip. He was a dark-haired man and so in
the poorly-lit front seat of this cab it was difficult to discern his exact facial-hair placement. But, I could tell you this
with the utmost confidence, the type of confidence that borders on the psychotic, the type of confidence derived
from an unhindered scrutinization of this man’s appearance: I could tell you with confidence that his facial hair
coverage on the right side of the cranium was not perfectly aligned with my expectations of a well-shaven face.
Luckily, he had to keep his eyes on the road and couldn’t appreciate the time I put into examining the texture and
topography of this, his, face. It was as though the appliance he used to shave himself was an untamed beast,
furiously fighting the conformity that other beasts like it have been forced to attain; no, this one was not going to give
up without a fight. It jerked this way and that, at times attempt!
ing to kick free of its master altogether. This historic struggle, the likes of which this unsuspecting cab driver may not
have previously seen, resulted in what you’d call a half-assed job—the kind of shave that you’d attempt while revving
the rpm’s at a red light or being holed up in the tundra with your closest neighbors being the grass-loving caribou.
Although, it might not be a completely fair assumption to make that these wanderers of the great white north lack the
ability to appreciate a man’s closely-shaved façade just because they own hooves, graze, and inhabit some of the
coldest climes on Earth.
If a certain caribou ever wanted to brush up on culture it would certainly designate Boston as one of these must-see
places that one, well, must see. Suppose this caribou (from now on simply referred to as Johnny) is tired after a day’
s cultural work and is going to visit another friend that is getting a bachelor’s at a local college. Now, standing at the
T-stop and freezing its hooves off, Johnny soon realizes the bloody T isn’t materializing anytime soon. Furthermore,
the suspicion that a certain MBTA policy may exist effectively preventing the caribou, or any other non-service four-
legged-ers, from using the T (and for free, at that, as—in those days—outdoor, outbound service was free of
charge) begins to gnaw at Johnny’s little, but law-abiding, brain.
“No assisting equals no T-assistant,” (this last was a word he had picked up while trolling Québec province; a French
piece of verbage that was the gerund of a verb of which he had forgotten the exact meaning. To explain: Johnny had
taken a season off from his herd, settled round-abouts Saskatchewan, to head to Montréal’s branch of the University
of Québec—to broaden his horizons, eat some cheese-drenched fries, and pick up some Québec-French. He did
pick some up, though he was no longer immersed in it all the time, so he—as he kept telling friends and people he
met—just wasn’t maintaining it. He was planning on making a return trip, but at the moment he was a couple of states
south of the friendly Canadian border.) Johnny thought to himself.
This is where the two worlds hypothetically could collide.
At this very moment, seeing a caribou in distress, our beloved, nature-loving cab driver makes a nasty u-turn just in
time to pick up his distraught passenger. The end of the B-line is the chosen destination. And they’re off. After a bit
of the warm, but brief chatter that all caribou—it is well-known—enjoy so much, silence falls upon them. The engine
steadily hums, carrying them ever-further along on their voyage. The caribou is really taken by this interesting man
with no antlers. “He probably left them at home so he could fit into the cab,” Johnny again deftly thought to himself.
Johnny couldn’t pay the fare (“No pockets equals no cash,” Johnny realized), but knew it was impolite not to tip, and
so left a timely suggestion upon leaving the cabbie: “Dude, get a new razor.”
-Mike Margolin & Andrew Palmacci
New Hampshire Writers Flash Fiction
 |
 |
 |