You were coming back from California this morning. An event which I have been anxiously awaiting was about to unfold. I would pick you up at the airport at 10:50am as scheduled. I had a plan that did not involve my driving my own vehicle to come get you, though. I'd have to ask a friend to drop me off at the airport. Yes, that's what I'd do.
Dropped off early, around 10:30am, I began to walk the taxicab lines. There must be 15 of them sitting there, all waiting to make an honest fair. I started looking at the cabs and the cab drivers, quietly assessing the possibilities in my mind. This cab looks clean, but man is that driver a fat slob or what? This driver looks like he might be game, but I've never seen as many different types of fungus in such a small area. Wait, now this might be it. This might be the one. Yes, the cab was inconspicuous on the outside—newish looking with well-treaded tires, a clean paint job and just a couple of well-worn dents in the side to speak credibility—and relatively clean on the inside. But it's the driver that did it for me. He was a white, middle-aged man, who might be considered dashing, yet demure, with strips of grey showing on his side-burns and temples. There was an air about this man that just screamed impassive. Something about this man told me that if I asked him to drive me to Budapest, he'd quote me a price.
I walked up to the cabbie, who was leaning against the passenger-side door smoking a long cigarette and told him, "I need fair to Fayetteville. How much do you think it'll be?" After quoting a price he asked if I had any luggage to which I replied, "No, but we'll be picking up my girlfriend in," I checked my new Citizen watch which read 10:38am, "about 15 minutes. If you drive around one time she'll probably be out."
He casually flicked his cigarette, made for the driver's side door, and climbed in. I, already on the correct side, just opened the door and plopped right in. As he pulled out of the cab lane and into airport traffic, I figured this would be my time to present my case, "Yeah, I haven't seen my girl in quite some time, man. Do you think you might be able to take the scenic route home?" I reached my hand up front, flashed two $100 bills in his face, and continued, "We just can't be on any main, busy roads, if you know what I mean."
"Not a problem Sir, I think I understand," was his stoic reply.
"Alright then, I don't care what happens as long as we don't get pulled over, you know?"
"Like I said Sir, I understand," the cab driver deadpanned.
Satisfied, I leaned back in my seat and surveyed the car. It was a newer model Ford Crown Victoria with leather seats that looked "sat-in" but not worn. Space is abundant in these things. I've been in these Crown Vics before, but they've always had bulletproof glass impeding my legroom and one or two of that particular city's finest in the front seat. Take away the glass divider, and the stuffy air of a cop, and these cars really aren't that bad at all. My appraisal nearing completion, we pulled around to the pick-up point and there you were. God, I'd missed you. You were standing with just two pieces of luggage, wearing well-fitting, dark, boot-cut jeans, a pair of 4 inch, black, open-toed heels, and a see-through black top with a black bra underneath. I pointed you out to the driver and he muscled his way through the airport traffic toward my baby. Expecting me in my Jeep, you didn't even notice me when we pulled right beside you. The look of surprise and elation on your face when you saw me open the door and step out of the cab had already made all this worth it.
I strode to you and kissed you, as if I've never kissed you before. You returned my kiss with an embrace that would've rated top among all embraces, were there a rating system for such a thing. "How was your trip babe?" I asked as I grabbed your luggage and placed it in the trunk of the car that was already popped open by the obviously experienced driver.