It was just a year ago when I stumbled off a late train at Hummerville, wearing the most unlikely of outfits–a tuxedo I’d rented from Yesterday’s Man or somesuch for our company’s annual black-tie affair.

Unfit to bike, and probably even to walk, I shared a cab with the kindest of gentlemen en route to my house. So moved was I by his kindness and selflessness that I felt compelled to pen him a letter.

I once again have my rented tux for the Night of a Thousand Stars tonight. We’ll see what pleasures await me when I turn up in Hummerville in the wee hours.

An Open Letter To:

The drunk guy in the cab at Hawthorne station last night.

It was late. I was tired.

I was wearing a rented tux with uncomfortable shoes and I just wanted to go home.

I climbed into the cab and the driver told me he was new. He asked me where I was going and what it normally cost. I told him.

He was told a few more riders were getting in. A woman climbed in the back next to me; she was going one block away from me.

Then you stumbled in, Drunk Man, and poured yourself into the front seat.

You had dark, wavy hair, glasses and a mock turtleneck; in fact, the word “mock” could describe several aspects of your appearance.

You told the driver where you were headed–”Four Corners,” I think you said, near the diner. The absolute opposite direction of me and the young lady in the back seat.

The driver asked where to go first. I spoke up, said, we had two going south and one going north. I left it at that, assuming logic would prevail.

But not you, Drunk Jerk Who Lives Near Four Corners. We pulled to the station exit and you slurred a “go left.”

And we did.

The driver, he wasn’t the sharpest blade on the Swiss Army knife. As we headed north toward your beloved Four Points, the driver asked the woman again where she was going. She gave the address, reiterated that it was back the other way.

Then you, Inebriated Clod, instead of simply celebrating your successful hijacking in silence, you gloated. You turned around to the two of us and went “Hah!”

I restrained myself from smacking your bloated face with the heel of my rented patent leather shoe. It wasn’t easy.  

But your behavior gets worse. The driver asked you how much your fare normally was, and you stammered, “Five dollars.” Nothing is five dollars, pal. It ain’t called the dishonor system.

And, to make matters worse, when we finally happened upon your foul lair, you gave the driver just that–five freakin’ dollars. Perhaps you think “Gratuity” is that Pixar movie about the rat chef.

Oh, dear Drunken Fool, the stories we told as you stumbled to your door. The laughs we had at your expense, Besotted Clown, as you fumbled for your keys. The ill-tempered chortles we chortled as our cab, at long last, headed south.

Kind disregards,

Trainjotting