Night Shift Driver

Christopher Graves

New York, 1978.
Night had draped the city in a glossy black cloak, broken only by the tired neon lights of a café on a street corner. Through the scratched window, a man sat alone, his head bent over a crumpled newspaper.

Christopher Graves.
A taxi driver for ten years.
A weary figure in a world even wearier than he was.

He lifted his cup of coffee to his lips. Bitter. Too hot. But it tasted like one of those nights when you had to stay awake at all costs. His old olive-green parka, faded by rain and years, rested on his shoulders like an extra burden.

Christopher snapped his newspaper shut, folded it twice, then three times, before tossing it onto the table. A coin slipped from his fingers and clinked against the saucer. Without a word, he stood and left the café.

Outside, the air smelled of gasoline, smoke, and rain. He pulled out his keys, unlocked the door of his taxi, and manually switched on the "TAXI" sign. The neon blinked twice before settling. Like him—ready to go, even on the verge of falling apart.

He rolled into the streets of New York.

Taxis were everywhere—an endless yellow sea. Sometimes, Christopher felt like one of them: indistinguishable, replaceable, forgotten.

A few minutes later, a figure rushed out onto the sidewalk:
a woman bundled in a massive coat, raising her arm and shouting,

"Taxi! Taxi!"

Christopher braked and pulled over. The back door swung open instantly. The woman climbed in without looking at him, breathless, searching frantically through her bag.

An unpleasant shiver ran down his neck. A bad feeling. He had learned to trust those.

"Halftown Hotel, please," she said, her voice shaky.

He nodded and pulled away.

She stayed silent the whole ride, eyes averted, hands trembling. Christopher tightened his grip on the wheel. Something in her reminded him too much of another woman...

1975.
That hurried stranger.
And the end of his taxi, stolen at gunpoint.

He blinked hard, pushing the memory away.

The woman stepped out quickly in front of the hotel. She handed him a twenty-dollar bill without meeting his eyes, then vanished into the glowing lobby, swallowed by the light.

Christopher lingered there for a moment.
Waiting for another customer. Or maybe just for someone to talk to.
Loneliness clung to him like a second skin.

Minutes later, the hotel's revolving door spun. A woman stepped out, accompanied by a sharply dressed man. Her hair was as blond as an angel fallen from heaven, and her red dress glowed against the night. Christopher straightened without knowing why.

She barely glanced at him—
but it was enough to unsettle him.
A fragile look.
A sadness badly hidden.

She slipped into the back seat, followed by the man.

"We'd like to go to a bar," she said softly.

Christopher nodded.

The man leaned forward abruptly.

"And tell me, driver... You'll look the other way if we have a little fun in the back, right?"

Christopher felt his heartbeat slow, then quicken again.
The backseat circus.
He knew the routine.

He could have refused. He should have refused.
But his voice came out by itself—low, worn:

"Do whatever you want... as long as you pay."

He put on his headphones and started an old cassette.
The hazy music softened the world a little.
He drove through the shifting lights of the city, trying to breathe steadily.

He just wanted to get from point A to point B without getting involved in anyone's life.

But a glance in the rearview mirror changed everything.

The woman wasn't just uncomfortable—she was terrified.
She recoiled from the man, pushing his hand away.
She murmured something he couldn't hear.
Then a sharp slap broke the air.

Christopher slammed the brakes. The tires shrieked on the asphalt.
He stepped out, rounded the taxi, opened the back door, and grabbed the man by the collar.

"You touch her again, and I'll throw you out of my car."

The man rose slowly, adjusting his jacket.
He leaned toward Christopher and whispered, his voice cold as steel:

"You don't know who I am, driver."

His stare wasn't human.
Only a promise of trouble.

Fear rose in Christopher's chest.
Not for himself.
For her.

He turned toward the woman.
She trembled, her makeup slightly smeared, purple marks on her neck.

"Claire..." the man breathed as he sat back down.
"Let's go."

Christopher remained frozen for a second.
Then he closed the door.

He returned to the front seat, hands shaking.
He was just a chauffeur.
This world... he couldn't fight it.

He restarted the cassette.
The music resumed.
The city rolled on.

And Christopher Graves drove into the night, his eyes heavy, as if he had failed before he had even begun.