Two hours later, the Sex Spider managed to convince the dispatcher to state the following on air: Witnesses needed for an historical event involving the initiation of Number 89 into a new world of adventure and happiness. All those involved please be at Motel 9, on Vignard Street, in fifteen minutes.
Twenty cars showed up in the lot of the motel as the Sex Spider walked out, hand in hand with the woman. It was said that Number 89 had been in denial, and a burst of sweat broke out all over him. All the taxis honked and proclaimed Mani, Number 72, the winner and the groom.
Two weeks later it was discovered that the woman in question was a prostitute.
There is no one to match the Sex Spider in his appetite for love and adventure. The Sex Spider is a talker and a lover of bouncing thighs, long and short thighs, shiny thighs, shaved thighs, and hairy thighs. The Sex Spider is an equal-opportunity lover. He loves all the world and its inhabitants, as he often proclaims, people in all their colours, shapes, and forms.
Once, in Café Bolero, we were sitting side by side, and we got into a conversation about the state of affairs in the world.
I said to him, This world is an inferior place.
Not at all, he said. God created each one of us with a light inside. I’ve had sex with all kinds of people; every single person has a kind of beam inside that shines once they are touched properly.
You’ve seen that beam? I asked.
Of course. I see it all the time. Why do you think people prefer to have sex at night? The beam is there.
You don’t say, I said.
Listen, the Sex Spider said. Do you know why I ask everyone to call me Mani now?
Do tell, I said, as I ate my salad and fish.
Well, once I picked up a customer, a beautiful older woman. She was a professor of history or religion or maybe both. We had a bit of polite chit-chat and then we talked about philosophy and life and she asked me where I came from. The moment she knew that I was Persian, she started talking about Mani, the prophet Mani. I said, Of course I know of him. Well, she said, then you know the myth of the two worlds. Well, of course, I said, I know it, but tell me again.
So she said that in the beginning there were two worlds: the world of the dark and the world of the light. And they both existed without knowing of one another. But when one day the dark world saw the light world shining in all its beauty, the dark world decided to attack the light world and make it his own. But the light world knew that if the dark world touched him he would cease to be pure. So the god of the light world sent his son to fight the dark world in the dark world’s territory, in order to save the pure world from being touched . . . The son was shining with light and he flew away with his arms and swords. But once he reached the dark world, his ass was kicked. The dark took the son inside his world and broke him into a million tiny pieces of light, and those pieces of light were spread all over the dark world.
And then what, I said.
And then, said the Sex Spider, I looked at the professor lady in the mirror and I said to her, Every time I see a beautiful lady like you, I see light and I know that there is a wonderful other world out there. I drove her home and she asked me inside for a coffee. A beautiful lady, long thighs, loud screams, and a big light that shone from inside . . .
ONCE, AS I
was driving along the highway back into town, I saw a taxi with a flat tire at the side of the road. I recognized the Sex Spider’s car and I stopped to give him a hand. But before I got out of my car, he rushed to my window and gave me an address and asked me to go and pick up “Larry” from a restaurant downtown. It is urgent, he said.
I drove fast, because it seemed so important to the Sex Spider. I arrived at the restaurant and parked in front. The valet came and asked me if I was waiting for someone in particular. Larry, I said. The valet smirked and went inside.
From outside, the restaurant looked fancy. Two big guys in shades and dark suits were standing in the manner of bodyguards at the front door. I waited and then I saw a large woman with extraordinarily long legs swinging her hips towards my car. She was stunning.
She arrived and waited for the valet to open the door and she got in the back seat.
I said, Excuse me, but this taxi is reserved for Larry. Are you Larry?
She looked me straight in the mirror and said, in a thick, manly voice: At the base, yes.
I smiled and told her that Mani couldn’t make it. He had a flat tire.
Perfect, she replied, it sure is my day. He is always late, but now today, just when I need him most . . . I’ve had a horrible evening. Are you a friend of Mani’s?
Yes, I said.
Well, I hope you are having a good day. But before I could reply, she said again, I had a horrible evening. I thought I was going to die. Those men in there are total pigs. They have no culture. It is hard to be taken seriously in this world of vultures and pests. I am about to cry, excuse me.
So I immediately pulled down my box and offered it to Larry.
Thank you, she said. Finally, someone who has some manners and respect. What is your name, driver?
I am Fly.
My friends also call me Limo.
Nemo? I asked.
No, Limo, as in liminal, in between. But oh, Fly, what a horrible evening that was.
Tell me what happened in there, and why you seem so upset, I said, as I started to drive.
Oh well . . . why not, since you are a friend of Mani’s. I guess I can talk to you. Okay. I received a call for a performance. They said it was in an Italian restaurant. I asked them how they got my number and they said it was through the friend of a friend. Usually I prefer to stick to my show at the Piccadilly. I perform there three times a week with other trannies, transvestites to you, from all over the world. We have a fantastic show, it’s a first-class cabaret. We have the twins who do their double act, and then the muscle boy comes and lifts the two girls up into the air at the same time, with their skirts blowing up and all. I do three songs, a monologue, and the finale, in a long blue dress and feathers. Anyway, when I received the call, I refused at first, but then they offered good money so I said okay, one private party. The restaurant seemed like a high-class place.
So I arrived and was led to a back room. There were five very handsome men, wearing expensive Italian suits. They welcomed me and offered me drinks and spoke to me nicely. They asked me if it was really true that I was a man, because I looked like a beautiful woman and so on. The usual. They offered me drinks. And then the waiter rushed in and said the birthday boy had arrived. They dimmed the lights and as soon as he stepped into the room they all shouted Surprise! and the waiter put the music on and I went towards the birthday boy dancing and singing “Happy Birthday.” I was dressed as Marilyn Monroe. All the boys were whistling and cheering. Then the birthday boy squeezed me and started to kiss me . . . and it got very rowdy . . . they all started to scream and throw their drinks on the floor and take off their jackets and swing them over their heads. I danced with him for a while and then one of the other boys, while we were dancing, came over and said to him, Hey, Frank, grab it . . . and before I had the chance to pull back, this Frank had stuck his hand under my dress and grabbed me down there. Then he quickly let go as if he had touched the devil himself, and started to curse, and he pushed me away. I tripped and fell on the floor, on my back . . . with my high heels . . . you can picture it, I’m sure. All his friends started to laugh. I felt so humiliated. Here I was on the floor, soaking in drinks and dirt, and I was afraid to cut myself on all the broken glass around me. Then the birthday guy went crazy,
he
was insulted. He came at me and kicked me and tried to stomp on my head . . . if it wasn’t for his friends pulling him back . . . And then, listen to this, Fly, then this monster reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun. He was going to shoot me. I was so afraid. But his friends stood in front of him and tried to calm him down, saying, Frankie, Frankie, take it easy, it was just a joke. I was on the floor shaking and crying, thinking, I am not a joke, I am not a joke! Then one of the men gave me his hand and pulled me off the floor and apologized. He pulled out a big stack of money and handed it to me. He called the waiter and the waiter escorted me to the bathroom to wash, and that is when I called Mani. I was crying, but his tire . . .
Anyway, I’m glad he sent you. Before I left, I told the man who paid me that I am a respected artist and not a joke. And that next time he shouldn’t treat people as jokes, because we are all human beings, that’s what I said to him. There is still beer and whisky all over my clothes and I smell like cigars, it’s disgusting. I am still shaking. I should have known from their big gold rings, but you know, I am glad Mani didn’t come, because if he saw me like this . . . he is short-tempered and those guys could really hurt him. I know the type; they are criminals, they own many of those high-class restaurants. Money laundering, that’s what those places are for. Which reminds me, I definitely have to send my dress to the cleaners, I have a show the day after tomorrow. Long live the Piccadilly! Here, we’ve arrived. How much do I owe you, Fly?
Nothing, I said. It is on the house.
Take something. Please, those monsters paid me a lot of money tonight. Here, take it and call it a night . . . take it and turn off your light and go home and sleep. Here, Larry said, and pushed two large bills into my hand.
Thank you . . . and good night, I said.
Good night, Limo said, and she left.
STEEL
THE NIGHT AFTER
my adventure with the no-name once-famous writer, I went to the Bolero. I arrived, secured a table, lifted a tray, and went up to the counter to order food. The Greek owner was in the kitchen. I could see his stained white apron and I imagined he was sweating under the blue and white scarf he always wears tightly around his neck. Light blue and white, like the rest of this place. It is said that, after consultation with the oracles, the owner planted a ceremonial Greek flag and some postcards next to the cash register so that Hellenic supremacy could reign over the Latin name, Bolero, which he had retained for pragmatic reasons.
The owner’s wife always looks tired, bitter, and dissatisfied, her glasses about to sink down her ancient Hittite nose. It is the daughter, that little goddess who appears and disappears from behind the brume of food offerings, who saves us all from starvation. Her long, curly hair constantly hovers over the stainless-steel warming trays. Not once since she began her work here, has she ever dipped her hair into the food. Her hair is measured and trimmed with admirable precision, but I am sure no driver would mind that salty addition of flavour, that extra Homeric tang, that divine transgression. Besides, I’ve heard that a mixture of yogurt and olive oil brings a shine to one’s hair.
Soon enough, two spiders came to join me at the table. They set their trays across from mine and we formed a trinity. I wanted to make an observation about the number three and its fundamental role in Hellenic culture, but Number 76, whom I wavered between calling the Spider of Interruption or the Spider of Destruction (I settled on the Samson Spider in the end), was agitated and had already started telling us about his encounter with two rich boys.
The other day, he said, I picked up these two brats. Right away, they started acting funny in the back seat. When they asked me how the night was going, I told them I’d just started and they were my first customers. I’d done about ten hours of work by then, but the moment you tell them that, those bandits start to imagine the piles of money you’re carrying. But one of the kids said to me, I bet you have it under the seat. I said, Have what?
You know, the money.
And what is it to you?
It is everything, motherfucker, the kid said.
I looked in the mirror and didn’t see a weapon. Two little fuckers dressed in expensive clothing, trying to scare me, I thought.
You motherfuckers better hold on tight, I said, because you’ve got the craziest driver in town. You think I give a fuck about this, you little assholes?
And I stepped on it. I was doing one-eighty or two hundred on the highway, the car was shaking! To freak them out I started to sing opera and conduct an imaginary orchestra. I am Samson! I shouted. Let this temple fall on me and my enemies, o Lord, for my hair has grown back! I have no fear and my people have risen . . . or some shit like that. Then I started to invent songs about the Lord and the second coming and I said to them, Get on your knees, because soon the temple will be restored and we shall all be saved . . . Hallelujah!
One of them pissed in his pants, and the other started to beg. The kid confessed they were only playing and trying to scare me. They were not planning to rob me, they were from a rich family and they’d give me money if I would just stop the car . . . The next thing I knew, there was a policeman chasing me with his lights and sirens. I pulled over and they slapped me with a big fine and a warning.
And now, said the Samson Spider, those two punks turn out to be the sons of a wealthy businessman who finances the mayor’s campaign. The man is suing me for reckless driving and endangering his kids. Their lawyer wants a psychological assessment. He asked the taxi commission to revoke my licence. How much can a man take? I want to defend myself but I don’t have the money for a lawyer. I’m willing to stand in front of the judge and tell him what happened, but my wife is worried and fed up. I never see my kids. I’m always working . . . She says if I lose my licence she will leave me, take the kids and go back to her parents . . .
Then I, Fly, who is not a Spider but a wanderer, stopped my food consumption, looked up at the spider, and said, What company does the man work for and what is the man’s name?
His name is Mr. Sarnath Patel. He is the CEO of Dovlin Steel. A man who pillages the world and pollutes six villages and won’t give a damn about a taxi driver like me. I am ruined!