I woke up Saturday morning feeling terrible. I had something to “do.” Having anything to do automatically makes me feel terrible. I didn’t look at the clock. I knew it was ten o’clock. Either my body or my brain is such a finely tuned instrument that I automatically wake up at ten o’clock on my days off. I wake up at 6:00 a.m. on workdays but I don’t feel terrible because I have never thought of cab driving as “doing” anything.
I ate a cheese sandwich and had a quick soda while I surfed the TV, but I knocked that off because I was afraid I might accidentally run across an episode of Gilligan’s Island and end up postponing my self-imposed chore. I try not to drink beer, smoke cigars, or look at Mary Ann before noon. One morning I did all three and my day was shot to hell.
The mansion that housed Heigger & Associates was less than fifteen minutes away so I figured I could get shut of this chore and be back in my crow’s nest and continue to do nothing within thirty minutes, unless I stopped off to buy beer, which was not beyond the realm of possibility. I considered stopping at a video store that was down on south Broadway. It was an off-the-beaten-track video store that sold specialty tapes—independent if you get my drift—where you could find movies that you would never find in the homes of decent people. I’m not talking spicy movies, but rather Ed Wood films, early Roger Corman, and any other kind of bizarre, noir, or avant-garde film produced by small companies where “production values” is a concept dismissed as self-indulgent if not entirely irrelevant. Some people call it “art.”
But I would worry about beer and art later. Right now I had a confession to get through. I found it ironic that I was making a confession on a Saturday since I had gone to confession every Saturday between the ages of seven and seventeen—I’m talking the Catholic church of course and not a lawyer’s office. I rarely confess anything to lawyers unless the cops are on my case.
I arrived at the redstone building, parked, went up to the front porch and entered. When I got to the office door I raised my fist to knock, but my curled fingers paused a few inches from the spot where there was supposed to be a sign that said “Heigger & Associates.” It wasn’t there.
I went ahead and knocked. There was no reply. I reached down and twisted the doorknob. As I pushed the door open I heard a voice say, “Can I help you?”
I turned around and saw a small man wearing grubby clothing. By “grubby” I mean he was dressed like me, except he was wearing an ugly maroon knit shirt, whereas I was wearing a white T-shirt almost fresh from the laundry. We were both wearing blue jeans and tennis shoes. His jeans were a bit baggy, whereas mine were tight, like that worn by a man in denial of his beer gut. He was holding a broom with its bristles planted on the floor and gazing at me with his head tilted in a position that I had long ago come to label “suspicious.”
“I’m here to see the lawyer,” I said.
“Who?”
“Mr. Heigger.”
He looked me up and down without moving his head. He used only his eyes, like a wary man who was ready to use the rest of his body for something else and I don’t mean sweeping.
I was still holding onto the doorknob. The door was halfway open. I pointed at the opening with my other hand and pushed the door all the way open so Mr. Heigger would see both me and the small man whom I felt was associated in some way with building maintenance.
The room was almost barren. There was a desk but no chairs, no wall hangings, and most significantly, no people.
“That room is empty,” the man said.
I started to say “I can see that” but I didn’t. I closed the door and looked farther down the hallway. There were no more doors. “I’m looking for Heigger & Associates,” I said.
“There’s no business here by that name,” he said. When he spoke he barely moved his lips.
“Did they vacate?” I said.
He didn’t reply. He pulled the broom a little closer to his body. Then something happened that I had no control over.
I chortled.
“I drive for the Rocky Mountain Taxicab Company,” I said. “I picked up a fare at this office on Wednesday.”
A flicker of humanity crossed the man’s face. I think it was the word “taxicab” that did it. For some reason people respond positively to the word “taxicab.”
“I don’t know nothing about it,” he said. “Maybe you got the wrong building. Maybe you should try next door.” Then he backed up against the wall. I realized what he was doing. He was giving me room to walk past him and go out the front door.
“Are there any other lawyers who work in this building?” I said. “No,” he said. “Maybe you should call your company and ask for the address again. Maybe you got it wrong.”
I realized that he thought I was on duty. I also realized that if he saw me walk outside and climb into my Chevy he would think I was lying. Maybe he would think I was some kind of a burglar. He probably had been thinking that from the get-go, and might still be thinking it. The word “taxicab” can carry you only so far.
My inherent inability to control my chortles suddenly left me. I started to get annoyed. I don’t mind being suspected of things when I am actually “up to something,” but when I’m innocent it makes me bristle. I reminded myself that I was a professional taxi driver, so I decided to start acting like one even if I was off-duty. In other words, I decided to treat this like a no-show.
“All right, thanks anyway,” I said with a confident and slightly disgusted tone of voice that did not reflect my inner being. My inner being was baffled and uneasy. I was familiar with that dynamic duo.
I walked past him. Then I turned and looked at him. “The dispatcher might ask me who I talked to—do you work in this building?”
“I’m the supe.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
I walked outside and went down the steps, debating whether to climb directly into my heap or to turn and walk along the sidewalk as if my cab was parked farther down the block.
But by the time I got to within five feet of my heap I was no longer concerned with pretense. I turned and looked up at the mansion, then I looked at the mansions farther along the street. Right at that moment I was willing to concede that a mistake on my part was not beyond the realm of possibility. But it was only a fleeting doubt. This was the same mansion that I had visited on Wednesday. The only reason I entertained a doubt was because I had made plenty of mistakes in my life and I had come to accept the fact that my brain was not the most reliable map printed by Rand McNally. But I had passed this mansion enough times during my years in Denver to know that I had come to the right place.
I glanced at the front door. The “supe” was standing behind the glass watching me. Now that I was outside and beyond his territorial imperative I didn’t care what he thought. I walked around to the driver’s side of my heap and climbed in, started the engine, and drove away.