God Moments

I stepped into the cab three seconds from soaking. During class the weather had turned from cloudy to torrential. Rain pummeled the sidewalk and every moving thing searched frantically for shelter. Cabs were full and on an afternoon like this, impossible to get. I hurried down the one way street with my struggling umbrella hoping for a miracle or dumb luck. In front of a church, it pulled up and as a woman stepped out, I thanked god’s house and motioned to the driver that I wanted to get in.

At first I didn’t notice anything special about him. I was so relieved and spent from the rain to do anything but take a few deep inhales. Then I saw his froggy bulging eyes and wild white hair in the rearview mirror. “Cervino y Lafinur, “ I directed. He grunted and pulled into the heavily rain congested melee of colectivos and taxis. First he asked me where I was from. So obvious even from the way I pronounced the two street names that I wasn’t a local or even a South American. He wanted to know what I did “Que te dedicas?”. He was probing slowly, gathering information for his coming observations of me and of life. “I’m a writer,” I told him with a touch of phony confidence. (wait till I tell Suzanne, my prof, I thought all puffy chested). His eyes widened a bit more and his wrinkly long fingernailed hands gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“What KIND of writing do you do?”
“I write fantasy – about worlds that don’t really exist”. Kind of a shaky answer but what the hell – we’re all making it up as we go in some form or another. His forehead scrunched and eyes half closed asked me in long articulated breaths, “what do you think fantasy is?” Whoa – esoteric turn. Now this is getting interesting. The penetrating stare, witch fingernails and hunched shoulders exuded Harry Potter. I was 9 years old again. “Well, I stammered – fantasy is whatever your imagination can come up with, it could be anything?” I ended my response with a question and my voice went up an octave or two. He went in for the kill. “NO!”, he shook his right index finger at me. “Fantasy is the unique combination of real and imaginary. For example, the Centaur – half man half horse. Or the mermaid, half woman, half fish. People accept the fantasy because it comes along with something they can relate to.” (Shit, I knew that.) Back to the old dusty library of Monsignor Luvidicus Royale of Magical Realism and other voodoo topics. How did I end up in this cab?

He spoke like all Argentines – more with his hands than his voice but talked slowly articulating every word for dramatic effect. Pausing and asking if I understood him. He tells me he works in the world of “espectaculos” – eyes wide again bulging nearly out of their sockets. “You must write for the theater”, he tells me. It wasn’t a suggestion. “Tell the truth” he says. “Tell the truth about the problems of our time, of our people. We are the people. You are the people. Tell the truth in your writing! What else is there?” he demanded to know. I was entranced. Who speaks of the truth in a 10 minute cab ride? Who speaks of the truth anywhere? Is this my sign? It’s almost too obvious. So obvious, it could be mistaken for something else, less like the message it is. Is this as my friend Wendy calls it a “God moment”. We’ve all had them even if we don’t recognize or name them. They’re episodes with strangers (usually short so you could forget easily if you aren’t paying attention) that tell you, ask you, the most personal knowing things. Things that you can’t or don’t talk about with your intimates. Things you may think but don’t say. Things from your subconscious that only God would know to knudge you about, guide you, question you. God moments in cab rides. Tucked away as the title of something. How fantastically bizarre and yet disturbing in its closeness. “You will see a sign promoting a show called Poder de Affectacion – Ninos y Adolescentes de Artes”. He said it again, saying each world slowly looking me in the eye so that I would remember. “Go in and enjoy it. Then come see me about a job”. Pow.

Startled awake, I handed him the cab fare and asked his name. “Nestor Francisco – mother Spanish and father Italian”. We shook hands and I stepped out and away from the fantasy ride. Looked back twice, blinking in the rainy glare to make sure it wasn’t just my imagination.