Driver

The workday was no different from the previous ones. The same streets, the same smell of gasoline and street dust, the same faces that appeared in the rearview mirror for a few brief seconds — and then disappeared from view. Azriel had grown used to this rhythm: the morning rush, the afternoon heat, the evening fatigue. Sometimes it seemed to him that he wasn’t carrying people, but their shadows — so similar they often were to one another. Around noon, he stopped by a tall glass building, from which a heavyset man in an expensive business suit ran out. The jacket fit him poorly — the button on his belly looked like it was about to pop off any second. His face was red, his forehead glistening with sweat, even though it wasn’t that hot outside because of the overcast sky. The man flopped heavily into the back seat without even saying hello and snapped curtly: “Downtown. Fast.” Azriel nodded and pulled away smoothly. But he hadn’t even driven half a block before the passenger started fidgeting impatiently. “Faster!” he barked, slapping the armrest with his palm. Azriel pressed the gas harder. The engine roared, the car took the turn nimbly. The traffic light flashed yellow — he ran it just barely. “Faster! I’m late!” The man’s voice grew even more demanding, carrying the irritation of someone used to the whole world bending to his schedule. Azriel pushed the accelerator almost to the limit. Store windows, street lamps, and billboards flashed past outside. He tried to keep the car steady, but the man still lurched to the side on the turns. “Got a business meeting?” Azriel asked calmly, trying to lighten the mood a little. “What’s it to you?” the passenger replied rudely, not even looking his way. “Just curious,” the taxi driver shrugged. “You’re a businessman, I take it?” “A businessman,” the man said with obvious pride. “What field?” Azriel continued, ignoring his tone. “Textiles,” he said shortly, adjusting his tie, which had already slipped sideways from all the sudden movements. “Got it. You’re the director?” “Yes,” his voice filled with smugness. “Make a lot of money?” The question sounded neutral, without a hint of envy. “Of course I do. More than you, that’s for sure,” the man smirked, and there was something insulting in that smirk. “That’s obvious. A taxi driver doesn’t make much,” Azriel agreed, though there was no bitterness or humiliation in his voice — just a calm statement of fact. The passenger suddenly reached into his bulky leather briefcase, rummaged around, and pulled out a sandwich generously soaked in mayonnaise. Judging by the smell, it had sausage and processed cheese. The man took a big bite, and crumbs scattered onto his jacket, the seat, the floor mat. He chewed loudly, with his mouth open, paying no attention to manners. “You’re getting the car dirty,” Azriel noted, glancing in the mirror. “So what?” The passenger swallowed, licked his greasy fingers, and wiped them on his own pants leg. “I’m rich. There’s nothing you can do to me.” “That rich?” Azriel raised an eyebrow, maintaining his outward calm. “Of course,” the man snorted, taking another satisfied bite. “Besides, who’s going to stop me? I even steal from the factory, and nothing’s ever happened to me for it. So what.” The words fell into the car like heavy stones. Azriel froze for a moment, then gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Don’t you feel sorry for the regular workers?” he asked quietly but clearly. “Why should I feel sorry for them?” The man seemed genuinely surprised, as if he’d heard something absurd. “As long as they’re working, their well-being isn’t my problem. They get paid.” “At least above minimum wage?” Azriel asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “Well… a little above,” the passenger admitted reluctantly, tearing off a piece of bread. “Why would they need more? They’re doing fine as it is. They work, and then they go home.” He paused for a second, then smirked at his own joke. “Although, maybe if I increase the work hours, they could just live right at the factory, huh? That’d be convenient.” He laughed — short, abrupt, like a yap. Crumbs fell from his mouth. Azriel said nothing. He could feel a dull, heavy wave of disgust rising inside him. “You’re cruel,” he finally said. “I can afford to be,” the man snapped, wiping his pants with the sandwich. Then he suddenly frowned, as if remembering something. “And who are you anyway, to talk to me like that?” Azriel didn’t answer. They drove the rest of the way in complete silence. Just the noise of the engine and the occasional honk of other cars. The passenger chewed, smacked his lips, and sighed loudly from time to time. Azriel stared at the road, but in front of his eyes were the abstract faces of those who worked for this man. Whose hands sewed the fabric, whose legs didn’t rest for ten hours a day. Whose children, perhaps, went to bed hungry. “We’re here,” Azriel announced, stopping by a tall building with marble columns. The man got out of the car unhurriedly, without even a word of thanks. As a farewell, he carelessly tossed some papers onto the front seat — crumpled, greasy, with fingerprints all over them. And slammed the door. Azriel sat still for a while, staring through the windshield. Then he carefully gathered the papers, put them in the glove compartment, and wiped the seat with a wet wipe. He didn’t know why he kept those scraps. Maybe so he wouldn’t forget who he sometimes had to deal with.