What Derives From Hate?

• 37 •

Hours later, I showed up at the JFK Airport in New York. Calling a hackney ( the English term for a more expensive taxi or cab ), I slid into the nice seats, enjoying the lavender smell.

"Where to, miss?" The cabbie mentioned, turning to face me with a smile. I always enjoyed riding in a hackney because the drivers were so nice. In America, not so much but I try not to not judge. This one just so happens to have British lineage.

"Uhm, John Jay College of Criminal Justice." I said, staring out the window of the hackney. New York was a brilliant and complex place. It also just so happened to be treated poorly, trash littering the grounds. Cups from Chinatown littered the ground, thought little of by the citizens. It was common, to see trash accompanying a place so used to it. One thing about this place that I despise was the care, or lack thereof.

"Alrighty, miss. We're off." I smiled at his politeness, continuing to stare at New York. I'd admire it after my seminar. Maybe head out to the Statue of Liberty. Get a tattoo. Get into a fist fight. Who knows? I just wanna enjoy 'The Big Apple.'

"You don't look like a fellow Yank. Where you from, mate?" He looked at me through the mirror, then back to his attention on the road.

"Uhm, I'm a Portlander. I'm from Portland, Oregon." Every now and then, I would wear a fake smile and now was a time for that. Yeah the kid was polite but I wasn't really wanting to pay any... attention. Certainly no. But I would because hackney drivers were so polite. And caring.

"Wait. Wait. You're Jennifer Gibbs? Oh my god! Oh my god!" The guy doubled over with a bellowing laugh. American and British laughs were different. Almost all Americans sound alike. British men and women have the accent stuck to it. Like glue to paper. A bug to a windshield. And yet he was also beside himself, in a sort of hysterics. He could not help himself in exasperated self-consciousness.

"Yes, I'm Jennifer Gibbs. I'll give you a sign later." He nodded all too excitedly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. My whole life I've never had people who enjoyed me. In school, I was always that kid being used. Why was I used? Because I was smart. But that was also a reason why I had like two friends in all of my school and college years.

Minutes later, the big shiny building of John Jay was in my sights. God, I remember the times. Times like when I'd sneak off and party at NYU. Those were the times...

  "Aye, have you guys seen Jenny?" My friend Taylor asked. He was a genuinely good guy, sober. Drunk? He was just a flirtatious and horny mess.

  "Dude, she goes to John Jay. That place is like," Another person started, staring off into space for a few seconds. "the most prestigious college. She has to y'know? Break out of the place? Not easy."

"True but its an hour walk. Give her the benefit of the doubt."

"Talking about me or what? You guys know I fucking hate gossip." The little clique erupted into cheers in a variety of tones, deep and high, whoops and hollers.

After mingling for a few hours, getting to know others from NYU, a girl in a skimpy dress with red wine stains on it, walked up to me. "They say... You're the Queen of the keg stand. Beat 93, bitch." She scoffed in front of me, looking my body up and down.

"Maybe while I'm kicking your ass at keg, you can go tell all the guys you've slept with how you're HIV positive, you little slut." A sudden gush of pain jolted throughout her body. The bottom of my ridged shoes connected with her unclothed shin. She cried out in pain, grabbing her shin absentmindedly. With her distracted, I full force threw her on the ground, listening to her groan, mixed in with salty crying.