Man in the Cab || ✔

III

Jaxon's hair ruffled in the strong breeze. He gazed out at the city skyline as the cab drifted between buildings and swerved around non existent obstacles in its' path. His eyes slid shut, suddenly the heaviest thing he'd ever tried to lift, and the radio in the background played a soft jazz number with a saxophone as the leading instrument.

Jaxon was not usually one who felt comfortable flying, and yet there he was with his forearm on the armrest and his chin resting in his own cupped hand. His fingers drummed a simple beat on his thigh, while he hummed along. He did not know the title, but he recognized the melody. Jaxon found he could never name song titles or artists, but he could hum along to most things... as long as it wasn't country that is. The soft jazz was instrumental, but it spoke to him in a way words never had.

Conversations were fleeting and often held no significance. Conventional people engaged in small talk, and small talk did nothing for Jaxon. He liked conversation that made him think before he spoke, made him question his beliefs, made him interested in getting to know people... he liked substance. He liked when he could talk to a stranger somewhere and all of a sudden feel that click, that spark. The last time he'd felt it, he fought over a record in a store with a woman because it was Metallica's Black Album, which was an iconic release, so of course he'd fight tooth and nail for the fucking thing. Later, after they fought for it, they'd gone for a coffee to negotiate on the album, and the next thing he knew, he was engaged to her. After all of the talk on the album, they shared it when they moved in together, but the ending of their story was not a happy one. It was no fairy tale.

Fairytales did not exist in Jaxon's mind. He believed everything happened for a reason, and that he should take what happens at face value and just trust it happened for a reason. Stoicism was something he usually believed in, but after Carla, he wasn't sure he could believe there was a set path for him. He could not remain stoic at the news that Carla did not want to marry him, nor could he remain stoic when seeing the affair of his fiancee and best friend. No, it was not something he could do anymore. He'd changed, and in addition, so had his beliefs.

Upon reflection, Jaxon came to the conclusion the cab was attempting to teach him a lesson. What lesson, he had no fucking clue, but he was sure there was a reason. For the past half hour, he'd been having a one-sided conversation with the cab. It was a great sounding board. Jaxon felt truly listened to.

"I should call Carla," he slurred, gently patting the leather seat. The window frosted over, finally responding to him, and when Jaxon looked up to see what had been written, he scoffed.

'I'm aesthetic; you're pathetic.'

"Psh, I'm not pathetic. I'm showing my woman what she's missing."

'Yes, you're a real catch.'

"Is that sarcasm?" Jaxon asked, and the car revved its' engine, a yes.

'Is she really your woman if she's with your best friend on your wedding night?'

"Listen, you. You couldn't possibly understand—"

'She's doing the nasty with someone else as we speak. She don't want you.'

Jaxon didn't enjoy the conversation anymore. "I'm still going to call her."

'No.'

"What do you mean, 'No,'? I'm calling my fiancée!"

'She left you at the altar. She rejected you. Was that not enough for you? She's not your fiancée anymore.'

Jaxon played with the rings in his pocket. Those had not ben stolen in the park, surprisingly. He could go to a pawn shop and fund his alcoholism for a little while, he decided.

'You'll never learn.'

Jaxon harrumphed and glared out the window, trying to vaporize everything he laid his eyes upon. Steam filled the cab as he thought about it, and when he forced himself to calm down, the cab stopped steaming. He was now of the stance that the world was shit, people were shit, and that one should merely attempt to wade through the nonsense that was life while trying not to do bad to others. He strived for the good life, but the good life wasn't striving for him, and he found that even though he was well off in life, he was not happy. 

But what was happiness, and how did one achieve it? Perhaps it was the lack of negative emotions, or maybe it was the fulfillment of a dream. Potentially, it was being content with one's reality; who honestly knows? Jaxon could not pin-point exactly what happiness was to him. It wasn't the lack of pain because pain was a useful learning tool. The elimination of it meant no learning opportunities, no growth, and it could also mean never fixing a problem because pain lets one know something's wrong. Without knowing if something hurts, one could irreparably harm oneself, which is the exact opposite of ideal. Jaxon did not know what happiness was, but he knew what it was not. The window called his attention once more.

'Welcome home.'

The cab window was still writing messages to him, and no sooner did the cab write it, the floor to the cab disappeared, and he found himself on the rooftop of his childhood apartment on Alberni street overlooking Stanley Park, and to the side was where a wonderful Italian restaurant he'd always gone to as a child with his mother had been. His meal of choice had always been gnocchi, not that it mattered anymore since the restaurant was gone and his mother was dead.

The air was considerably colder than in the interior of the cab for obvious reasons; there was no heat in the open air. Clutching his sleeves over whitened knuckles, he blew hot air over his hands in a feeble attempt to preserve warmth; the situation proved futile. He gazed over the edge of the building and noted it was a long drop. Death was never something he gave much thought, but as he gazed over the edge, he dwelled on it in a way he never had done before.

His toes lingered on the edge, and he was a leaf quaking on the precipice of a valley that hungered for his fall. The wind was a force demanding recognition, and he gave it just that. It flirted with him, pulling him forward towards the unknown, and Jaxon found he was not scared anymore, nor was he questioning life.

Things happened for a reason, he concluded.

The ground was an ends to a mean, not merely a means to an end.

And as he plummeted to the world below, he smiled and watched the leaves fall to the sky in lonely Stanley Park.