In The Air

One: The Cab Thief

First Jemma forgot her phone, then her wallet. The first time she asked the cabbie to turn back to her apartment, he hadn't driven very far—only a block or so down the street. He'd sighed with impatience but pulled over anyway. Jemma smiled sheepishly and thanked him before running back for her cell, thankful that her apartment was on the first floor of the building. The second time, she forgot her wallet. Luckily, the cab hadn't moved from its spot from the first time and she realized that she was missing the item as she was getting back into the car. Again, she bolted from the cab to run the block back to her apartment. After a few panicked minutes of searching, she found it sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch her mom had bought her when she first moved in.

On her third attempt to get to the airport on time, she realized that she forgot her plane ticket. She was afraid to mention this to the driver, who had just had to slam on his breaks to avoid hitting a motorcyclist and now rolled to a stop at a red light. There was a traffic jam in the middle of the street filled with yellow cabs and black sedans and other vehicles. The horns from all the cars drowned out the faint hum of whatever was playing on the radio. Jemma wasn't present enough to hear it. The car smelled of stale cigarettes and fast food. Jemma made a mental note to call an Uber next time instead of a yellow cab. She shifted uncomfortably on the sticky vinyl seat, her short-clad thighs refusing to peel away from the fabric when she wanted to move. She thought again about the plane ticket missing from her purse, and knew she couldn't show up without it. She drew her lip between her teeth and nibbled on it. They hadn't gone very far—again, only a few blocks, all that the NYC gridlock would allow. She was also thankful that she had the foresight to call the cab a good three hours early. It only took forty minutes to get from Greenwich Village to JFK, but after spending the past two years at NYU, Jemma knew how terrible the traffic could get. She took a deep breath and gently tapped on the cushioned shoulder of the passenger seat.

"Um, sir," she said as she tapped.

The driver turned around to look at her, and Jemma could tell that it only took him a minute to realize why she was smiling so hesitantly.

"Come on lady, tell me this is the last time!" Jemma felt like a child being scolded, and nodded.

"Yes, I swear. Please, just give me ten minutes and I'll be back and it'll be the last trip."

The cabbie huffed and threw his hands in the air. A glance at his red face in the rear-view mirror and she knew that he was thoroughly annoyed. Jemma noticed that the meter was still running and sighed. This would be her worst cab bill to-date.

"Alright, go, I'll wait here."

"Thank you so much," she breathed, and shot out of the car.

Jemma took off jogging down the street, shoving through throngs of people on the sidewalk and narrowly avoiding crashing into poles and small children. She made it back to her apartment within five minutes—thankful for the three years she spent on her high school track team. She dug her keys out of her purse, slung sloppily over her shoulder and always threatening to fall off. She fumbled with her keys, struggling to pick out the right one away from all the others. Jemma could feel an invisible clock tick against her.

She shoved through the front door of the apartment building and then the door of her apartment. The door banged against the wall and she didn't bother to close it behind her as she raced down the hall and into her bedroom. She paused at the door to look around the room. Everything was in its place, as she had left it; the bed was made, the curtains were drawn, and on the dresser to the left by the window sat what she sought. She crossed the room to snatch the plane ticket off of the black Ikea dresser.