Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Fifty-eight

"You're doin' fine, Oklahoma ... Oklahoma, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm ...," sang the cab driver in between talking to himself and sipping loudly on his jumbo-sized Dunkin doughnuts coffee.

He certainly wasn't your typical cab driver. He seemed more like a flight attendant than a cab driver. In other words, he was very courteous. He said things like, "Where may I take you, sir?" "Thank you, is there a preferred route you're interested in pursuing?" "If there's anything I can do to make your ride more comfortable, please let me know."

"You're doin' fine, Oklahoma ... Oklahoma ..."

With his greasy hair matted down and obstructing one side of his filthy, thick-lensed glasses, his fifty-something body sat so close to the steering wheel that he appeared to be driving with his wrists. Maybe he sat close to the steering wheel because his glasses were dirty, or maybe he felt the closer to the steering wheel, the closer to the road. Whatever the reason, I theorized it prevented his right foot (if in fact that was the foot he was using to drive with) from fully making contact with the accelerator, because he definitely had "stop and go foot." That in unison with his technique of swerving—again, maybe caused by his wrist-driving technique, or possibly his addiction to cough medicine—made me nauseous.

So the newly acquired nauseous condition, combined with my pre-ride nauseous condition from my bad Kate experience the night before, gave me double nausea. For a brief moment, I wondered if there was any legal action I could pursue against the driver Wickliffe Preston Draper Jr. because of it.

"Estimated time of arrival, approximately forty-five seconds. I thank you for you business, and want to extend my appreciation for your admirable conduct as an honored passenger in my car. Would you be needing a receipt for the trip, sir?"

"No, thank you ... Mr. Draper." I felt obliged to use his name, and at that, didn't feel comfortable using his first name. I wasn't sure it showed enough respect.

"Eight even, sir."

I passed him a ten through the divider window in the back.

"Thanks for the ride. Have a nice day."

"No, thank you, sir. Thank you for the gratuity. Thank you so much."

I stepped out of the cab into a clump of snow. I lost my footing for a moment and ended up on one knee. Wickliffe bellowed out the window of his cab as he took off. "You're doin' fine, Oklahoma ... Oklahoma ..."

With a cold, wet knee, I proceeded up the walk to Ben's place to meet his daughter, Lisa. I wasn't sure what the deal was about meeting at Ben's place, but I guess in some ways it was appropriate because Ben was the subject with which I requested to meet about.

I didn't notice the for sale sign jammed into the frozen grass until after I rang the doorbell and turned back toward the street. My first thought, "Winter isn't the best time to sell a piece of property," was a little more rational than my next thought—"What the fuck?"

With that thought bouncing around in my little head, it felt like my eyes opened twice their capacity as the ground dropped out below me, causing my stomach to project and lodge itself in my throat. I never thought about what Lisa might do with Ben's place—but to sell it seemed so ... sacrilegious. Then I thought maybe I should buy it. But why? I had a place. And what would I do? Hold tours when I wasn't at a gig? Why did I want to hang on to everything connected to Ben? What would I lose by letting go? And what do I gain by hanging on, for that matter?

I realized that letting go of Ben felt like a betrayal. Like I wasn't honoring or respecting him in some way.

Lisa must've been standing behind me calling my name for a while because she not only looked cold, but annoyed.