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A Taxi in Paris

Griffith Pound

    I notice much more than passengers think. I am not a detective, but while I drive I can’t help but notice the smallest details. You can blame the applications. If I do not attend to the slightest demand, notice that a client doesn’t like the music or that the air conditioning is not to their satisfaction, well, anything less than five stars is a failure. Once you lose that perfect five, you will never get it back. I lost mine years ago. No one can give you a six to balance out that four. It’s just math.
    Mr. Jennings is a fine example of a man that likely thinks he is anonymous, that I don’t notice the details. I don’t mean to speculate that he is rude or aloof. I am simply saying that he thinks I likely do not pay any attention to him, but I know, for example, he lives in a very nice building on the corner of Rue Mahias and Avenue Jean-Baptiste Clement. While many of the buildings in Boulogne-Billancourt are art deco, this is one of the few Hausmann outliers recalling the vicinity to Paris. I know his balcony faces the square, on the third floor, because I have seen him up there finishing his cigarette while the meter is running. He does not appear to be the kind of man who worries about money, at least not his own money. I think he’s used to money. He probably thinks he owns all of it. I don’t think he has a second gig as an Uber driver to make ends meet.
    He is always business. The number of three-piece suits he owns is impressive. Yet, he is never disrespectful. His French is decent. The conversations are monotonous, if not always variations on the same theme.
    “Monsieur Jennings?”
    “Oui, pour aller à la Défense.”
    Or, “Oui Monsieur...?”
    “Monsieur Jennings. On va à la Défense.”
    Alternatively, “Et ou est-ce qu’on va, Monsieur...?”
    “Monsieur Jennings. A la Défense.”
    I am not always his driver, but I recognize his name enough to know the fare is lucrative and, since he’s an American, tipping is customary. I like this American custom. When he requests a car, I almost always answer first. He does not ask for me, but he usually receives me as his driver. I always confirm his name, to continue the illusion that we are strangers, since he appears to like it that way.
    Tuesday morning is no different from the usual. “Bonjour Monsieur...?”
    “Monsieur Jennings. C’est pour la Défense.”
    I put the car in gear, and we go. He already has his copy of the Wall Street Journal, in English, on his lap. It is folded in half, and he is wearing reading glasses. I’ll take the Allee du Bord de l’Eau, even though it’s slower, to avoid taking too many turns. I know he likes to study the paper, turns are disruptive and unpleasant for reading, and Mr. Jennings is never in a hurry because he is organized and sets aside enough time for his schedule. He does not protest as we approach the river. Besides, this time of day, a married man like that doesn’t want to cut through the Bois. I don’t think he has any interest in prostitutes. At least, not the kind one finds in the Bois.
    While the drop off varies, it is usually near the arch. Today is no different, and once I depart, I receive the five stars and a two-euro tip. I love Americans.

 
    I normally don’t work Friday nights, but Madame and I are going through some things, so I decided it was best to work this evening. It will give the two of us a chance to cool off a bit. This morning was not wonderful. It would be inaccurate to say it wasn’t about money, because in the end, it always comes down to money. What shall we spend it on? Your priorities or mine? If we compromise, everyone is less than happy. This is marriage. Everyone gets just enough to stay in it, or you leave. No one gets everything.
    Ah, Mr. Jennings. This will be interesting, since I don’t know Mr. Jennings by night, only his trips to la Défense during the day, I will see a new side of him. I pull forward to Place Bernard Palissy. It is late afternoon, families gather in the square, parents have a drink and chat, children chase a ball, ride a scooter, run in circles. The cafes around the square are full and lively. I tap the application to let Mr. Jennings know I am parked in front of his building.
    He is in a suit, but not three-piece. The woman next to him is age appropriate, brown hair with thin streaks of grey pulled back, wearing an elegant dress. The heels accentuate her legs, which are slender. She appears the kind of woman who has aged gracefully. As she approaches the vehicle, he pulls open her door, she steps inside, he carefully snaps it shut, then walks behind the vehicle to join her on the other side.
    “Oui Monsieur... ?” I ask.
    “Monsieur Jennings. Place de l’Opera, s’il vous plait.”
    I put the car in gear, and we go. It is quiet as we trundle along through the traffic on Avenue de Versailles. She is flipping through her phone. He is looking out the window.
    “Did you hear about the furniture?” Mr. Jennings asks. My English is not perfect, but I understand enough to follow the conversation.
    “Yes, it should be dealt with by tomorrow.” She answers. She is not looking up from her phone.
    “But will they fix it?”
    “How would I know? I guess they’ll tell me when they see it.”
    Mr. Jennings is looking out the window as he speaks to her. She never lifts her eyes off her phone.
    “What about the plan for remodeling?” Mr. Jennings asks.
    “What about it?”
    Mr. Jennings asks no further questions, and she never stops whisking her finger laterally across her phone. Instead, the silence sits like a small, inflatable ball in the seat between them. It starts to swell, pushing the two of them against the armrests on opposite sides of the rear seat. Eventually, the ball is big enough that she has to stop looking at her phone, and her face turns toward her own window to watch Paris move by. I feel the pressure of the expanding ball pushing against the back of my driver’s seat. I am relieved when I arrive in front of the opera house, dropping them off by Café de la Paix.

 
    Who am I to judge? No life is perfect. Even rich people have problems. We are all human after all. The following week proceeds as normal.
    “Bonjour Monsieur.”
    “Oui, c’est Monsieur Jennings, à la Défense.”
    He is absorbed in his paper, and frankly I am thinking about my own domestic issues. Is it too much to ask a spouse to stop spending so much for just a few weeks? It is as if we are always trying to catch up, barely making enough to cover last month’s expenses, which have piled high because we keep buying on credit. When we do that, it means my entire wages go to paying off debts, rather than using money now to buy things now, or to even be able to save for the future. I tell her, “Let’s only use what we have in the bank account.”
    “I will not be poor,” she replies.
    “We are not poor. We just need to be smart about how we spend our money.”
    “The children need new shoes and bags for school.”
    “Okay, that makes sense, but do we also need to spend so much on other things?”
    “And do you need to spend so much on cigarettes?”
    And so on. I think this conversation is familiar to most married couples. I drop off Mr. Jennings. I am glad to receive the two-euro tip, because that will at least cover some of my cigarettes.

 
    I am again working on the weekend. I will not say it is tense at home, but right now no one is happy. Besides, if money is the problem, if I work more hours, we will have more money and maybe less problems. It’s late in the evening, and Mr. Jennings is near Montparnasse.
    The door opens, and she thrusts herself into the backseat, laughing, as Mr. Jennings enthusiastically jumps in behind her. Once inside, they move to connect at the lips, then he moves his nose down along her neck, attaching his mouth just above where her neck meets her shoulder. She is giggling, but these are due to pleasure, not humor. Her hands hold his shoulders, his left hand runs up her thigh under her dress. Her blond hair falls backward as he pushes her to recline.
    I wait for an opening as I am not sure where I am supposed to take them. Surely not to his Hausmann apartment. She gives me an address while Mr. Jennings’ lips remain occupied. We start toward Neuilly.
    If it was uncomfortable driving a couple that doesn’t speak to each other, feeling like a voyeur every time she moans or there is a sudden movement is even worse. At least twice I almost pull over to step out of the car, but then they subside for a moment, pause for air, then shortly after resume petting, groping, licking, flicking, caressing, rubbing. They are like teenagers on the living room couch with the parents upstairs, clothes on but without inhibitions. I am grateful the clothes remain on because I like Mr. Jennings and his tips and I don’t know how I would interrupt this if they were to soil the backseat. I must be practical, as a soiled backseat is money lost, and I don’t work for free.
    We arrive at her given address before it gets to that, but just barely. As they descend from the vehicle, she leads him by the hand to her door where they eagerly enter as he removes his jacket. I find a place around the corner to park. I step out and light a cigarette. I see he has left his silk tie in the backseat.

 
    It isn’t until mid-week that I see he needs a ride to la Défense. I have his tie, but I am unsure how to raise the topic. As I pull up to his building, I pull it out of my glovebox and place it in the seat next to me.
    “Bonjour Monsieur Jennings.”
    “Bonjour, à la Défense.”
    He starts to read his paper. He did not notice the tie in the front seat. Before I drive forward, I hold it up with my right hand.
    “Monsieur Jennings, c’est la vôtre?”
    He raises his head, removes his reading glasses, studies it for a moment, and then looks down at his paper. “Non, c’est pas la mienne.”
    I set the tie back on the seat and pull forward. We do not speak, but I can feel his eyes on the back of my head, remembering. I am no longer anonymous.
    The traffic is bad today, so we cut through the Bois. I do not think he will notice, since most of the time his nose is in his paper, at least, when it is not staring at the back of my head. I drop him off as usual. Shortly thereafter, five stars and two euros.
    I find a place to park near a Monoprix. I call my wife and tell her I love her and I will be home tonight early. She sounds confused, but glad.

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