Turtle

A black and yellow checkered cab putters down a country road. In the back sit a mid-thirties couple. The man resembles Mt. Vesuvius pre-eruption, the woman looks closer to those caught by the ash.

“Good to know, that you are in fact, fucking kidding me,” the man says as he checks his Rolex.

“Peter, leave the man alone. He’s just doing his job.” The woman places a placating hand atop his own, but the neck veins don’t subside.

“His job? Kelsey, the man is supposed to be a taxi driver. Not a stop- start expert. He’s not the James Harden of driving. We need someone who isn’t afraid of the pedal.”

The driver in question seems to be bouncing along to his own thoughts. The vitriol flows over him.

“I’ll give it to you, Kels. He knows how to make decisions. Not that they’re any good or that he holds to any of them besides trying to reanact YURTLE THE FUCKING TURTLE, but he does make decisions.” The driver gives a glance back at the yell, but doesn’t find the man’s gaze. He keeps bouncing along.