Party At Five

• Justin Farrawell, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2016

Four O’clock rolls around, he’ll be there I know that slob will be there. He always is, he’s never not. I unlock the button of my waist jacket pocket. I reach in and grasp the vial cradled within. It sloshes as the train rises over a crest. Good, it’s still there. I redo the button. Better keep it safe. Don’t want to mess this up. Further turbulence rocks my conscience out of place and I begin to show my anxiety. Bring it back; bring back the calm vibe of the job that needs to be preformed. My mind soothes realizing why I’m doing what I’m doing. It’s all for them. To be prestige, to earn that rite of passage. The screeching signals me that it’s time to depart from this faithless metal snake. The heavy doors slide past my face, opening out to the copious amount of parker-clad stiffs converging in a heap upon the platform. Fighting one another for a place at the doors. I step off into the bitter chill of the early afternoon. Pushing past lifeless frosted faces, all rushing to leave the cruel city behind. I make my way hastily up the dicey platform stairs and raised my hand to call a cab. Instantly one pulled up beside me. Paint stripping, light sparking, the driver looks drunk as hell. It’ll have to do. I clamber into the encasing structure. The stench of Indian food pours out of every seam of the back seat mixing with the aroma of cheap whiskey from the front. How does this guy still have a job?
“Where you headin’ fella?” he speaks in a slurred tone.
“ Fourth Westerly st” I respond harshly.
“Mind if I smoke?” he bellows as he takes off. He lit a cigar before I could respond.
“Sure” I reply. “It’s not like I’m going to stop you” I mumble under my breath. I look down at my hand again. Four thirty, plenty of time.
“Where you from son?” His garbled voice bawled from the front of the cab.
“North” I answer, better not to tell too much.
“North eh? As in Jensin way? I have family up dere you know!” he gets excited as he begins to tell me about is family. I tune him out and stare contently at the passing lights of the early night. Streaming past like locus swarming towards a cane field. I doze off for the remainder of the trip. I snap forward when the taxi comes to a swift halt.
“we’re ‘ere” he turns to face me. “that’ll be twelve-eighty thanks” he extends his reach towards me as I reach for my wallet, grazing the side of the vial. I pull out a twenty and hand it to his seedy hands.
“keep the change” I climb out sluggishly as the fact sinks back in, I’m finally doing this.
“much obliged mister!” the driver yells as he pulls away from the curb and speeds off into the night.