Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

New York Dash

The traffic honked and screeched in the sweltering heat of a rare summer in New York. It simply never got this hot. All the windows of the yellow cab were rolled down, but the still air never once brought a refreshing breeze. Carry's thin silk shirt had melted an hour ago, moulding to her flesh like a restrictive second skin. The stifling atmosphere was punctuated by gas and diesel exhaust drifting aimlessly through the open windows. True to form, New York was a maze of luxury cars, commercial trucks, and yellow cabs, enraged drivers and careless drivers, and the ever-present polluting emissions of thousands of vehicles all jammed in confining three-lane avenues.

Carry had planned two hours in advance, doubling the time it usually took to reach the courthouse. New York rush hour never failed, however, and Carry's cab had been stuck on the same street, at the same set of traffic lights for an hour. A chorus of honking started again, useless pent up energy needing to be displaced.

"SHUT UP!" the cabbie hollered, drawing a cacophony of rude responses.

New York had never been known for the mellow temper of its drivers. Carrie tried not to fidget as she watched the interaction with growing trepidation. She wondered if the cabbie carried a gun. She wondered if the other drivers were carrying guns. She half wanted a gun herself to end this misery.

Carry felt out of sorts ever since she left her apartment, and the feeling only intensified the longer she sat dripping sweat in the cab's cracked vinyl back seat. It was supposed to be a customary check-in hearing meant to see if she would show up. Nothing of any importance will be decided, but her mother had insisted on creating a good first impression. In her mother's books, a good first impression on a judge sitting on a delinquency case scheduled for the end of the day qualified as a black pencil skirt, silk white shirt, hair tied back respectfully and 4-in pumps. Apparently, a delinquent couldn't show that she cared about her future without silk and heels that will snap her legs in two. Carry would've thought actually showing up on time counted more. Whoever said parents knew best didn't know what they were talking about. Carry would much rather show up in jeans and flip flops. Court dress code was so overrated. Who would want to wear a suit in this heat anyways?

The cab lurched forward a couple of meters and Carry allowed herself a glimmer of hope, only to have it crushed into oblivion again as they stopped five cars away from the red street light. She checked her watch again. The hearing was in half an hour. If she ran, she might just get there on time. Carry chewed on her lower lip, weighing her options. Finally, she tipped the driver for what she assumed the whole trip would've cost and dashed out, clutching her strappy heels to her chest, her bag bouncing on her shoulder in time with her steps. She ran past idling cars on the street, not even bothering with the sidewalk. Outside the court house, she flashed past an older man carrying a briefcase who was half running half walking and beat him to the overflowing elevator full of other people in business suits. The old man got there just as the doors were closing, and Carry stuck out her hand before they closed all the way. He thanked her, out of breath, and noticed her barefoot attire with a raised eyebrow but chose not to comment.

Inside the courtroom, Carry found her lawyer and her mother at one of the tables and went to sit beside them.

"Don't ask," she warned her mother as the older woman opened her mouth. Carry knew what she was going to say and did not want to hear it. Her hair was a mess, her shirt was plastered to her flesh, not leaving anything to the imagination, and she was barefoot. Carry quickly strapped the heels into place, trying to slow her breathing down. Just because she looked like she had run a marathon did not mean that she needed to look like she actually did.

"All rise," came the call. Carry dutifully stood up with the rest of the attendees. However, the man who walked in in a judge's robes bore a striking resemblance to the old man in the elevator, and Carry tried hard not run back out of the room. She had bumped into the judge in the street, rushed past him in a mad dash to get to the elevator, and he had seen her barefoot.

The judge's smile was kind, though, and he proceeded straight to business. He had been late too after all. Traffic in New York was hellish, and everyone had the right to deal with it in their own way, running barefoot through the streets or calling out to hold the elevator.

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