Memoria. A Corporation of Lies

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Frank didn’t like the cab the moment he saw it.

The ancient Ford Victoria had tinted windows, a rusty rear fender and a massive brush guard mounted on the bumper. The driver pulled out of the cab line that stretched all the way to the airport exit, cutting off the car that already waited for Frank. Brakes screeching, it came to a halt by the curb.

Frank had a bad feeling about it. The car raised questions. First, what cab company would keep this rust bucket in their fleet thirty years after the end of the war in the city? Secondly, what kind of taxi driver would so brazenly cold-shoulder his fellow cabbies?

The driver rolled down his window and yelled at Frank, his voice drowned out by an airbus landing in La Guardia. The plane’s shadow darkened the bombed-out skeletons of buildings along the road. Crossing the faces of people waiting on the sidewalk, the shadow brushed the glass façade of a newly restored building and fleeted away.

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