Gift Horse (from the Munich Tales)

GIFT HORSE
By Michael Kroetch

He was absolutely forbidden to drive. The police all knew his face and kept a close watch for him. He had a bad record. The worst. He´d been in trouble with them about as much as possible. Still, he didn´t let this stop him. He wasn´t that sort. For fun he decided to steal a taxi and drive it around at night giving people rides. For free. Sure it was a crazy thing to do. He would have been the first to admit so. But he didn´t care what people said. Also, he wanted to get in good with Jesus and thought this free taxi might be his best bet. He lived above the old torpedo factory and had a half-blind cat named Tango. He took Tango with him in the taxi, making sure that they always had plenty of beer and Friskies for the night´s adventures. He originally only bought the Friskies for Tango, but found upon sampling the so very crunchy nuggets that they were a most delectable companion to his beer. Being a good natured and hospitable host he also always made sure to share the bounty of his discovery with his guests, pouring them some of the cat food into a styrofoam cup with his free hand, while simultaneously navigating through some of the most perilous of the city´s intersections. After which he instantly began opening a fresh beer and handing it over to whoever was in the back seat. Although it was true his driving skills left a lot to be desired, his manners with the passengers were impeccable. And even if they themselves remained speechless and quite white with fright, he always made sure to entertain them best he could with whatever was at hand. He would tell them tales about his days in the navy. He´d say “Tango wasn´t around back in them days, but I wish he had been. I could have used a cat like him to get me out of some of those scrapes.” As he told the story he´d be leaning back over the seat and, to make his points more clear, would be wave his arms around like a drowning polar bear. His guests usually didn´t know if it was more dangerous to stay quiet or to tell him to put his hands back on the wheel and pay attention to the road. No doubt they could see he kept his gun handy, duct-taped to the dashboard in case he had relationship issues with the police. At least that´s what he would tell them if he saw them looking at it. Then he´d say so far he´d been lucky with the taxi service. That Jesus seemed to be riding along shotgun on his shoulder and using some sort of holy voodoo chop-souey on the cops to keep them away. Then he´d say there was only one thing he hated more than cops and that was nosey parkers who liked to look a gift horse in the mouth. But not to get him wrong: He was happy to be driving and to do it for free, he just liked a little poetic license along the way to get from point A to point B. Usually he said this right before he plunged through a chain-linked fence and cut across a lawn of some private residence or public park—dodging statuary, trees, or the occasional kissing couple as he went. When at last he reached the end of the line, he´d hop out, cordially open the door for his passengers, smile and bow, then tell them to remember him to the big guy upstairs in their prayers. And off he would go in the taxi—whistling a tune, sipping a beer, and crunching down on some fresh Friskies.