I die in the back of taxi cabs.

I die in the back of taxi cabs.

by John Cobb

I die in the back of taxi cabs.

Last Tuesday, I got in the back of a
black Toyota Yaris. I barely
acknowledged the driver's existence.
I didn't say much and I didn't go
anywhere unusual. When we got
there, I was already cold. Dead
on arrival.

You can't see me coming. I am
the scourge of taxi drivers.

Yesterday, I got in the back of a
gray Kia Rio and I wouldn't stop
talking. See, the thing is, there are
tremendous deals to be had at your
local supermarket. I wanted to
make sure the driver was thoroughly
informed before I slumped over
mid-sentence.

For certain drivers (the ones who
use their horn too much or use their
long pinky nail to stay awake at
3 am or have an exceptionally bad
taste in music), it is different. I soil
myself while slouching over.

You experience a brief moment
of intense stress while you wait
for the dead-body collectors. You
work to prepare your alibi and text
your loved ones.

But then I disappear like a butterfly
before anyone comes to your rescue.
You don't even get a chance to
take a picture of my carcass with
your cell phone.

There is no sign of me.

The dead-body collectors find nothing.

You doubt everything.

About the Author

John Cobb is a poet turned businessman based in Lima, Peru. On days when he isn’t doing business, he can be found documenting and categorizing the life around him—traffic, birds, minor crises, and the everyday absurdities of an unruly city. His work blends observational precision with a darkly comic sense of wonder.