gotten a medal for putting that young man in his place.
I laughed with the others, visualizing Truck entering the driver's room, slamming his things on a table, responding to our prodding, then giving a dramatic elocution as he told how he had thrown that "little fucker" out of his cab.
Then, it occurred to me that perhaps that "little fucker" was indeed the Madison Mangler. No possibility could be ignored. But to find a vampire, even in a small city, that was a most daunting task.
Finally, we were ushered into the chapel for the funeral. I scanned the crowd. The chapel quickly overflowed with a diverse collection of people, but no one who looked out of place and particularly distinctive.
And there was no sign of Nicole.
A minister, tall and fleshy, took the pulpit and began speaking of "David's" faith, his long-fingered hands gripping the edge of the dais so hard that his knuckles glowed white. David. The name conjures up such delicate images of a ruddy-faced, muscular young man of singular beauty, making it difficult to think of Truck as "David," though indeed, he was perhaps truly a king among men. The minister described how he had known Truck since he was a child, that even well into adulthood, he still attended services on a semi-regular basis, and on a regular basis, he worked with children at the church.
"David was a very gentle soul," the minister said. "He didn't always let people see that. It is a difficult world, and David knew that and wore his gruff exterior as an armor of protection. But his generosity was very real, as was his great faith, a faith in the inherent goodness of people."
A familiar scent washed over me. Scanning the crowd, I saw Nicole standing at the rear of the chapel, her expression blank.
The minister concluded, and the short, muscular biker took his place at the pulpit. The fellow began by reading a poem Truck had written about cab driving, about how it is important to know where it is you are going.
The biker related how Truck published poetry in numerous journals across the country. How he was an accomplished trumpet player, having graduated from the Julliard School of Music, and though he disdained playing professionally, Truck had taught music lessons to children, free of charge.
The biker said Truck, like his fellow bikers, sometimes got into fights, but that he only fought when it became necessary to come to the aid of a fellow biker.
"One of those times," the biker said, "Truck got a guy out of a jam, then turned around and punched him in the mouth because the guy was wrong."
When the funeral was complete, it was time to commence the procession to the cemetery, which would take us from the north side ofMadison to the graveyard at the near west side. The graveyard was actually one of three cemeteries sprawled together, bordered by a triangle of streets, forming an area known in cab lexicon as the "bonezone." Ironically, Truck was to be buried a mere stone's throw from where his body had been found.
By the time my cab joined the line, the front of the procession was beyond my sight. And many cabs still remained in the parking lot waiting to join the queue.
If my existence continues for another thousand years, I doubt I will be able to forget the sight of that procession. As the line moved downNorth Sherman Avenue , which spokes northward from the Isthmus, neither the front nor the rear of the line of vehicles was visible from my vantage point.
When my cab reachedState Street , large crowds of pedestrians clumped at each corner, unable to pass until the final vehicle in the procession had cleared the intersection. Astonishment was clearly visible on the faces of many of those pedestrians, as was burgeoning impatience, if not anger, for those annoyed that a funeral procession was keeping them so long waiting.
There was no parking lot at the cemetery. All these vehicles, all these cabs had to park on the narrow driveways that wound through the graveyard, transforming those arteries of asphalt into a immense yellow snake.
The grave-side ceremony seemed almost anti-climactic after this procession. It was short, and then it was over, and Truck was gone, but not forgotten. Then, it was time for those actually working to start running the calls that surely had mounted during this interim.
When it was over, Nicole approached, her expression still blank.