Ten Numbers in Lipstick

Ten Numbers in Lipstick

It was far easier than it should have been to pour out your soul to a complete stranger.

After nearly a decade behind the wheel of a New York City taxi cab, Chip knew that better than anyone. Passengers didn’t hesitate to spill their life stories in his backseat, the assurance that they would never ride with him again creating an illusion of security. Usually, they were right. Faces blurred together in Chip’s rearview mirror until only the stories remained sharp and true. He never forgot, but was always forgotten, an afterthought the moment people turned their backs and his bright yellow cab became one in a million.

Let’s introduce you to Chip. It won’t take long.

There isn’t much to tell.

The most memorable thing about Chip was his name, and only because his mother possessed some sense of humor that she failed to pass on to her son. He had the kind of face that you forgot the moment you looked away. His conversation never extended beyond “hello” and “thank you,” punctuated by a tipping of the threadbare Yankee cap that must have concealed a nasty bald spot, for it never left his head. Chip didn’t watch movies because he didn't have to. Every day, he lived within a new one which unfolded in the backseat of his taxi. Though he was never the lead, only the passing side character in plots that seemed to be real to everyone but him.

Some days, Chip wondered if watching a thousand lives go by was better than living out his own. He suspected not.

Though Saturday mornings like this one tied together everything Chip loved about New York. A lifetime of going unnoticed ensured he saw things people who were seen themselves didn’t bother to look for. He observed the way pedestrians suddenly started staring at the sidewalk when they passed the homeless man curled up on the curb. He noted the policeman lighting his third cigarette of the day, and watched as the NYU student hurried through the streets; she always wore headphones, music shutting out the world that left her nail beds bitten down from stress.

Chip parked his cab right where the crowd of young people typically emerged from late night clubs, hoping that one would duck inside to catch a ride home.

At first he struck out, with peoples’ light pockets causing them to choose the subway tunnels instead, until a woman approached. She came from the last of the late night parties, judging by her black cocktail dress and the way she walked unsteady, but sure somehow.

“Evening, darling,” she said, flashing a pearly white smile beneath red lipstick.

Anyone else would have pointed out that the sun was up and it was in fact morning.

Chip just tipped his hat, “Evening to you as well, miss,”

He was clay, ever-willing to bend to others’ reality; he wanted an insight into her world, a snapshot of a life that contrasted so sharply with his own.

And if, in her world, it was evening, that was perfectly fine with him.

“Grand Central Station, please,” Chip heard the crinkle of dollar bills as she unfolded them from her purse, “Do I pay you up front?”

“After is fine.”

A void of silence fell between them; comfortable for him but unbearable to her.

“You got a name, darling?”

“Chip.”

“Chip,” she smiled out the window like the grimy city streets were the gates to Heaven. “Oh! I like it. Not something you hear every day.”

“Guess not.

She laughed, “I’m Millie, which, unfortunately enough, is something you hear every day.”

“Millie’s okay.” Chip replied softly.

“You don’t talk much, do you, Chip? That’s okay. I probably talk enough for both of us and louder than the world can handle, at least that’s what my mother used to say. Couldn’t tell you what she'd say now. I ran away.”

“How come?” Chip asked.

“Because I am selfish, and don’t want to follow someone else’s path in this world when I can pave my own way.”

“Don’t sound selfish to me,” he said. “Sounds brave.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Chip pulled the taxi over at the corner 42nd Street, “Here you are. Grand Central, miss.”

“Call me Millie.” she demanded. “You know what? Just call me. Give me your hand, Chip.”

Bewildered, Chip obliged. She scrawled down ten numbers in bright red lipstick.

“Now you can’t forget,” she whispered, glancing up. Their eyes met, and for the first time in his life, Chip felt seen.

A horn honked from behind them, shattering the moment. Millie scrambled from the cab and sprinted into Grand Central. She never looked back at the taxi driver who had already memorized the numbers she scribbled onto his skin.

Later, Chip called, mostly to confirm that she hadn’t been a daydream conjured up by his lonely mind.

But she was real, and wanted to see him again, which seemed almost too good to be true. Together, Chip and Millie built something real between them. Or he thought so, anyway.

Millie was like sunshine; she shed her joy on the simplest of people and dragged them into the spotlight beside her. She never ran out of words to fill his thoughtful silences and never slowed down to let the world catch up with her. She showed Chip the magic of life on the other side of the taxi cab window. After a few months with her, he began to feel like he just might be someone’s harbor instead of a passing ship.

For a year, not a day passed where Chip forgot to call.

But Millie did.

And eventually, it was a dim recording of her voice greeting Chip on the other end of the line instead of the real thing. Chip listened to it over and over, clinging to a sliver of light since her absence left him alone in the darkness.

Millie moved on how she did everything else: fast. Chip stayed right where she left him, becoming more invisible than ever before.

Years passed the way they always did; slow in the moment, fast in retrospect. More skyscrapers joined the New York City skyline, each rising taller than the one before. People stopped staring at sidewalks and started staring at screens instead. Nobody had to pretend not to see the homeless man anymore-nowadays, they hardly noticed anything at all.

They certainly didn’t look up long enough to notice the man still hunched behind the wheel of the same taxi cab. Though his beard was flecked with grey and gnarled hands made gripping the wheel painful, Chip refused retirement. Without this, he had nothing.

One Saturday morning that should have been like any other, a woman who wasn't like any other slid into the backseat of his cab.

“Central Park, as fast as you can, darling,” she exclaimed breathlessly.

Chip froze.

He knew that voice anywhere.

“Sure, miss. What brings you over there today?” Chip’s voice shook with all the words he longed to say. But silence was safer, so he clung to it like a lifeline.

“Going to surprise my granddaughter,” she answered, with a fond smile. “Here’s a photo, isn’t she just darling?”

Chip glanced at the picture out of the corner of his eye at a red light. He found himself staring at a little girl who laughed into the camera with Millie’s shining eyes. He swallowed down everything that threatened to pour to the surface.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Those same eyes met his, wrinkled around the edges but shining twice as bright as he remembered, “You look awfully familiar. Do I know you?” For so long, she had stuck in his head like an old song he couldn’t bring himself to sing anymore, even though he knew every word by heart. He could still recall those ten numbers like they remained etched into his skin by her lipstick, and fought the urge to dial them every day.

But to her, he was nothing but a forgettable face, a vague memory, one of the many flames that died with youth. And it wasn’t his granddaughter they were driving to see.

“No ma’am.” Chip answered quietly.

Because she didn’t know him. Not anymore.

Nobody did.

Chip drew the Yankees cap lower over his eyes as the light turned green.