Dancing with the Dead ✔

Chapter Seventeen - Gossip Trip

"Kiddo!" The grey-haired man waves at me, his left elbow resting on the open car window.

"Oh, hey Mr. H!" I say with a smile on my face. I pick my bag from the bench, stand up and walk towards the red sedan.

Wade Harrison—or Mr. H, as Claire and I like to call him—is the owner of Harrison's Taxi, one of the few taxi companies in this town. Claire introduced us the first day I moved here, telling me he's the best taxi driver in town. Although, after a few rides, I beg to differ. See, Mr. H is definitely a great driver and a great person overall; but, normally, I'd choose another taxi driver if I can, and I have a pretty good reason for that too. Nevertheless, today, that is exactly why I called him.

I open the door and slide across the backseat while the man raises the front window. He turns around and looks at me with a smile.

"So, where to?" he asks, his voice bright.

I gulp, pondering my thoughts to try to form the question without sounding overly strange. But before I can say a word, he points a finger at me and says, "You don't want to go to the hill again, do you? Because if you do, you know I can't." The lines on his forehead become more prominent as his brows lower.

I chuckle. "No, I'm not going to the hill again, Mr. H. Don't worry. Actually..." I drag myself forward. "Do you happen to know where the St. Johns live?"

"Well, of course, my dear! I can't be a driver for over thirty years without knowing every single address in the town now, can I?" He giggles.

Yes! I let out a small laugh.

"So? The St. Johns' house, then?" he asks.

"Yes, please," I say with a smile.

He puts the car in gear and starts driving. In the meantime, I try to make myself comfortable by leaning back against the car seat. I lay my elbow on the door panel and rest my chin on my palm.

"What happened to your usual car?" He always drives a dark green sedan with a huge Harrison's Taxi logo and phone number painted on its sides.

"Ah, it's still in Dean's auto shop," he replies, his voice wavers. "James took my car without my permission and ran into an accident a few days ago, said he hit a deer or something."

"Oh my God! Is he okay?" I ask. James is Mr. H's teenage son, one who had enough run-ins with the law. Young James Harrison has a thing for graffiti, and honestly? He's quite good at it. Once, I heard he got arrested for damaging the town's property. Poor old Mr. H had to bail him out of jail.

"He's unharmed, but he's definitely grounded for the rest of the school year," he replies, sounding quite angry at his boy. Well, I would too if I were him. "Why can't he be more like his brother?" He shakes his head, sounding really disappointed.

"Well, to be fair, Dean did set quite a high standard for his brother," I say, trying to brighten the mood.

He chuckles. "Yes, he did. Have I told you about that time he and his team won the state championship ten years ago? Oh, it was marvelous! He..." the old man continues to talk about his son's glory days with glee, a story which he—and Claire—has told me too many times before.

Remember when I told you normally I prefer other taxi drivers? This is the reason. Mr. H can be too chatty sometimes and don't you just hate it when someone keeps talking to you when all you want to do is have a quick nap after a long day? But today, that's not the case. When you're looking for information like I am, too chatty is perfect.

"Did you know he was one of only two persons on the history of Casa Nova chosen for the basketball scholarship at UCLA? He could've achieved so much more, had he not returned here," he concludes his story.