The White House

The Driver
Part One

by Tatiana Pahlen

        I've heard it rains in London. Really??? I left New York rainy and snowy at the end of March for the fiercely sunny England. Thank God I had my sunglasses in my pocket, although it was for a fashion reason, otherwise I would have gone blind.
        A shabby mini-van was waiting at the Heathrow airport. A forlorn man with a hefty belly opened the door.
        "Welcome to London!" His proper British cut me to size. I blurted out something funny, or at least I thought I did, but not a muscle moved on his granite face.
        "Where shall I take you?" He exhibited arrogance.
        "The White House," I ordered.
        "But of course! Where else should I take a first class lady?" His voice was poisonous. "By chance, would you happen to have a London map?"
        "A map? Why?"
        "Actually, it's a part time job. I am a school bus driver."
        "I see!" I gazed at his face with compassion through the rearview mirror. A first-aid kit with a faded red cross caught my eye. I crossed myself like in front of a crucifix.
        "Do you use it a lot?"
        "What?" He followed my finger. "This?" His eyes saddened.
        "It's just a box. I keep it for my coins." He shook his treasure, jingling like a Santa Claus.
        "I se-e-e." I tuned my syllables.
        "Sorry, that was a nasty bump! I'll never get used to this bloody left side driving. What a loser whoever thought of it." He swerved from lane to lane.
        "Right!" I was getting vigilant.
        "Are you here on 'holidie'?" Suddenly the driver sounded more like an Irishman. "What brought you here?"
        "Adventure!"
        " Am I in a terrorist's hands?' A crazy thought hit my audacious mind.
        "Can you lower your radio?" I braved.
        "Radio? I have no radio!" He looked at me with rising interest.
        "Whatever it is, just turn it down, please."
        He ignored. "It's a helluva shop! Now, look at your right. See? It's Marks & Spencer!"
        "Mark Expensive?"
        "Outrageously!"
        "What does he charge for an umbrella?"
        "Can't imagine! But if you wanna handgun, I'll show you another shop."
        'Wanna?' I detected a Brooklyn-Italian accent. "No, thanks! No shopping today. Don't you see it, I'm exhausted? Straight to The White House! Full speed," I yelled.
        "Okay, okay!" His plain bloated face sagged. "Shall we stop at the pub? I am thirsty!"
        I stared at his belly. "What brewing brand do you take?"
        "Doesn't matter! Anything."
        "Do you take Evian?"
        "Anything when I'm thirsty."
        "Here!" I pulled a bottle out of my bag. He emptied it like a Bedouin in the desert.
        "Do you happen to have more?"
        "Not really. How far are we?" I yawned.
        "How do I know? Hey! Let me show you something." He strayed off the road and after two turns and circles, stopped at the front yard of a neglected house with crooked doors and dusty windows. The walls were covered with brown ivy and cobwebs; some stairs to the front porch were missing.
        "So, what do you think?" His lifeless eyes lit up.
        "Nothing!" I said. My answer wouldn't change even if he pulled up at Buckingham Palace with the Queen Mother at the gate offering hot knishes.
        "Nothing at all? It's my grandmother's!" He beamed. "I love this place! Wait till you see my auntie's!"
        "Listen," I said. "I missed a night on the damn flight. No more sightseeing today, please. Basta! Capiche?"
        "Hey, I was showing you the best of London." He sounded hurt.
        For the rest of the trip he remained silent. I closed my eyes and dreamed about the Lincoln bedroom where I was lying on the silk sheets surrounded by soft pillows. Thousands of tiny harps began pleasing my ears. I was slowly reaching Heaven. The stormy laughter awoke me and ruined my splendid dream.
       "Ha! Ha! Ha! Here we are," roared the fat man. "Look at this dump!" his face contorted. "Your White House! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
        At this point I refused to lose faith in my hotel. The place didn't match the name with a generous depiction from my travel agent. Regardless, I was more concerned watching my driver's face. All of a sudden, I witnessed a plentiful burst of emotions.
        "Enjoy your stay!" He wiped his joyous tears.
       "How kind of you!" I added to my fare a broad dental smile then watched him taking off with a baffling thought.
        Who says it rains in England and the Englishmen are dry?