The Last Cab Home

You know, it rains in this city. And when it does, it fucking pours, the kind we writers call "cats and dogs." That was the day. There's a hall on the tenth floor of the EACP Tower that twice a year hosts fifteen interns, culled from thousands - sometimes tens of thousands - of applicants. The orientation started at 2pm, and as it neared its end, only one person had yet to appear at the podium - though it seemed he'd been otherwise occupied. Mikael Gul, the CEO, had demanded to see this batch himself. Uncommon, but he was the man, and he got what he wanted, and what he wanted was more often than not a mystery to everyone else. The clock ticked toward five. Everyone was already halfway home in their minds. Then, at last, the man of the hour appeared. Everyone remembered their posture - everyone but Alexander, whose head

had been resting against the glass wall, watching nothing in particular out over Upper Hill, earphones in. He sat up now, pulled them out, and began to pay attention. Mr. Gul - as Alex would call him for the five months he'd spend at EACP - wasn't old for a leader in his industry. He was in his early forties, sideburns just starting to gray, though the intensity of his schedule had barely touched him otherwise. His body spoke of a man who saw the inside of a weight room a couple of times a week. He dressed impeccably - a bespoke three-piece suit, a Rolex on his wrist. The man had taste. He walked to the podium as the MC introduced him, and the fifteen or so naive young men and women in the audience clapped - absurdly, given that the man had kept them waiting an hour and hadn't said a single word yet. Maybe it was the red-soled shoes you could spot from a mile away. Or maybe they were just hungry for a little corporate politics, starved for the man's attention. Mr. Gul began: "Congratulations, gentlemen and ladies." In the second row, close to the solid wall, not far from the door, sat Celine. Maybe she wanted to run - who even knows - but she found herself wondering: isn't it supposed to be "ladies and gentlemen"? Is the CEO of my company a fucking misogynist? Not that you'd have known it to look

at her - composed, attentive, new notebook open, pen in hand. Mikael continued his speech. Nobody remem-bered a word of it - but Alex, Celine, and the other thirteen interns all remembered one thing: that after this six-month internship, only five of them would get a permanent position at EACP. It was war, and only the strong would survive it, and Alexander was certain he was the strongest. He was strong - and weak - in more ways than one. He would win, and lose, in more ways than either of them could yet imagine. By the end of the day, they'd had their badges processed and been given a tour of sorts - Alex saw the fourteenth floor for the first time, where he'd be working, and where he'd end up doing far more than just work. He met his assigned supervisor. It had been raining since 4pm. The entire com-pany was in the lobby, all glued to their screens, watching the Uber app spin through an endless "searching." The lucky ones had left early or matched with one of the few available taxis. The rich had already ridden off, perhaps to evening tea with their loved ones. Garry from accounting was among the poor, cussing at his screen - along with Alex and the rest of the interns. Alex walked out of the building. The apps were hopeless; maybe he could find a taxi outside. At this

point, almost everyone was thinking the same thing. God, it seemed, had shown them mercy - a taxi passed by. Alex waved, and it stopped. Walking toward it, he saw a girl walking toward it too. Turned out Celine had waved as well. They both reached the taxi at the same time, and - of course - they both wanted the ride. The taxi driver was impatient, and though the rain had slowed, it was still enough to soak you to the bone. Celine conceded without a fight. Alex felt awful about it - he didn't like winning without one, and besides, he liked to think of himself as the kind of gentleman who'd give up his ride for a lady. "No, please - take it. I'll get another." Alex said it hoping she'd say no, you take it, so he could finally go home. Instead she said, "Thank you," and walked toward the door. Alex, keeping up the gentleman act, opened it for her, gesturing with a smile that tried to mask exactly how royally screwed he felt. He stood there as his dreads began to collect the rain, watching her give the driver her address. "Is that the one in Parklands?" he asked. "Yes," she answered. "I'm a few blocks from there - mind if we share?" His hand was already on the door handle. He wasn't sleeping outside tonight; no wasn't an answer he was prepared to accept. She slid over to the other side of the seat, and that was her answer - she'd never

really been planning to say no. Alex tried, unsuccessfully, to dry his hair. Celine hugged her bag to her chest, leaned against the window, and watched the street as the taxi drove - or tried to, at least, because before long they were stuck in traffic, the rain seemingly unable to make up its mind, like Trump deciding whether to attack Iran. The silence was unbearable for Alex, so he took a stab at conversation. "So, you work here?" "Just started." She tried to end it there. "Me too - unless you're not actually the intern." "I am." She tried again. Alex wasn't picking up the hint. "Oh, how nice. I'm Alex - well, Alexander, but everyone calls me Alex. I don't even remember my own name anymore. One time I actually wrote 'Alex' on an exam paper. Can you imagine - they failed me for that." Celine was somewhere between disturbed and amused by this rambling rasta of a stranger. She looked at him a beat too seriously, something close to actual observation, and said, "I'm Celine. Nice to meet you... Alexander." "So which uni did you go to?" Alex began interro-gating her. She was slow enough to answer that he filled the silence himself: "I'm from UoN." "What's UoN?" she asked. Alex, genuinely shocked she didn't know, an-

swered, "University of Nairobi." "Oh, okay," said Celine. "Are you even from Kenya?" Alex asked, unable to imagine a Kenyan who didn't know UoN. "No. I'm from the UK." "Well, that explains it," Alex said, out loud, before he could stop himself - then, trying to cover, "So which university, then?" "Oxford." Alex's jaw dropped. He started thinking his UoN card wasn't quite as impressive as he'd assumed thirty seconds ago, and then he started smiling, and before he knew it he was making some genuinely strange faces with no way to recover, so he simply shut up. The silence returned. The car had cleared the worst of the traffic, which helped a little. Before long the taxi was close to Celine's building, the rain kept the pace as if trying to keep them in it a while longer. Alexander thought to himself: maybe he'd pay for the whole ride - that could redeem this. Then he remembered he was on a budget. He wrestled with the thought for a moment before finally landing on: impressing a girl is going to kill me financially, but fuck it, I'll do it. Celine asked the driver, "Where do I send your money?" - as if she could read Alex's mind, and was determined to keep him permanently in aura

debt. The driver didn't care who paid, only that he got paid. "M-Pesa, to my number." Alex started up the dance again. "Let me get it." "No." Celine stepped clean off the dance floor and, to the driver, asked, "Your number?" - which he read out loud. It was done before Alex could say or do anything about it. And then they were outside Celine's building, and she was out of the car far too fast, like she was running away from him - but she turned back at the window and said, "I'll see you Monday, Alexander." Alex tried to say the same back, but she was already gone, jogging for the entrance, in no mood to wait around while he found the words, or started rambling again.