I was heading to the hospital. He asked me point-blank what was wrong with me. I told him that I had just had my gallbladder removed a month ago and was heading to the hospital for a checkup.
He had all the windows in the taxi open – forming a vortex of hot muggy gross wind in the backseat, plastering my hair around my face.
He shouted over latest hits from across the sea as he swerved in and out of traffic.
“You know, you shouldn’t eat too much. You shouldn’t eat to here.” He brought his hand up to the show the part where the neck meets the head to emphasize his point. “No, don’t eat too much. Not good for you.”
“You see here.” I pulled my hair back to see. “I keep my lunch here. I eat small meals. You eat too much at once and your body doesn’t digest. You need to let your food fully digest before you eat again.”
“The only time you should eat too much is at parties. So much good food. Only once in a while. I eat good steak and chicken and big shrimp. Then I take 2 Xantac and fall asleep.”
He stopped at a red light. The vortex died down. He turned around to look at me. I brushed the hair from my face.
“You know people like you and I try to do our best, but it’s not up to us. It’s up to god. I don’t know if you believe in god, but I do. He decides what happens to us. We can try our best to be healthy but in the end it’s up to him.” He raised both of his hands to the sky.
“He does give us lessons though. He gives warning. Yes he does. But only if you’re willing to really listen.”
And in the end, isn’t that the truth?