By Kendalle Fiasco
“Yeah, we’re just going across the
bridge, please,” Brett says as I shut the heavy door behind me. I am inundated
by the stink of leather. The driver turns on his meter. “So if you could just
take Roebling, that would be fine.”
Our
faceless chauffeur swings his heavy foot on the accelerator; the telescreen
snaps to life. “Hey you! Yeah, you! The one in the back of the cab!” beckon
Regis and Kelly, our impersonally familiar friends, flirting, waving, winking,
and engaging us. “Be sure and buckle up!” We’re sucked in, just like that. They
don’t interact with each other so much as they interact with our presence,
maintaining uncanny eye contact, nodding with each spoken syllable, hoping to
be the first one picked to be on our team. Kelly’s entire presence is
parasitical, tacitly expressing an empathetic knowledge, a mix between an
innocent young girl and the foolish but kindly mother who believes she knows
best. Their Rosencrantz and Guildenstern act ends with a punch line, and zap!
New setting, new speaker, new informal friendliness. Image chases image, shadow
chases shadow. Interviews. Archeological digs. Meteorology. Shopping, dining,
hot deals, New York City. They care about us. They’re involved in our
lifestyles. They want us to save money, to eat well, to bundle up for the
coldest weekend of the season. What perfect creatures, with their tiny,
unblemished faces, their maternal caring, their approachable demeanors! They’re
alluring, they’re seductive, and they want to talk to me.
