2010-10-04 - 1:35 a.m.
A strawberry blond�s airplane touches down in old Los Angeles. She takes one look around, marches right outside and hails a cab.
Inside the cab is a young Lawrence Fishburne in his best Driving Miss Daisy.
�Where to, Miss?�
�Atlanta.�
�Uh, Atlanta? Well, okay, Atlanta.�
He talks constantly, and she lets him. When he asks her why she�s gonna up and go to Atlanta when she only just got here, she says:
�They told me the city hits you pretty hard. I guess it hit me a little too hard... Knocked me right out.�
He talks especially about how well he knows these roads. He calls out which trucks they�ll see just before they appear: the tobacco truck, the flour truck, the cotton truck... Wait, where�s the cotton truck?
As the city recedes, the roads merge and become unpaved. Tall green stalks flank them on either side. Lawrence the Cab Driver is mumbling to himself now.
�Atlanta, I mean, I�ll drive to Atlanta. Rather drive to the Culver Cities, looking nice this time of year. Where�s that durn cotton truck?�
Soon he�s driving at breakneck speed down a hilly road obviously overgrown, but he�s stubborn; he wants that huge fare! Even the woman takes notice, but he insists they aren�t lost.
Hours later, a worn out Lawrence returns on foot to a warmly lit home on the edge of a farm. A heavily freckled blond teenager in a football jersey grins when she sees him, showing off her buckteeth. She jumps off the porch swing where she�d been waiting, her feet free of shoes and worry.
�How far you walk lookin for gas?� she shouts. �You ever find that cotton truck?�
��Bout two mile... and never you mind bout no cotton truck!�
She gestures him inside for dinner. He takes one look at his stranded cab on the roadside, nods, and follows her in.
The end.
