The Neurotic Writer Drives a Taxi

The Neurotic Writer Drives a Taxi

Therapist: “Suzie, your wrist is bandaged. What happened?”

Suzie Writer: “Nothing much. I hit it in a taxi.”

Therapist: “Crazy taxi drivers.”

Suzie Writer: “I was driving the taxi. Yes, I was researching another book. My heroine takes over her uncle’s business when he runs off to the rain forest with a female mud wrestler. I got the idea from my cousin Jewels. She drives a taxi and she just happened to be going out of town for the week, so I drove for her.”

Therapist: “I didn’t know you had a commercial driver’s license.”

Suzie Writer: “A what?”

Therapist: “You can’t just drive a taxi without proper authorization. Your cousin must know that.”

Suzie Writer: “Well, she didn’t exactly know I was driving her taxi. She was gone. I was watching her house. The key was on the hook. I got the idea to write the book and one thing led to another. I guess it’s a good thing you can’t squeal on me.”

Therapist: “Yeah…I guess it’s a good thing. I gather you drove her taxi into a wall or something. You have your wrist wrapped.”

Suzie Writer: “No, I didn’t. You don’t have much faith in me, doc. As a matter of fact, I was a great driver. I rehearsed a chase scene and no one got hurt. Unless you count the Scottsdale socialite who threw up her lunch in her lap. Those rich women drive me nuts. They tell you to get to the airport yesterday and then they scream and yell when you step on the gas. I was only going a hundred and no one was one the sidewalk.”

Therapist: “So how did you hurt her wrist?”

Suzie Writer: “I told the Scottsdale babe her shoes didn’t match her handbag and she swung it at me. And to top it off, she didn’t even get a tip. What a snob.”