I met Mr. Kumar at the JFK airport. Two short hours later it was clear as day: Anoop Kumar had to die.
When I first met him he was nothing but a gentleman. He asked me how my day was, kindly took my heavy suitcase from me, lifted it into his yellow cab and opened the door for me. Very chivalrous, he was, that Anoop. Very kind. That is, until he wasn’t. And then he wasn’t at all. Especially when he was calling the cops on me…That was the especially mean part.
I don’t want to go on, so I’ll tell you this: Anoop tried to take me for a ride. Literally. And metaphorically. And instead of taking me the regular route from the airport to Ch, he took a longer one resulting in a meter totaling fifty five bucks. And in all my years of taking cabs to and from JFK I’d never paid more than forty. So I’d only brought $40 with me. When he heard that little piece of news is when he called the cops. And when I heard that he was doing that I called the cops to let them know he was holding my suitcase hostage and not letting me leave.
Prior to the name and cop calling, our dialogue went a little something like this:
Anoop: You pay me now!
Me: I’m sorry (sniff) I don’t have any more money.
Anoop: You not leave until you pay me.
Me: (bawling) I can give you forty. That’s all I have. Please let me go.
Anoop: No way.
Me: LET ME OUT NOWWWWWW!
Anoop: I’m calling the cops.
Me: Then I guess I’m calling the cops too. Take that, stupididiotjerk.
To make a long, tearful story short, the cops came. And there we were on President and Albany; Me, Anoop, five NYPD, and half of the President Street residents. Guess what? After all that, making me cry and like a good half hour of keeping me hostage he agreed to taking $40. Like what else was he supposed to do. Well, on the condition that I don’t complain to his boss.
And that, my friends, is how I came to the conclusion that Anoop Kumar had to die.