It’s a foggy night in Chicago. Most everyone is in bed already, getting rested for whatever might come at them tomorrow, but not me. I usually can’t get to sleep too well, and so I waste time on the computer, looking at box scores and old pictures on Facebook. I typically have too much caffeine during the day, which invariably leads to needing more caffeine in order to function later on today. It’s a terrible cycle, indeed.
I decided to take the dog out, since he’ll leave something for me overnight if I don’t. I put his leash on, walked down the front steps, and headed towards what we call the “short corner,” which has two or three places my that dog can target at his pleasure. It’ll just be a few minutes, and then it’s off to bed, finally.
Then a cab drives down my street, right past me. I don’t think anything about it, until I get a look at the cab’s number: 666. Why, with thousands of cabs in this city, couldn’t number 1483 be driving past me, instead? Why did it have to be that particular number? Is it some kind of an omen? I don’t know, but the weirdness of it compelled me to write this down, lest it be forgotten by morning.
A short night’s sleep has now been made even shorter by my decision to type this small story out. But then again, a foggy night and Mephistopheles’ favorite cab probably don’t come into one’s life together all that often. And when you encounter them–and live to tell the tale–you’re duty-bound to put the story online, I think. So now I’ll get some sleep, and hope there isn’t a cab involved in my dreams. That would be too weird, wouldn’t it?
