My father taps a card on the table. “Why you get here so late? The interview was at ten-thirty. It finished in five minutes, from what you say.”
And the memory of it surges back, not as an anecdote but as a fresh wave of irritation. The wasted time, the grating injustice of it. “There was…an incident afterward. With a cab.”
And just like that, I’m angry again. If it weren’t for that woman, I wouldn’t have had to stand there for another twenty minutes trying to flag down another one. Cabs are always busyon weekends, and you’d think there’d be plenty on Avenue B—it’s a major street, lots of bars and restaurants—but it’s also the East Village on a Friday night, which means every cab is either occupied or heading somewhere else to pick up a fare that’s actually worth their time.
My father’s eyebrows lift. My mother freezes, a dish towel in her hand.
“An incident?” my father prompts.
“A disagreement. Over occupancy.” I spear a piece of pasta, avoiding their eyes. “A woman…attempted to take the taxi I got for myself.”
“And?” My mother’s voice has taken on a wary edge.
“And I…discouraged her from taking it. That’s all.”
“Discouraged how?” My father has set his cards down entirely now.
The silence stretches. The buzz of the refrigerator seems loud. “I may have…facilitated her exit.”
“Leonidas.” My mother’s tone is dangerously flat.
“She was drunk! And unreasonable! She shoved me first—”
“You put hands on a woman?” My father’s question is a low rumble.
“Notonher—I mean, technically, yes, but it was more of a…extraction!”
“Extraction.” My mother repeats the word as if it’s in a foreign language. She stands up slowly. “Youextracteda woman? From a taxi? How?”
“By her ankles,” I mutter, the full, juvenile absurdity of it crashing down.
Both of my parents’ eyes bulge. They’re staring at me like I just confessed to a felony. My mother’s hand goes to her mouth. My father just blinks.
“Panagia mou!”My mother shouts. “My son! The professor! A…a hooligan!” The dish towel flies through the air, catching me on the shoulder with a hardthwap.
“I didn’t hurt her!”
“You grabbed her feet and pulled!” My father’s face is masked with stunned disbelief. “This is what barbarians do! Not my son with the PhD!”
“I was tired! I just wanted to get home!” My defense sounds pathetic, even to me. The image replays in humiliating clarity: my hands around her ankles, the sheer, undignified scramble, the cab driver’s look of utter contempt.
My mother is staring at me like she doesn’t recognize me. “You pull a woman out of a car.By her feet!”
“I know how it sounds—”
“Do you? Because it sounds like you assault someone!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I didn’tassaultanyone! We were both trying to get in the same cab and it got…out of hand.”
My mother sinks into a kitchen chair as if her bones have turned to water. “Panagia mou. My son. My respectable, educated son. A criminal.”
“I’m not a criminal—”
“You’re lucky she did not have brother! Or call the police!”
“She’sthe one who started it!”
“You’re thirty-two years old, Leonidas. You’re a father. You have a daughter who admires you. And you fight in the street like—like—” She waves her hand, searching for the word. “Like wild animal! Like a dog over a bone!”
