Then came Boston, on a hot day in June, halfway through our trip. Arriving at Logan Airport, we couldn’t find our driver because we didn’t know that Logan has a designated place away from the terminal where drivers of limos and town cars wait for their clients. By the time we figured this out, our driver, a large man who weighed at least 280 pounds, had been waiting a long time, sweating in the hot sun.
We headed into town through the Liberty Tunnel and our driver, who’d been talking to his girlfriend on his cell phone, lost his connection. “Damn tunnel,” he said, “can’t get a good connection.” He snapped his cell phone shut, and then he died. Instantly, without struggle or pain—he just stopped living. It happened immediately after he said those words and snapped that phone shut. His head came back onto the headrest and he made a gurgling sound. I thought he had fallen asleep and was snoring, in perhaps the worst-ever case of narcolepsy in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was the late-afternoon rush hour, and traffic in the tunnel was moving slowly, thank God. Andy and I are forever thankful that this was a one-way tunnel with no oncoming traffic. The town car was drifting to the left. There was a bus beside us in the next lane, and I shouted, “Look out for that bus.” Our driver didn’t move. The bus stopped as we drifted across its lane. Drivers beeped their horns as we continued our slow drift across three lanes, hitting no cars on our way to the tunnel