Lily “Lil” Babineaux, one of the highest-rated dramatic sopranos in the world lost her shit on a New York City cab driver in a mad scene unlike any she performed onstage. Her best friend and fellow singer, Angelina Montrose, lay unconscious, perhaps dead, in front of Lincoln Center, home of the Metropolitan Opera.
“You son of a bitch! I’M GONNA TEAR YOUR FUCKIN’ FACE OFF,” Lil howled, swooping around the hood of the little, yellow Nissan van and shoving astonished onlookers to the side.
Lil hammered on the taxi’s windshield. “Get out of the fucking van!” she bellowed, booting the side-view mirror off the door and ramming her elbow into the drivers-side window.
Bystanders grabbed Lil around the waist, lifting her from the ground and dragging her kicking and screaming to the opposite side of the street.
“Get your fucking hands off me! Put! Me! Down!”
Amid the chaos, the people aiding Angelina discovered the flattened soprano wasn't dead. When they attempted to communicate this to Lil, their shouts were overpowered by Lil’s pipes, vocal cords capable of propelling sound from the back of the Met stage to the highest and last row of the three-thousand seat auditorium.
The cabbie, believing the group had Lil somewhat under control, came out of his taxi hunkering down, prepared to fight if need be.
“Did I kill her?” he asked guardedly.
“YES! Look at her!” Lil cawed in reply as her jet black hair rose and fell in snake-like rhythm on the cutting December breeze.
The driver pointed to Lil’s black wool opera cape. “It’s not my fault; your friend walked out in front of me, you, you, you witch!” he squawked.
“Sure, asshole, blame the victim when she can’t defend herself BECAUSE SHE'S FUCKING DEAD!”
The chestnut vendor who hawked his nuts in peace until the taxi smashed into his cart trotted over to Lil. “She's not dead,” he announced. “We've been trying to get your attention.”
Lil gasped with relief before turning her attention to the driver. As she spoke, Lil emphasized her words with wags and jabs of her black-tipped forefinger, “She’s alive. And you! You’re fucking lucky.”
Lil put on a show of calm and asked to be released. Those who held her back saw no reason to keep her restrained and did as requested.
No sooner was Lil out of their immediate reach than the storm within her raged once more. She lunged at the cabbie who hurriedly fixed his arms over his face and head, barring Lil’s blows. As her fists crashed down, the driver hollered for help, trying frantically to hurry away from the crow-like woman who cawed, “Come back here, you motherfucker!”
Two police officers appeared on the scene; one rushing to Angelina, the other, a policewoman, placing Lil in a choke hold.
Lil struggled and sputtered, “Don’t damage my throat. I’m an opera singer.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you are, bitch. Calm down, or I will take you down. Why are you beating on him?” the she-cop asked, pointing at the driver.
“He ran over Angelina,” Lil eked out as she wriggled and gasped, terrified her larynx might not withstand the struggle.
The policewoman did her damndest to bring Lil to heel.
“Stop resisting! Who’s Angelina?”
“The woman on the ground! I can’t breathe. Get the fuck off of me! My dad was a cop. I’ll obey. I swear.”
“Just because your daddy wore a badge, I’m supposed to be okay with you committing assault? It doesn’t work that way, honey. If you keep taking the law into your own hands, I’m going to split your nut; you get what I’m saying sugar tits? Let the police handle this.”
“Okay! I told you I’ll listen! Just let me go!”
The officer set Lil free with a sharp warning, “I’m not joking; I’ll tase your ass.”
Lil doubled over and rubbed her throat before asking, “Where’s EMS? Why are they taking so long? Angie is going to die if she doesn’t get help!”
“They’ll be here. Go have a seat on the stairs; we’ve got stuff to talk about.”
“I don’t want to sit.”
“You’ll do as your told,” the cop ricocheted at Lil.
“I’m not moving. I can’t see what’s happening to Angie if I sit down.”
“Careful, if your dad was a cop, then you should know when to shut your blowhole,” the officer replied with a fierce glare.
Lil harrumphed, “My best friend gets run over, and I’m the criminal?”
More police reached the scene and formed a circle around the driver. Lil directed her attention to the discussion and overheard the cabbie pleading his case.
“The lady, she had her face buried in her stupid phone; she wasn’t watching where she was going and stepped off the curb right in front of me. I couldn't stop in time. I didn’t want to run her over completely, so I swerved and crashed into the nut cart. Ask the chestnut man; he’ll back up my story; he saw the whole damn thing.”
“How dare you keep blaming her!” Lil screeched before taking five, long-legged steps in the driver’s direction and for this, she was punished with a blazing shock.
Lil fell forwards, shouting, “FUCK!” Faster than a New York minute, she lay spreadeagled, her body twitching and quivering on Broadway.
“Ow…you made me pee my pants,” she moaned.