He is unquestionably the most cold-hearted character in the history of the cinema. Impeccably dressed, as if he’d think little of attending the opera after delivering a weapon of war to a client, he is suave, charming, and without a trace of sentiment. All business, in the best sense. He can get you dope, grass, coke, mescaline, uppers, or crystal meth, and, in a pinch, some nitrous oxide to take the edge off. Pink slip for a brand-new Cadillac? Consider it done. Hell, he’s so damn accommodating, he’ll even throw in a hand-made holster from Mexico for your .44 Magnum. All for the low, low price of $40. It would shock no one to learn he’s also into real estate.
Andy – “Easy Andy” on the street – enters, inhabits, and exits Taxi Driver so cleanly, so effortlessly, it may strike some as odd that he’d be considered the (a)moral center of the picture. But he’s so commanding a figure, it’s my contention that his madness exceeds that of Travis Bickle himself, only with a level of detachment unavailable to the sort of man who kills, up close and personal. No, unlike Travis, Andy never gets his hands dirty. He’s likely never witnessed an act of violence in person. Andy earns copious cash, undoubtedly resides on the Upper West Side, and may or may not have a graduate degree. He’s well-spoken, soft in his features, and, when the mood strikes, an indisputable romantic. Furthermore, he may even dabble in poetry. Above all, he believes in giving back. The ultimate supplier in a market-driven hellscape. You want it, he’s got it.
He meets clients only through referrals. And in random cabs. From there, to flophouses and drug dens passing as hotel rooms. Untraceable, like his merchandise. He lays out his wares like an urban Willy Loman, everything so shiny and proud, you’d think it was the Queen’s own silver. His descriptions are loving, almost tender. “That’s a beauty,” he says of the Magnum, as if its next stop were the Louvre. He continues: “Stop a car at 100 yards, put a round right through the engine block.” And how. “I just deal high quality goods to the right people,” he states, blandly, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the world. While Travis tries out a .380 Walther “given only to officers in WWII,” Andy stands back, admiring the scene. “Isn’t that a little honey”, he coos, beaming with a father’s love. It’s no accident that Travis buys him out, right then and there.
Four weapons, $875. A bargain, given Travis is bent on war. Andy, however, barely breaks a sweat. No questions asked, because questions imply answers. And Andy minds his own business. It’s how he both makes a living and stays living. Maybe there are hundreds of Andys, and Easy’s retirement wouldn’t pause the murder train for a second. But for these two hours, in this slice of 70’s grit, he’s no less guilty than the Mohawked Bickle. But for that suit and that bag of goodies, blood goes un-spilled. At least on this night. Given the end result, it might make the most sense if Andy’s side hustle were undertaking. A percentage of every sucker on a slab.
At bottom, Andy endures because he’s Hannah Arendt’s maxim writ large. A merchant of death, so banal he barely registers. A man at a desk, pushing papers. May as well, because someone else would. Only following orders. Every excuse known to man, with a few more to come. Capitalism’s triumph, with a little Ayn Rand thrown in. Serving only the bottom line, with enough removed to allow a good night’s rest. Had Andy a backstory (and future tense), his resume would likely include a self-proclaimed heroic stint in some African backwater. A few plane rides to Central America, arming entrenched interests and rebels alike. And then, to wrap up a career, human trafficking. Never an overt act, only deals. Contractual agreements without the signature. A true man for all seasons.
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