“I am so thrilled Broncos are going to Super Bowl!” She unloads on me the second she gets in the car. The game ended an hour ago and every Bronco’s fan has been celebrating. My passenger is wearing a Bronco’s jacket, Bronco’s T-shirt, Bronco’s hat, and an born-again grin.
“My dream is going to the Super Bowl! If I had $5,000 I would spend in a heartbeat. I have been waiting for this moment all my life—and here it is, Super Bowl, in my town, with my team in it!” “you need a sugar daddy” I say “well actually, she said, I have this older friend…” “I called it!” I yell “he might be getting tickets..” “I called it!” “he’s always had a bit of a crush on me” It’s a burden to know the world so well… “what does he look like?” I ask. “oh, he is perfectly alright, I would totally fuck him, no problem.” Some people’s dreams are going to come true in the upcoming week… Late morning, two delightful twenty-something madly-in-love girlfriends, with that just-rolled-out-of-bed look, running late for work. Really late. Really really late. Work the same office, it turns out. They snuggle up on the back seat, all romantically exhausted, and I am decisively trying not to listen to all that silliness.
I drop them off at Bart: they seem almost collected enough to pass for someone capable of caring about anything else but each other. Well, naturally, one of them forgets her phone in the car, (since who can focus on details). I take the phone, easy peasy, no lock on it. I figure it's easy to find text from the GF she was with and call that number. The obvious problem with that plan is that one has to look for those texts—again easy, right on top—and, read to make sure one has the right person, that is, as briefly as possible with respect for a one’s privacy, right? However, given the nature of the material, this calls for a stronger person than me. Much stronger. I will just let your imagination run, but, they were so creative and cute and uninhibited and someone had a future in writing for porn production—and I really have just barely even peeked, well, maybe just a tiny scroll. I manage to let go of the material, and, after a brief period of recovery, I call the girlfriend, who is delighted to hear from (she assumes) her lover, and answers with somewhat x-rated term of endearment. I say "this is your lyft driver" and there is a pause. I explain, and she whispers promising a fat tip (so nice) but, clearly just dying over the phone on how I got that number. I drive down to their office, the phone owner comes down, deeply red, we exchange a look, then a giggle. She tipped, but she didn't need to. Carry on, humanity. |
also san franciscoA ridesharing driver, artist and a commentator operating out of San Francisco. A r c h i v e s
September 2016
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