Middleaged businesswoman, on the way from her financial district job:
"Once I end up in nursing home, I want to try heroin."
We all have dreams.
"Once I end up in nursing home, I want to try heroin."
We all have dreams.
Every passenger is special, especially you.
One driver's journey to get you wherever the hell you are going.
Middleaged businesswoman, on the way from her financial district job:
"Once I end up in nursing home, I want to try heroin." We all have dreams.
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Fog waltzes in, sucking the glow out of the early evening. She gets in holding a box so gingerly one would think it contains black market TNT. The box is a shipping box about the size of a toaster, it has her name on it, and it hasn’t been opened. “What is in the box”, I ask? “Not sure” she says. “My ex sent it to me at work.” “is this a hostile ex? Do we have potential bomb threat?” I say as I angle the car to rest by the curb, preparing to disembark. “no no” she says “well, actually. . . we are probably OK” “he is an orthodontist” That has me, as you can imagine, reassured. “So, don’t you not want to find out?” “It’s probably going to be depressing” she says “I think I kind of hate even the idea of him.” “Maybe it’s so fabulous you are going to change your mind” I say. “Perhaps we can take peek” she hesitates. After clawing at the box with her bit off fingernails, she breaks her way in, and parts the tissue paper. A mustard colored dome of cheese rests comfortably in the middle, surrounded by a cloud of potent odor of not quite dusty-attic, not quite-athlete’s foot. She gives it a thoughtful look. I am naturally delighted. “delicious” I whisper. “It’s kind of an inside joke” she says. “There seems to be a note” I say. She takes it out. I try not to merge into oncoming traffic as my neck maneuvers itself behind my passengers left shoulder. “about the size of human heart” she reads. “very poetic”, I say, reaching for mr. kleenex whose services now appear to be urgently needed. For a couple blocks a nose is blown, then everyone regains composure. “Well maybe, if you were to taste the cheese you would feel better?” I say hopefully. “But how?” She says, as I hand her a swiss army knife, since scouts come prepared. She cuts us both a slice and we chew slowly, watching the neons glide by on Geary.
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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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