It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
0 Comments
10:00 am Saturday
I bypass the pick up spot by half a block (GPS mishap, naturally), so I call her to see if she wants me to back up or can she walk up. “Don’t even botha, she yells, I see yeah, I am coming, can you see me?” I look back and notice a spherical shape in a floral print, balanced on boudoir mules, approaching with impressively chipper leaps. A life-affiriming sight on the backdrop of indifferent gray warehouses and peeling billboards characteristic of the area. The streets are otherwise empty of anything but delivery trucks resting till Monday. What a day, she says, after collapsing in the front seat, what a day. I been having SUCH a good time. I am puzzled at where did she come from, but the smell of liquor and fruity perfume seem to support her statement. Perhaps there is a hidden bar somewhere? Naturally I encourage her to elaborate on the nature of the fun, but she she remains somewhat vague: “Broke up with a boyfriend while back, se I am on a rebound. And you know what they say about rebounding, it only works in immersion.” Now I had no idea that was what they say, and I would like to know more, but, by then we were making a bank stop—my intrepid passenger was in need of cash to further, I suppose, the rebound process. We negotiate the tough security at the Bayview bank branch—as it turns out in that area they don’t really want you to linger right up front with an (apparently) getaway car with the engine running. The security wants you to “move on, ma’m”. So I park btw the two lowriders and let the woofers rock me into oblivion. She returns in a period of time that would be sufficient to open couple of Swiss accounts with a handbag of stolen nuggets. We drive barely 4 blocks to a tiny bar nestled btw a warehouse and a warehouse. In spite of the briefness of the trip, she manages shares few tidbits of her philosophy of waitressing, her profession. It’s all about love, apparently. She tips like a person with solid concept of tipping. The place looks deserted, but as she opens the door I can see the music is loud, the light is down, sin is on. It’s 11am—Who knew? Naturally I was nervous before I hit the streets the first time. I felt I had the city down after years of transporting kids around, but none of them ever paid with anything but ingratitude and cheerios smashed into upholstery. It took two days to scrape the cheerios out of every crevice of my brave minivan prior to taking on the driving career.
My first passenger was a young woman in a fetching sporty outfit and a makeup box size of a microwave. "may I?" she asked as she pulled down the vizor mirror and got busy putting on her face. You know those those mysterious eyelash clamp-thingies that look like a surgical instrument? She had those. Plus tubes and lotions and brushes and sprays. I really didn't realize how ignorant I was about makeup gear after all those years of being a woman myself. As I was nervously hitting every pot hole on the Pac Heights slopes she went from girl-next-door to show-stopping. She was headed to meet up with her best friend to go hiking. To go hiking? To go hiking. Then she explained she doesn't try this hard on for every athletic event, but that her friend's boyfriend was going to be at her friend's house prior to the hike, and this was the first time she would meet him, and apparently he had quite a few single friends and would report on her to them. And she, (my passenger) was recently divorced, so, there. First impressions matter, right? By the time the ride was over I knew everything about the divorce, her family, and her favorite brand of nail polish. By the time I dropped her off, I was elated. This job was clearly specifically designed with me in mind. The streets are alive with sound of human interest stories, and I was here to hear them. Wouldn't it be a tremendous energy saving if they all stayed put?
|
also san franciscoA ridesharing driver, artist and a commentator operating out of San Francisco. A r c h i v e s
September 2016
|