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.