An Uber-Anxious Boston Driver
Driver series, Part I
There is a pair shoes that look like Cinderella’s glass slippers in the trunk, nestled on top of a heap of colorful clothing. Unlike Cinderella’s garments, I’m sure, the trunk and everything in it reeks of cigarette smoke. And maybe a little weed.
I throw my bag in the trunk, and reluctantly get in the back seat. I’m not a fan of smoke but other than that, the car looks clean.
She is young. In her mid-twenties, at the most.
Her manicure looks expensive. The length of her bedazzled nails might be good for driving, but not for much else. I also note her pink hair and a tank top that doesn’t do her chubby arms any favors.
“How are you doing today?”, I ask as she peels off the curb. I like to chat with Uber drivers.
“My anxiety is through the roof”, she immediately volunteers, letting go of the steering wheel as she throws her arms up.
“Why?” I ask, deflated, wondering if it is too late to cancel the trip and call a taxi, instead.
“Traffic”, she fires back.
Her driving is erratic at best. We weave through traffic, stop abruptly, then lurch forward and accelerate, when it seems like the last thing we should be doing. The car is a bucking horse. At one point I wonder if she maybe stole it and we are running from the crime scene.
We come up on a work zone and the car is crawling again. At least this time the slow-moving river of cars provides a good reason.
“See, this is why I don’t come here anymore”, she mutters, with an accusatory vibration in her voice.
I am not sure what I am supposed to do with the information. Should I feel sorry that my need to get from the hotel to the airport has ruined her day?
Should I question her career choices? Should I try to say something to make her feel better?
I opt for silence, hoping it has a calming effect.
She almost misses the tunnel to the airport and then nearly hits another car as she dives in at the last second. I notice she’s now breathing faster.
Another brutal stop just outside of the tunnel on the airport side. This time halfway up the ramp.
“And THIS is EXACTLY why I don’t come to the airport anymore!”
I fail to see what “THIS” is. There are no cars ahead of us and the sign pointing to the right clearly says Airport.
Several cars behind us start honking. This is Boston. It is a drive-or-die kind of a scenario. Right now our chances of survival aren’t looking very good.
I try to ignore the cold sweat forming on my forehead, while a separate stream is running down my back.
“Just go”, I say, trying to remember my best rendition of a reassuring Mother. “Keep to the right. You will be fine”.
My words are a mere whisper but she nods and the car stars moving, this time at a reasonable speed.
I am exhausted when I pull my bag out of the trunk and watch her disappear. And I thought I had a hard day at work.
I imagine her and her car wrapped in a bubble of good thoughts I’m sending with her. I feel like she needs them.
Marie H. Anne, Mom, Twin Soul, Entrepreneur, Writer. Full of Gratitude. Boldly walking toward my dreams.
