The Actor
My driver stares intently at me as I get in, greeting me with a smile. Her long, ginger-brown hair is tied into a high ponytail. Black shirt, blue jeans, completed by fire-red nikes that show themselves every time she steps on the brake. There’s a note formatted like a screenplay in front of me, tied to the metal stalks of the passenger seat headrest.
The note informs me that my driver is an actor making a short film about a suicidal Uber driver who discovers new meaning in life after hearing her passengers’ stories. Any donations would be greatly appreciated. I ask my driver about her acting career and how she got started. She’s a theatre kid from Ukraine who moved to New York City four years ago to be an au pair. She looked after spoiled brats whose mother couldn’t be bothered with raising her own children despite spending all day at home. She quit after six months, married a man from Brooklyn, and traveled across the country to pursue film acting in Los Angeles. She divorced shortly after. She has been driving Uber for 10 months now, longer than she expected, as she waits for her acting career to take off. Her current project, the one noted in front of me, is an attempt at making a name on her own, after being propositioned by sleazy producers for sexual roles and/or favors.
She asks if I want kids, the first driver to do so. I tell her that it depends on who my partner is and the political climate at the time. I’m afraid my last comment may be entering conspiracy territory, but my driver looks me in the eyes through her rearview mirror and says,
“No, I understand.”
I straighten up a bit and reciprocate the question. She doesn’t want to have kids in Los Angeles because there are a lot of drugs in LA and she doesn’t want to explain what cocaine is to her children.
She hints that her family is pretty well-off back in Ukraine, but may have moved recently due to the ongoing war with Russia. They haven’t visited yet because her starving artist/actor lifestyle isn’t the most hospitable environment for older parents to stay in. She used to get homesick back in New York, but now the feeling only arises when her current boyfriend throws American culture in her face. She clarifies that “American culture,” means “sexual openness.” My driver believes promiscuity is indicative of commitment issues before proclaiming:
“I’d honestly prefer a virgin.”
My driver’s best friend lives near where I’m headed, and she’ll probably call it night and visit them after my ride. She hasn’t found it difficult making friends in Los Angeles. She’s never had a problem with that here, or anywhere else. “I just wish I could say the same about finding a good man.”
Intrigued, I ask “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” She draws out her answer, “Well . . . he’s not . . . he’s cheated on me. A lot.” She’s kind of given up on seeing him, but he’s fairly attractive, and that means enough to her that she’ll tolerate the baggage that comes with their connection. She laughs and says she’s done with American men. Her sights are set on finding a nice Ukrainian gentleman.
“He’s got to be attractive though, I just like attractive guys.”
I watch the sun set over Echo Park Lake before pulling out my laptop to jot down the details of our conversation before my ride comes to an end.
