...Need A Lift?

At about three in the morning on Easter Sunday, I climbed into a minivan taxi and sat in the middle row. Not yet a middle pew. Nobody's that ambitious.

The flat grumble from a mouth I couldn't see asked where I was headed. The driver stared ahead. No question mark in the voice. I told him. Then a crackle/squawk on the radio, and he half-craned over his right shoulder to ask if I'd mind other passengers. I stared out the window and said that'd be fine.

A couple climbed in holding hands, twenties, windswept, clustered, eyes a little glossy from drink and infatuation. They sat behind me, and she gave their address. We drove off.

A few blocks later the driver's phone bleeped. He was only a few years older than me, balding in back, wide goatee, with his seat reclined a little too cozily for my peace of mind. He pulled the phone from out of his hoodie pocket. I saw a blonde girl's face as it rang. He flicked a thumb and said 'Hey babe.' His tone was a little depleted, and felt like this was the cooled-off follow-up call, but not too rude.

One mm-hmm's, then three, each had a sharp little crescendo. Then a blurted 'WHAT...?!?', a snort of hot air out of his nostrils and the phone was down from his ear. I saw the blond girl for an instant before a thumb swipe hung up on her and she vanished. To be sure, he chucked the phone into the empty seat next to him. It thunked against door.

Behind me, in the back of the minivan, I heard thick lip smacks and the juicy slurp of tongues. They sounded serious, and I wondered if one of them might have lost their house keys behind a bicuspid.

We went on that way for a while. I thought that this ride was perfect, in it's way. Behind me was blind lust. Ahead of me was deaf disenchantment. I didn't envy either one too much.

I found myself in the middle, wondering how long it would take me to get home.

© Eric Yves Garcia 2014