Wrong Way
The lady on the phone was angry with me. She couldn’t find my car at the casino valet. The sea of 5 cars was too much for her to find my burgundy Subaru. I caught her attention thru the open passenger window. She decided to argue with me about my car. Mine was a Saturn, she insisted. It took some persuasion, but eventually she realized that she was confused, got in the back and began to sulk.
“Take me to the Pilot!” She demanded.
I looked at the Uber Driver app, it showed her destination about 10 miles away at the Pilot truck stop. I confirmed this with her, it’s a bit of a ways away. Yep, take her to the pilot.
It seemed strange that she kept her window open as I drove on the freeway at 79.5 miles per hour. I would never hit 80 with a passenger. Never would I do such a thing. She could keep her window open if she wanted.
A few minutes later she wailed at me. “Where are you taking me! It shouldn’t be this far away!”
I pointed to the Uber Driver app, it would be another 5 miles.
“But the Pilot is just around the corner! Where are we going?” She began to cry.
I slowed the car down and pulled into the right lane on the freeway, doing my best to speak calmly to the lady in my car. We spoke back and forth, eventually we both understood that she put in the wrong destination. I would have to exit the freeway and go back.
Her crying turned into wailing. Loud wailing like a child.
“I’m sorry. You better roll down the windows. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Then I smelled it. Finally, after 4 years driving with Uber I had my first vomit in the back seat. My mind was racing. Would she vomit more? Would it be projectile vomit? Many years ago my niece projected her vomit to the back of my head as I drove. Her lunch stuck to my hair. I don’t have any hair now. Will this lady’s projectile hit me in the head?
I began to sweat. The sort of sweat that happens just before vomiting. The smell was terrible. Alcohol and tummy juices and who-knows-what she ate. Oh, the smell. I opened the sun roof and practiced diverting my attention. I read every billboard on the ride back, analyzing the photo and text. Anything to keep my mind off the smell and possibility of wearing the smell on my head.
She said the truck stop was only a block from the casino. That was the Flying J, not the Pilot. She continued to weep, “I tried to walk, but I was attacked. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
For a moment I took pity on her. For only a moment, then another wave of stench floated by my face. I wanted to lecture her. She was drunk. Alcohol is a dirty drug. I wanted to tell her to stop with the dirty drug. I kept silent, driving as quickly as I could.
When I dropped her off at the Flying J truck stop, I turned to look. Her overly large breasts had served as plates for her vomit. It had all landed on her shirt. It didn’t look like any was on my seat, but I couldn’t investigate. I just wanted to go home. All windows rolled down, I continued diverting my attention away from the smell. Turns out my car was clean. Stinky, but clean.
Mark the calendar: My record of no vomit for 4 years has been broken, but I didn’t have a mess to clean. Thanking the lord for that.
The next morning I received an email from Uber. My driver account was suspended. They did not give a reason. The vomit covered drunk lady must have had the final say.
