In the men's room at a Wawa off 295, and the room is a little crowded. In busts the pump attendent (that happens in New Jersey), asking if anyone has a Mazda so and so. Dude in the stall says yes, and is told that he left his car in neutral, and it's rolled into someone else's vehicle, so, um, hope he's got insurance.
Suddenly, doing a long shift of ride share for not great money fills me with gratitude...
The pick up comes from a wedding mill, one of those special occasion places that always overserve and attract suspiciously well-dressed white people who are sloppy drunks. I've got a couple for 20 minutes, going south to an area that's also usually populated by troublesome people, and after being far too impressed by my level of preparation, they want to talk. Well, that'll happen, especially when you pick up people who are privileged and intoxicated, so have at it.
They ask me if this is my full-time gig, and since the answer is no and the current office hustle is tangentially involved in politics, away we go into that realm. The wife (they identified, not a guess) is elbowing the husband into not talking, but he's too far gone for that, and they like me too much to not mess with them. I also do not share his politics, which, it is soon learned, veer into apocalyptic conspiracy theories about the southern border.
You see, there's millions (MILLIONS!) of able-bodied men, just invading us, and my presumed political side is just enlisting them all into a Secret Militia to take the country. (Nifty if true! I so wish my side was as cunning and capable as conspiracists believe.) Rather than take on this insanity head-on, I distract my man by asking if he knows anything about Japan, aka a country with strict immigration, declining birth rates because that's what always happens when people make money (look it up! all the way back to 18th century Jewish communities!), and surburbs filled with really old people, watching their country gray into irrelevance.
This provokes several seconds of blissful silence, followed by a defeated, "You're crazy,", but I know by his tone that I've got him thinking through the alcohol. The conversation becomes marginally more interesting and definitely more cordial for the last five minutes, before he plays the inevitable faith card and asks if I believe in The Lord.
At this point, it's time to have some fun... so I note having read the text, and ask him if he's familiar with the historical changes that the faith has undergone. My favorite being that the medieval concept of Heaven being a place where the exalted *hear* the lamentations of the punished, because it can't *be* Heaven without that. (Seriously. Look it up. Tertullian and St. Aquinas.)
Befuddled silence from the back seat. Then, finally, "So you're not in Hell right now?"
I wait a beat and reply, "No, sir, I'm with you."
Proud moment of mindfuckery, that.
They leave a few minutes later, but not before he fixes me with a steely look and says, "Know this; every knee will bend. Every knee."
I nod, drive off and wait for the tip. Most fun I've had in weeks.
What is...
"Her feet look like fish floppers."
"I had to get out of the house before I punched your daughter in the face."
Never make eye contact, fellow drivers...
My fare enters wearing the merch, as she's an assistant manager. She's leaving without clocking in, as they are overstaffed and rather than work the graveyard shift, she gets to go home and sleep on a Sunday night. She's a little guilty about leaving, but orders are orders. She's also chatty about all of this.
I learn that her junior associates aren't thrilled with her for leaving, as Sunday at this location is a "Truck Night", i.e., when an 18-wheeler comes by and the staff has to restock in addition to handling any customers. But it's not as if there should be a rush of people there, and starting her week with sleep on a day when she's got to get her kids to school in the morning... and the youngest is on the autism spectrum.
My children are grown and didn't present that level of challenge, but I'm able to provide a useful strategy or two, and call out a specific point that I wish I knew back in the day... that beating yourself up to be a better parent teaches your kid that, well, that kind of thing is behavior to model. She's thoughtful in her response, and confesses to worrying about her eldest, who isn't on the spectrum, but seems to be picking up her residual anxiety about care for the youngest.
She's grateful for the perspective and the kindness, and confesses that she doesn't usually talk to her drivers. Ten minutes later, the app tells me about her $3 tip on a $7 fare.
I'm touched. This happened the better part of a week ago. I'm still touched.
Calling the game is an exercise in neutrality, but if my man has a past history or knowledge that the coaches in question are prone to a lot of berating... he'd make a point of eating the most smelly thing he could before the game. Everything bagel, anchovies, beef jerky, etc. Then, if the coach wanted to get in his face... he'd be sure to breathe on them. As heavily as possible, with as long of an explanation as possible.
This information was passed down to him by an older ref, so it's not as if it's a unique move. I suspect that wise refs have been doing this for decades. But if you are watching a game and see a coach get disgusted after a conversation with a ref, it might not be entirely the explanation.
The pick up comes from a nightclub just over the border in a not great part of the world, a couple of hours before it usually closes. Having...
