Are you going to take me to my birthday?

The request comes in for a pick up off Cass Street in Trenton, which is to say the other side of the oldest operating state prison in the United States. It is, as you might expect, an area where the roads aren't in great condition, and rideshare drivers tread cautiously for fear of tire failure. It's late on a weeknight, and there are Department of Corrections trucks with full lights on the block. 

The work is the work. I pull over, text my passenger, and wait.

A minute later, a cute little girl appears on the sidewalk, staring wide-eyed at me in my car. Seconds later, her presumed mother appears, opens the door, and they are in. Before I can recite the destination, the little girl, standing in the middle back seat area with full eye contact, asks me "Are you going to take me to my birthday?" 

Having had little kids once upon a time, I reply, "Sure", in my best kind adult voice, and she thanks me with the sincerity that only very little children can generate. I confirm the address with her mom, who avails herself of the trunk. We eventually make our way out of the neighborhood, en route to a roadside motel south of the city.

It's a 15-minute ride, and what usually happens with little kids in my car is that my safe, slow and smooth driving style and warm cozy car puts them to sleep after a few minutes. 

The same goes for drunk people. Feature, Not Bug.

Not in this case. For the entirety of the ride, the little one sings an improvised song about her birthday, all at a kind enough volume, but my car is a quiet hybrid, so I hear it all. It's impossible not to tell the story that she has learned not to be loud for reasons, that the pick up was at the end of an evening that the mother hopes she will not remember, and that the whole thing is straight out of a foreign movie about how life is really like in the United States. 

A block away from the drop, I ask the little girl how old she is going to be, and she tells me three. I reply that I was sure she was turning 86, just to see if I can get her to smile at something silly, but she's not really listening to me, because singing.

The drop comes, and as the mom unloads the trunk, she tells the girl that they are going to celebrate her birthday next week, and its bedtime. There is, of course, no middle of the night birthday party for her at the roadside motel room. She begins to cry, at the same low and considered volume. The mom closes the trunk and they are out of my life.

I drive away and wonder if I'm about to cry as well. 

I'm a little worried when I don't.

Car Towel Peril

Lemme lick that off

This winter in New Jersey has been cold enough so that every minor amount of recipitation has inspired the local authorities to spread rock salt far and wide, so keeping your car presentable with visible lights has been a constant challenge. To solve this, I carry car and dish towels in the car and wipe down the car when I'm waiting for passengers in safe areas, as one does.

The other day while driving, I sneeze several times and absent-mindedly reach for something to clean my face while keeping my eyes on the road... which creates the lovely effect of wiping my face down with rock salt and grime.

I'd like to tell you, Dear Reader, that having learned from this experience, I learned my lesson, changed out the towels, and have made sure I have a dedicted cloth that won't touch the car, since sneezing isn't exactly a unique or unprecedented circumstance.

I'd also like to tell you that it only took one case of this happening, and not two.

I would also, of course, be lying...

I said, Hah Hah

  

I'm at 52nd and Market in West Philly late at night, which is not the priciest real etate of the day. My pick up is getting off the elevated train on the north side of the intersection, and I'm coming from the south. Seeing what appears to be my passenger, I pull over to the corner and hit the hazard lights. So far, so normal.

The car behind me is an electric blue truck, and he starts flashing his high beams at me. Maybe I cost him a green light, I'm not sure. In any event, nothing to be done about that now, so I wait for the passenger to cross the street. He does, I confirm the address and recite the amenities and shut down the hazard lights, but he's lost in his headphones. His choice, no worries, it's a short ride. I check the eastbound traffic on Market, see none, and make the legal right turn on red.

I'm ten feet down the road when I hear the blue truck gun its engine, and I see my man run the red light. 

I'm twenty feet down the road when I hear the crunch  as the truck gets T-boned by westbound traffic.  

And I'm a block away, with a passenger that has been oblivious to all of this, when I realize that making three rights to go back to the block and deliver a Nelson Muntz coup de gras would be satisfying, but probably not great for my health and safety...