Love Means Never Having to Take an Uber

I dreamed of dating an MTA bus driver since I was a little girl. I wanted nothing more than love on wheels (a minimum of eight wheels, to be exact).

My past failed attempts to land an MTA driver produced nothing more than several confused smiles and one “Ma’am, please exit the bus before I call the police.” Then one day, fate stepped in. Or rather, I stepped into fate.

I boarded the M15 at Second Avenue and was immediately blinded by the pearly whites of Carl. As I reached for my MTA card, I knew this would be love at first swipe. The tender way he suggested that I run my card again so that my bus fare may be paid told me everything I needed to know about him. Carl was a keeper.

Every weekday at 3:02 pm, I waited to see Carl’s M15 pull up like a triumphant horse-drawn carriage (not the depressing ones in Central Park). While feeding Carl Snapea Crisps at red lights, I’d tell him about my day and the perils of working the fitting room at Anthropologie.

“How do you tell a woman her pants are just too tight,” I once lamented.

Carl, ever the wise one, took a long pause and then answered, “You just do.” I never thought I’d date a man with such depth.

Though, I wouldn’t necessarily say we were dating. Whenever I brought up the topic, Carl would open his door to let people on to the bus, not even at official bus stops. I took it as his way of reminding us both to be generous with our hearts.

We were on a roll until one afternoon, while making funny faces at each other in Carl’s giant driver mirror, I mentioned that I’d forgotten to give my Uber driver two stars. He was very rude and wouldn’t help me load my Ikea bookshelf into his trunk.

“Uber driver? Since when did you start taking Uber?” Carl inquired with surprising loquaciousness. Prior to this, Carl had simply nodded “yes,” “no,” and, “I love you.” With the exception of his sage advice regarding fitting room honesty, the most his mouth had opened was to accept his beloved Snapeas. I was shocked that he cared.

I tried to explain that the M15, and all other M-busses for that matter, could not take me to Ikea in Brooklyn. And besides, I couldn’t maneuver the bookshelf on the bus. Carl’s M15 came to an abrupt stop. He opened the door, pressed the button that lowers the bus to the curb then pointed his own finger toward the door. I gathered my coat, purse, baby carrots and ranch, and walked.

Convinced it was just a phase, I waited with much anticipation for Carl to make the rounds the next morning. I could see his M15 bus sign illuminating in the distance. Excited to be reunited, I waved as he approached. But when he slowed down and didn’t open my chariot’s door, I became confused. He looked at me. I looked at him. Then, with all his anger, Carl held up a cardboard box top with the letter “U” drawn in black permanent marker. And with that, he accelerated.

Thanks to Uber, Carl was the one who got away.

Joan Smalls Photographed by Alasdair McLellan for W Magazine. Grand Central by Dan DeChiaro.

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