New Short Story: The Drive

The Uber pulled up to the middle of nowhere. An address in the desert, to be exact, surrounded by nothing but dry hills. It was a rundown motel, and Jose, before he saw the photoshoot set, thought it was a mistake.

Jose waited for Veronica to finish. He could see her sitting by a car, under a canopy, a hair stylist untangling complex layers of clip-on hair until Veronica’s own hair was as short as a boy. As she walked to his car, Jose could see that she was somebody. She was tall and glowing, like a golden child sent to the desert by the Sun; her aura was of someone whose worries passed through her like a ghost, unaffecting her momentum.

“Hello,” she said getting into the backseat of his SUV.

“Hey, how are you?”

“I’m well. You?”

“I’m doing alright… it says we’re heading to Los Angeles, this address is correct?”

“Yes, back to L.A.”

Jose took the highway and for a long time neither of them said a word. Jose had a classical station tuned in, and when he asked if she desired to hear something else, Veronica shook her head, “No, I need to relax. This is perfect.” Most of his customers had no complaints towards classical, and he didn’t mind it, so before a customer got in his car, Jose always switched to the classical station. It was better than listening to some unbearable pop music Jose didn’t understand its appeal; or worse, some obscure hardcore or avant garde or deep techno. He was pleased she wanted to hear this or “nothing at all,” in her own words, for the two and a half hour drive to L.A.

After about a half hour on the road, Jose felt comfortable enough to ask: “Miss, sorry to bother, but are you an actress or a model?”

Veronica was staring out her window, her phone vibrating every few seconds, but she didn’t react to it. “I am, yes.”

“Have I seen you in anything?”

“Probably not. In about a month, I’ll be in the next Michael Bay film.”

“And who is that?”

“He does The Transformer movies.”

“My kids love those films. Me, not so much.”

“I don’t blame you. I hope you like this one.”

“I’ll be more excited to go see it with them now that I know you’re in it.”

Veronica let out her movie star quality smile, and Jose chuckled.

“How old are your kids?” She asked.

“The youngest is ten, the middle one, the only boy, is thirteen, and the oldest is about to turn eighteen.”

“Oh, wow, blessed. I’m sure they’re beautiful.”

“They are. Thank you.”

“And their names?”

“Stephanie, Jose Jr., and Miranda”

“Are you married?”

“Twenty years.”

“Amazing. Good for you.”

“Eh, it’s okay,” Jose said, laughing.

“Just okay?”

“Well… No, I shouldn’t.”

“Wait, what?”

“You don’t want to hear my problems, I’m sure you have enough of your own.”

“Yeah, but I have therapists.” She laughed. “Do you go to therapy?”

“Oh, no, never. That’s not something people in my culture do.”

“Are you Catholic? Do you see a priest?”

“No, we go to a Protestant church.”

“Priest don’t know shit anyhow. They’ll just tell you you’ll be okay by confessing, but never actually tell you how to be okay. I’ll be your therapist today. Tell me whatever. I respect privacy. Being in my profession, I respect privacy more than anyone.”

Veronica was now sitting up in her seat. She wore a look of honest sincerity, comforting Jose.

“Ah, what the hell,” Jose said.

Jose and his wife met when Jose was nineteen and she was sixteen. It was his first day as a stocker at a supermarket in his South L.A. neighborhood. She was a cashier. They started dating within a week; by week three she was pregnant. Six months later they were married. In hindsight, the immense responsibility of raising a child matured Jose into a man: he enrolled in night school, he stopped hanging out with friends he deemed dangerous — some who later spent time in jail or are dead — and dedicated his life to his new family. After five years they bought their first home and soon assimilated into an ideal middle class American life: family dinners at restaurants on Sundays; soccer practice and piano recitals; two week vacations every year to Disney World, to Mexico, to Hawaii, to New York, to their homelands, Guatemala (Jose’s) and El Salvador (his wife’s); and their ten year old anniversary spent in Paris, his wife’s life-long dream.

Starting in his mid thirties, Jose began having thoughts that consumed him. He was going through a midlife crisis. His oldest daughter was starting college and to make extra money Jose started taking on second and third jobs. Later, he leased a shiny, all black Cadillac Escalade and began to Uber on his days off. The money was great and soon he quit all his other jobs, including his career of fifteen years, as an engineering mechanic at manufacturing plants, and drove full-time. He drove around rich kids going to clubs, bridal parties to Vegas, movie execs to private airports, coked up actors to houses in the hills. Every night provided excitement. There were blowjobs in the furthest backseat, rappers smoking weed, inside views into the lives of the rich, who seemed to not care about consequences, who had open affairs, who traveled the world on a whim, whose driveways were larger than Jose’s entire block in his neighborhood. It wasn’t until he started to Uber that an existential dread started to cloak Jose’s existence.

“I started to question the what if’s,” he said to Veronica, who listened intently. She had even turned off her phone to show Jose that she was present with him.

“What were those what if’s?” She asked in the non judgemental tone of a real therapist.

“I married at nineteen. I was pretty much a virgin when I met my wife. I say pretty much ‘cause I lost my virginity to a neighborhood girl who fucked anyone — excuse my language — so it didn’t really count in my opinion. To me, I’ve only ever been with my wife. Which I love, of course, but seeing how other people live, I guess I never realized how much life there is to live out there. I can’t just get up and leave whenever I want. If I’m sick, I have to go to work. If I go on vacation, it’s with her and the kids. I started to wonder how different my life would have been if I didn’t meet her and married so young. I started to envy my Uber passengers, especially the men my age. Sometimes they share stories with me. Like if I’m taking them to the airport, they tell me about the girl they have waiting for them in like Tokyo. Or if I pick them up at the club, I watch them with a beautiful girl. Shit, sometimes they’re with two girls. I imagine what it’s like to go to a mansion in the hills and enjoy life.”    

Jose paused. He looked out the window at the strip malls that started to take over the desert hills as you approached the vast urban spread of Los Angeles.

He sighed, “I’m a terrible person.”

Veronica related to Jose more than Jose knew. Her father, a director, spent years in the tabloids, a new scandal every week, it appeared. He divorced his wife, Veronica’s mom, an actress in her thirties, after he cheated on her with a younger woman he met in one of his films. He remarried then divorced after another cheating scandal. Veronica, until a few years ago, went without speaking to her dad for years. He was the man Jose envied, and who Veronica loathed. She had grown up in hills of LA, tried coke for the first time at fourteen, was burnt out from nightlife by the time she was eighteen, and appeared to had turned her life around when she moved to New York to study at NYU, but then dropped out when her modeling contracts reached the millions of dollars. It was back to the only life she knew: vacations to far-off islands; work in Paris and Rome; dinners with friends, all children of fame, and with artists and models and musicians; dates with actors who played superheroes, and lead singers who lived in studio apartments in the East Village. By twenty-five, her present age, she had lived life times five, the only thing to do now was to settle, to try to live a stable life, to go to work everyday and come home to her dogs and Netflix and books. She didn’t want kids just yet, but she was starting to think of her life in her thirties. She wanted to start directing films. Her relationship with her dad became warmer with age. He was now married to his former care-taker after his stroke at age sixty. He was working again. Not on the blockbusters he was known for in the eighties and early nineties but on small films without explosions and special effects. Actually, Veronica’s first film role was in an highly acclaimed film by her father, about a spawn of Hollywood fame, who after years of debauchery reestablishes the relationship with her father, a womanizing film director, and together they learn how to forgive and love again.

“My father…” Veronica said after a long silence. She then went on to tell her story.

“I love your dad’s movies.”

“He’s one of the greats.”

“I’m sorry he put you through that.”

“It’s fine. Well, it wasn’t fine for a long time, but it’s fine now. I don’t hate him anymore. Have you ever acted on your thoughts?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cheated on your wife?”

“Oh, no. Honestly. It’s just thoughts. Horrible thoughts.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. We all have horrible thoughts at times. What makes us

strong humans is the strength to not act on them.”

“It’s hard. I’m not going to lie. My wife and I, we don’t really have sex anymore. It’s

been more than a year.”

“Do you still love her?”

Jose didn’t answer for a long time. Veronica didn’t push him, either. Finally, Jose said:

“Don’t think my silence answers your question. I do love my wife. She’s the mother of my children, and she’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known, next to my own mother. I was just thinking about the first time I fell in love with her. We were walking in the old neighborhood and walked past an old friend’s house. He was outside on his porch, as usual, and when he saw me, he walked to greet me. I introduced him to my girlfriend, the first time I had said those words, it sort of just slipped out.”

“That’s why I haven’t seen you around.” The guy said.

“I’ve been busy with work and stuff.”

“Okay, sure. I could have used you on Friday, homes. We was up at this party, and some punks stepped up to us. It was only me and Erick. Erick was getting his ass beat. I had to go my car for the gat. Almost blasted those fools but they backed off.”

Jose could vividly imagine the scenario. He had been there before. A house party, a bunch of kids with nothing to do, too much booze, someone bumps into someone, someone gets punched, someone gets stabbed, someone gets shot. As Jose pictured himself fighting over nothing, he felt a warm, delicate hand grab onto his. He looked into his girlfriend’s eyes and they said it all: you’re safe with me.

“That’s when I knew I loved her. She was all that I needed.”

“Is she all that you need now?”

Jose began to sob. It came out of nowhere. “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling the car over. He dried his eyes and felt Veronica’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he restated.

“It’s alright.”

“I just feel like a monster.”

“You’ve never talked to your wife about this, have you?”

“No. But I know she knows.”

“Tell her your thoughts. Tell her everything. Then tell her why you’re telling her all this, that you feel terrible and want to work on your relationship. Then surprise her with a vacation, just the two of you.”

Jose composed himself and continued driving. They drove in silence, just the faint piano keys from the low radio could be heard.

They approached Veronica’s home, a modest house in Loz Feliz, barricaded by trees and vines. Jose stopped the car and turned his entire body to face Veronica.

“I want to thank you. Maybe it was destiny I picked you up today. I don’t know how much longer before I did something drastic I would have regretted for the rest of my life. You helped me in ways you’ll never know and I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“Give me your phone,” Veronica said. Jose handed her his phone and she typed something into it.

“I just texted myself. First, I want you to bring your whole family to my movie premier next week. I want to meet your kids. I’ll text you the info later today. Then, find some vacation time for both of you and then call me. My mother and I have a vacation home in Cabo. We barely use it this time of year. Take your wife there. Enjoy life. Take molly with her. Seriously.” Both Veronica and Jose laughed. “Smoke some fucking weed. Get drunk off tequila and wine. Live like there’s no worries. Love like you were nineteen again.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Enjoy the rest of your day.”