Your Driver Is Waiting

by Priya Guns

Dear reader, Please, always drive responsibly.

If those who have do not give, those who haven’t must take. a. sivanandan

If you’re going to be a driver, you’d better hide at least one weapon in your car. Especially if you’re a driver that looks like me.

The driver behind me in a green hybrid flailed his arms around like he was late for his yearly dick suck.

Amma was sure that she knew me inside and out when she couldn’t even remember how to function like she used to. Somehow, she believed life was more draining for her than it was for me.

“Watch it, kids. Don’t play near parked cars.” “There are cars everywhere, lady. We’re all gonna die!” Kids these days are so well-informed.

“You got any milk?” “Five years sober,”

“We can’t wait for a disaster. There’s still so many people in this city who are comfortable. As long as they’re alright, they don’t care about the rest of us, you know what I mean?”

“You don’t have to go to class today, do you?” A man who must’ve had grown-up kids held a teenager’s arm as she looked up at him with a twinkle in her eyes. I debated between shouting “Pedo!” or “Daddy issues!” but settled on “He’s using you!” instead, because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. But by the time I said it they were well past me, and some woman walking by gave me the finger.

There was a grime to the city, a spillage so toxic it smothered people that passed by.

The city thrived on the dreams of the smothered.

I never tell people where exactly I am and I won’t tell you which city I live in either.

It wasn’t a crime to spend money on things that made us happy, but most times that kind of money just wasn’t there.

When the stars aligned, driving for RideShare was like driving a confessional. I was an anointed Sister sitting on near-ripped upholstery with Nouveau Car–scented air freshener for incense, and no velvet drape to protect me.

In the ranks, RideShare drivers were at the bottom, before delivery cyclists, of course.

My teeth were yellowed, but cigarettes and coffee were too delicious for me to care. They made love in my mouth like it was New Year’s Eve and they had no resolutions.

Derek looked rich. He had a turtleneck on and it was summer. Was he pretentious or pretending to be?

I turned so they saw me. My face, my eyes, the things that made me human behind the wheel.

Here.” She handed me a fifty-dollar bill she had pulled out from her purse and my mouth did this natural thing that could only be called a smile.

Jolene would say we could have it all, and I believed her. She was a paper bag I could breathe into while she stroked my hair saying, “Everything will get better. Let me make you a sandwich. With the miche loaf, okay?” Her mouth tasted like grape jam, her bread worth the $18.

WARM YOUR HEARTS, NOT THE PLANET. Wat’s the point of school if the planet is on fire?!! Frack OFF earthfrackers! OUR TEACHERS TEARS WILL ADD TO THE WATER RISING.

“Hey, Daisy.” I waved. “You have to put a sticker on your car so people can see you.” “I have a license plate.” “No one looks at those these days.”

Sometimes you can see how badly some people need human interaction. There is a clear difference between wanting it and needing it, but I’m no expert. Most people, though, are lonely.

Teachers are therapists, she’d say. It was her slogan.

Stephanie looked smart. She said I looked scrappier. But neither of our majors had gotten us “decent” jobs. Between us we shared an anthropology and a math degree. Now I studied humans from my car and she counted down the hours of every day.

Remember when we used to have to write about the future? In 1998, I thought by now we’d have flying cars and hoverboards.” “I thought I’d be fucking a robot,” I blurted. Stephanie laughed.

“Hit the gas a little more. I want to feel alive.”

I’m not sure which is worse, being broke or being broken. Being both was definitely the worst, though.

“Will you and Appa live forever?” “Of course. How can we leave you here alone?”

Amma loved watching movies. Her favorites were those cheesy “classics”: woman helplessly falls in love with imperfect man.

It’s known among my people that food tastes the best when your mother feeds you.

“Ready?” Amma opened wide and kissed my fingers. Closing my eyes, I remembered days that weren’t like this.

I loved it when my blood rushed. After six months of my workout routine I was addicted to feeling like a throbbing clit.

There is something about driving at night, stone-cold sober while the world relaxes, that makes me horny.

There really is a thud when you hit a body. A thud you can feel from the bumper to the wheel to your seat. Then your stomach drops.

She started to walk off, rubbing her leg, but then she stopped, turned, and smiled at me. I’m still unsure of why.

It was one a.m. Passenger after passenger gets boring, and I’ve only told you about a few and nothing about what it’s like waiting for them all to come through, one ping at a time.

In the mornings, with the backdrop of someone reading C. L. R. James or Angela Davis or someone else I don’t know much about but should, there was fresh coffee brewing, pastries baking, and people working on projects promising to “make things much better.”

It’s not often we meet someone who can do that, turn our lives upside down with a single look. But there she was, feeling up my soul with her stare.

“You came home late,” she said. “It wasn’t that late.” “It was very late.” “Why weren’t you sleeping?” “How can I sleep when my daughter is out at night? Of course I’m going to wait for you.”

“Mrs. P., with all due respect, do you need a vibrator? I have an extra one someone left in my car.”

“You’re in a good mood this morning,” she said. “You think? I’m always smiling, Mrs. P.” “Not with this smile. Today, you seem a little more mischievous.” I laughed, feeling my cheeks flush.

“There it is. You’ve fallen in love.” Like I said when I started, old people, they know stuff.

It wasn’t often I met anyone who made me forget that I was their driver, or realize that I was a person.

“I love you, that’s all it is. So what’s her background?” “White girl.” “Okay. That’s okay.” “For sure. But she’s not like Stephanie’s cousin, Courtney, white.” “She’s rich girl white?” “Prosecco every Friday white.” “Is she actually?” “Walks like it.”

“It doesn’t matter what has happened. It doesn’t matter how you feel. You’re worthy of good things. You’re worthy of love, friendship, kindness, and new beginnings. Be open to it. Chin up. Smile. This is only the beginning of the rest of your life.”

Of course, I grew up knowing what spaces I could fill, where I needed to be slightly smaller, and where I could truly be myself.

Her smile was soft and flirtatious, the freckles on her nose perfect. I wanted to pierce her nostril with a nail.

A woman looked at me approvingly and I could tell she fancied what she saw because from looking as I did for thirty-two years, I knew how to read different stares. If Jolene wasn’t into me, this woman would be sucking every one of my toes before she got to my cunt.

She whispered to Jolene loud enough so I could hear, “Once you go Brown in bed, you won’t frown until you’re dead.”