Silent Witness
Typically, in the service industry, there exists the principle of assumed discretion. That means that those being served assume themselves entitled to certain discretion from those providing the service. This in large part relies on the idea that they, both provider and served, will never again encounter one another. However, that is not always the case as there are various relationships that play out in households and body guard details that require, as a condition of service, the discretion being referred to here. Secret Service detail guarding the First Family hear things that must necessarily fall into a black hole of memory in order that the protected don’t have to be outside of their protection in order to have a private conversation.
Way down the line, and for none of the aforementioned reasons, is the relationship between the private driver and their drunken charges, who feel as if they can say absolutely anything in the confines of my truck. As I ferry them to and from some bar or studio party, rave, hidden bar, or industry event, I have to wonder sometimes, within my own mind, if they know that I’m here. The stuff that they confess to I admit is quite benign, but there are those moments that, transcend the benign. These are the stories of a rideshare driver, trawling the Atlanta nightlife for stories.
QuickTrip (QT) is my one stop headquarters for almost everything. If I need coffee, a cold beverage, a bite to eat, a bathroom, anything for the truck, or even a safe place to catch forty winks, QT is the place to visit. It’s pretty safe because they have a terrific variety of donuts (I’ll say no more). It’s a great place to wait out the inevitable downtime, or murderous downpour during the evening, and tidy up the truck. It’s also a great place to trade advice with other rideshare drivers, bask in the hateful glares of taxi drivers, or to simply people watch.
Rideshare has changed in significant ways since I was an active driver, whether through controversy brought on by the benign neglect of the brain trust, or changes in the app and associated technologies. I’m sure that many are all too keenly aware of the negative reporting on the activities of some rideshare drivers, the management, and in some cases, the bad conduct of some passengers who accuse drivers falsely. All this makes for a less than enjoyable experience these days, all around. But I write of a different time, when rideshare was fun and the stories were abundant. So, accept these offerings in that spirit.
Silent Witness:
Pixie Face Plant
The streets around the Buckhead bar scene at Roswell Road are a teeming sea of humanity on any Friday or Saturday night, especially during the summer holiday. The sidewalks on the block encompassed by Roswell Rd, Irby Ave., Cains Hill Pl. and South Andrews Pl., extend into the middle of the street as the walking dead stagger among the cars like so many drunken traffic cops. I do not like driving here because the walking dead are too numerous and unpredictable. They can change directions or stop with absolutely no warning, with potentially catastrophic results. Ambulances are regularly needed around here, which is fortuitous, because there is a Fire & Rescue Battalion right there on Roswell Rd. in the thick of it.
Tonight, is pretty busy for a Thursday night, and I remind myself that we’re into November, where all sorts of ‘holidayesque’ celebrations are afoot. I’ve had a drop-off at Big Sky and fought my way up to the corner where I perch in the parking lot of Henri’s Bakery. The app chimes, indicating a ride request, and I accept it and look at the map to gauge where my client is in proximity to me. I love complete profiles because I have an idea what the rider looks like, which is sometimes quite helpful when they’re drunk and disoriented. I think I spot her walking up Cains Hill toward me so I flash the lights. She recognizes the truck, from the app, and walks over with a most unsteady gait.
“Vonstone,” she asks?
“Indeed, and you’re obviously Danielle,” I reply.
“Ugh, my feet are killing me,” she says. Danielle is an attractive dark-haired young woman that’s vibing early thirties to me.
“You haven’t put in a destination ma’am, so I’ve gotta ask, where are we going tonight?” Taking a closer look at her, she is quite drunk and slurring her speech noticeably.
“Do you know where that parking lot is up on Lennox, on the right-hand side,” she asks.
“No, I can’t say that I do, young lady. Perhaps if you had an address,” I reply.
“Just drive, I know where it is,” she says. “You know, this is kind of a celebration. I just started a new job today.”
“Heartiest congratu…,” she cut me off.
“I — am — smart — as — fuck,” says the woman in the passenger seat, becoming less and less ladylike.
“I had to slice three men and one bitch to do it,” says my knife wielding passenger. Talking to her doesn’t feel good, which is quite surprising, because I love to talk to everyone, so I shut up, smile and Just drive.
“Do you know where that parking lot on Lennox is, you know, the one on the right-hand side?”
“I just can’t wait to get into work tomorrow, so much to do, so many noses to rub in it,” she says getting sloppier by the minute.
“You keep asking about the parking lot; do you live near there and are new to the area so as not to remember your address,” I ask, almost knowing the answer before it comes?
“No silly, my car is parked there,” she says quite stupidly. Knowing the answer that’s coming does not prepare me for hearing the actual words.
“Weren’t you just telling me how smart you were a moment ago? This however, is not a smart move, young lady.”
“I’ll be fine,” she says literally waving me off with her hand.
“Maybe, just maybe you will, but I will not, if I allow you to get behind the wheel of your car, drive down the road and kill yourself, someone else, or both. Knowing that I could have stopped you will likely haunt me to the grave,” I tell her.
“How the fuck can you stop me,” she asks.
“I can offer to drive you directly home and come back tomorrow to pick you up and take you to your car at no additional cost to you. We can keep talking, but if we don’t have an accord by the time we arrive at your car, I — will — call — the — cops. I will not permit you get behind the wheel in your condition,” I assure her.
“Seriously,” she replies smiling? “Did you just Barbosa me?”
“You know, I believe I just did, young lady,” I reply to her amusement and disbelief at the Pirates of the Caribbean reference. We pull into the parking lot, and she points to her car. She puts her shoes on and resolutely exits the truck. She walks over to her Nissan Altima on surprisingly steady legs. She fumbles haplessly for her keys inside her tiny purse, and finally the keys make an appearance, but quickly find the ground. When Danielle, bending at the waist, attempts to retrieve her keys, she too finds the ground, as she does a face plant into the pavement. I stay put as she manages to rise and make her way to the truck, her face covered with asphalt dust, scraps, some blood, and tears.
“You are NOT crying right now, bad-ass, smarty pants like you,” I say almost teasingly. She manages one brief little whimper before responding.
“Fuck you,” she says, almost sounding like a tired child; a foul mouthed, tired child.
And in the famous line from the same movie, I ask, “…so, do we have an accord,” handing her a Wet One for her bruised face, but nothing for the bruised pride? She gets the joke and comes back at me hard.
“Fuck you Barbosa, take me home,” she hits back wickedly, as we both bust out laughing, and laugh about one thing or another, all the way to her newly selected destination.
