One of the many nights I was out, lonely, driving through the streets of Tampa, waiting for a decent cash tip to enable me to buy more weed, I got the call for a group of early twenty-somethings all waiting to go out.
I pulled up to a very nice apartment complex, full of pretty blue glass, light gray facades and an annoying glare of “you’ll never be able to afford this” attitude amongst the people walking and jogging around it’s vicinity.
You know how you can REALLY tell you’re in a rich neighborhood? It’s not the clothes they are wearing, or the “I’m better than you are” swagger they carry, or even the jewelry they have.
It’s how much money they are willing to spend on their dogs. You’ll see immaculate leashes and collars, sometimes they’ll be carried in a handbag. The dogs are like animals from another planet. They usually are very rare, very small or very large.
The dogs live better than I do. They sleep on a nice bed every night, they are fed twice or more a day, they never want for anything and they are always happy, unless their owner is away.
Too bad I’m a “white privileged”, aging, god damned human being smoking myself into a grill pit with nothing but a pig and a poker in the bank.
“Did you all call two ubers?” I say to the young woman who approaches my car with her entourage after sitting and waiting in this immaculate toilet of a parking lot for 5 miserable minutes, with delayed texts included from the soon to be rider.
She was ok looking. The miniskirt she was wearing says she was definitely trying to fuck but the look on her face says “I miss high school.” I’d rate her 6/10 on hotornot.com and out of the mini skirt, probably a 4.
“I only called one.” She says this with a delay while looking over her group with a look of anger. I can already tell she’s probably not the friendliest of them.
Feeling like a table host, I ask, “How many are in your party?”
“There are 7 of us.” She says this after counting her friends.
I begin to imagine one of the older, more attractive and hopefully more friendly ones sitting on my lap to wherever we’re going. But then my imagination switches to pure anger for the illegal ride it looks like I’m going to give all of these chicks. Always a mixed bag with women… It just can’t be easy.
“Look I only have 3 seats. I can rotate the seats out of the way so there is a little more room for everyone.”
They ignore me as I’m speaking and start piling in. First one gets in behind me, then another gets on her lap, giggling. Then one sits in the center seat, which has no seatbelt and is basically plastic with two cup holders on the edge, then a girl gets on the passenger’s side seat, another on her lap, and finally the one that called the Uber gets up front next to me and the last one gets on her lap.
I try to keep my mouth closed. It’s doing that thing where my jaw is hanging down while my lips are sealed shut.
I start to be concerned for poor Clementine and all of the bodies she’s got to carry. At least they are all slender and short. Also, my vehicle gets the added bonus of the perfume counter that has now amassed inside my vehicle.
“Ok is that everyone or do we have another one coming, I think we can fit two more in here.”
One of the young ladies laughs.
“No this is it! We’re going to Jackson’s Bistro.”
Jackson’s Bistro has a $15 cover charge, drinks are over-priced, everyone there is usually a superficial cuck and when you leave you want to hang yourself for making the mistake of spending $30 to watch something that you can download for free on youtube.
“Oh I love Jackson’s, here we go!” I state.
I am seriously surprised at how quiet it is. There are now 8 people in my car including myself and I’m only hearing myself. It’s as if I just picked up a ton of dead bodies and all of them are about to be burned.
Ohhh, now I get it, Jackson’s Bistro. It’s like where dead people go to be made into panini sandwiches and consumed by the devil!
“So what’s the special occasion?” I ask the Arab girl beside me. They were all of some kind of middle-eastern decent I believe. After I ask the question, I think I hear a queef in the backseat followed by giggling.
“It’s my graduation!” Jasmine says.
“Oh well congratulations, what did you study?”
“Accounting.” I can hear her frown.
“Oh I love accounting, it’s so fascinating isn’t it, all of that math!”
“…” says Jasmine.
“So what do you want to do with it, what’s the next step?”
“I want to be an Uber driver!”
All of her friends laugh at this statement.
“Haha well it’s a tough gig, sometimes you have to take A LOT of people somewhere at once and you have to worry about the police pulling you over for too many people being in your vehicle.”
Nobody laughs. I swear I hear another queef again.
We finally get to Jackson’s. I open up the doors for all of them to get out. I wish them a good night. No one says anything back to me.
I get back in my car and it smells like estrogen and Tampons.
I take a break and smoke some weed out of my one hitter. I’ve been out for three hours and I’ve made $8. It is the last bit of an eighth I had bought several days prior. It wasn’t much but damn did it help with this lame night.
Die Happy,
Di11ingham