The car slows – marginally– as he replies happily, ‘I can see why you’re a 3.5.’
I breathe out, relief filling me and my adrenaline slowing. But then I am outraged. What does he mean by calling me a 3.5? It is the Uber rating system that is the problem, not me.
And anyway his rating is no better. I yank out my phone, finally able to let go of the handle.
‘Hey! You’re a 3.5 too,’ I say a little too aggressively.He nods happily. ‘Sure I am, because I am a terrible driver. But that’s why I was the only one to pick you up. We are both trapped in the lower echelons of Uber, we are a uniquely shitty subsection, stuck with each other because no one else wants us. I’m doomed to collect shitty passengers; you are doomed to being driven around like this and risking death. We are stuck with each other.’
Hegrins at me in the mirror and I ponder this for a moment. Am I a shitty passenger? I thought the drivers liked feedback while they drove? If their car smells weird, surely they want to know about it, so they can get an air freshener? If they’re playing crappy music, wouldn’t they rather I shouted over it until they put Beyoncé on instead? And who doesn’t love Queen Bey? Sure, I talk a lot, but isn’tthat the best thing about an Uber driver? It’s like free therapy. You can tell strangers things you can’t tell your friends. Especially when it’s 3 a.m. and I’m coming back from a night out where there have been a lot of pink cocktails even though they are mildly sexist.
I sit back in my seat, feeling sulky.
‘Hey, don’t be blue,’ Uber Driver says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. ‘I don’tmind you being shitty. And I don’t mind that you’re going to give me a bad rating, I’m going to give you one, too. It’s freeing being down here in themid-threes, trust me. I know what to expect, and so should you.’
‘But I don’t deserve to be in the threes,’ I say weakly, and he chuckles again. ‘You’re adorable,’ he tells me, and I can feel his speed is picking up again. We’re going to beback at mine in half the time it usually takes.
‘So, where are you going tonight, 3.5?’ he says, his voice teasing.
‘Home,’ I reply, shortly, hoping to convey my hostility towards the nickname I have somehow acquired.
‘What!’ he says, with mock horror. ‘But you look so great, you should be hitting up a club or something.’
‘Well thanks,’ I say softening ever so slightly. ‘But I’vejust been on the world’s worst date and I’m looking forward to eating chocolate and pasta in bed. In that order.’
He throws his head back again and laughs. He has such a huge laugh. All encompassing. A laugh that takes up his whole being, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat. It is a laugh that is hard not to join in with.
‘I see,’ he roars, because he apparently does everything loudly.‘Well,bed-pasta does sound tempting, I will admit.’ We make eye contact in the mirror again, and I notice myself noticing how nice his face is. He has big, thick eyebrows, bushy and feral, like Sandy Cohen’s.
‘But,’ he continues, thoughtfully. ‘Have you had the chocolate over here? It’s garbage compared to your British chocolate.’
‘Oh damn, yes, I’ve heard that,’ I say, genuinely upset.I lean forward against my seatbelt. ‘But do you go to Whole Foods here?’
He laughs again, ‘Sure, sometimes.’
‘It’s like how I imagine heaven must be,’ I breathe. ‘Rows and rows of imaginative, beautiful food. There are like six olive bars, how is that possible? I don’t even like olives, and I still spent forty minutes examining them all. And the salad bars have macaroni cheese! That’snot salad! But I could tell myself it was healthy because it was part of the salad bar! It’s wonderful. I am planning to spend every day next week in a Whole Foods.’
‘Don’t you have Whole Foods in theUK?’ he asks, still watching me in the mirror. I’m not sure he’s looked at the road once these past five metres. I grip the door handle again, as his speed creeps up once more.
‘Um, wellI guess we do,’ I say. ‘But not many. We’re more into Tesco and Boots.’
‘What’s Boots?’
I sigh heavily. ‘Uber Driver, our countries will never be able to get along until you embrace a Boots over here. Or at least a Superdrug. Where did you go to shoplift mascara when you were fifteen?’
‘CVS,’ he confirms. ‘Aged fifteen was my drag phase.’
‘Really though?’ I say, forgetting to holdon and getting thrown across the seat as he crosses two lanes without warning or indicating. But I’m no longer annoyed. Actually, all this dangerous driving is starting to feel a bit sexy.
He nods. ‘Actually, yes, I did wear a bit of mascara as a teenager. I thought it was punk. Obviously I got the shit kicked out of me regularly at my high school, but that just made me wear more.’
‘Iam obsessed withDrag Race,’ I say excitedly.
‘It wasn’t exactly drag,’ he says, laughing again. ‘More ... rebellion. Against my parents, against the teachers, against the other kids, and against gender norms.’
‘Fuck yeah,’ I punch the air, and then add, ‘Drag is really sexy though.’
He nods, looking me dead in the eye. ‘Good to know.’
The eye contact suddenly feels a bit heatedand I clear my throat, glancing out the window. I realise we’re almost back at mine. I am a little disappointed.
