Overheard; from an Uber Driver’s Perspective
Driver: Sam (not horny)
Passengers: Horny
Tesla Model X
56Z 8TH
Driver: Jacob
Passenger: Bootleg Edward Cullen
Chevrolet Spark
49H 1J2
Driver: Sean
Passengers: FBI’s Most Wanted
Subaru Outback
TT4 5SZ
Driver: Brianna
Passengers: Breaking Bad & Raging Mad
Toyota Prius
J3D VBN
Graphic Designer: Hannah Leibovich
The two who enter don’t even bother to strap on the cheap polyester seatbelts. Besides, how are they supposed to put their whole bodies on top of each other, her hands around his neck, his on her bare stomach, if a seatbelt obstructs any sexual advances? As he reaches over to grab an Ice-Breaker from my goodie bin, he speaks as though I don’t exist: “I can’t wait for you to see my bathroom- it’s made of white marble.” I make a quick mental note to add Trojan X-tra Smalls to my next haul. Their sweaty bodies slide against the spot that only an hour ago was covered in alcohol-induced vom-on second thought, I’ll keep that to myself. For now, I’ll just keep quiet and hum along to their muffled moaning as it harmonizes with the lonely words of the Piano Man.
He claimed he was a vampire. The name tag on his Schnucks Bakery shirt revealed otherwise. Jason, the Vampire, appeared in the backseat, announcing that the sugar caked onto his shirt was merely the sticky residue of a cover job for his true self. A silky cape was peeking out from his tattered, bejeweled blood-red bag. I couldn’t help but ask:
“Are you a real vampire?” His slick black hair and see-through white skin confirmed why he was riding at such a late hour. Five miles onto Route 6 and suddenly my curiosity had catalyzed an outer monologue of his plan for world domination.
“Did you know that granulated sugar is an essential ingredient to carry out a Vampire's master plan?” Of course, the Schnucks in Brentwood and the Dunkin’ twenty minutes West were the most logical fronts.
During the ride, he changed into his Dunkin uniform: a black cap and an orange shirt…bearing the name of Jaçon? He wiped the powdered sugar from his old shirt onto my car floor. Now on the topic of why this Dunkin’ is better than the other one that is just two minutes North (he argues that the donuts are fresher) the conversation comes to a close. At our destination, he gingerly steps outside, and in an almost whisper says, “The smell of your car reminds me of my first corpse. But don’t worry, you will be spared. I prefer the blood of Lyft drivers.”
I gave him five stars, just in case.
The headlights of my car blaze a path on the crumbling asphalt road ahead. Beyond the beam of light, hardly anything is visible except the rough outline of trees bordering the road and the bright block-letter signs of the stripmall I’m turning into for the pick up. Three figures stand under a sign reading “LAUNDROMAT,” casting them in a chilling silvery light. As I get closer and park, they all look as if they’re in a trance.
Should I let them in? It’s pretty late to be out right now…
The right passenger door opens.
Shit! Too late. They’re probably harmless.
“Back to town?” I confirm.
None of them speak, but the one in the center nods. A few minutes pass.
“You think we’re good?” one of them ventures.
“I mean… yeah? How would anyone find out?” offers her counterpart.
The third concurs, “Yeah, we walked at least a mile out to the Uber, so there shouldn’t be any traces.”
I steal glances at them in the rearview mirror. They fidget, stare out the window, and don’t speak anymore, clearly uneasy.
I can’t take the silence anymore.
“Song requests, anyone?”
I pull up underneath the sign reading St. Louis Police Impoundment Lot and see two people that I assume are my riders. The power dynamic between the two is instantly made clear by the death grip the one on the left employs on her purse, her right hand simultaneously locked on the wrist of the girl, practically dragging her forward. Mother and daughter, I presume. She flings open the car door. Immediately after my cheery greeting, followed by her terse reply, she turns to her daughter.
“This is the final straw for you, Elizabeth.”
I swear I could see smoke coming out of the mother’s ears as she continued.
“What is it with you lately?”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“DON’T give me attitude right now, young lady.”
This is hella awk.
“How is the temperature for you guys back there?”
The mother shifts her stare to me, boring holes through my head with her eyes.
“Perfect. Thanks.”
Slowly, like a predator turning towards its prey, she directs her glare back at her daughter.
“I told you that your teachers are OFF limits!”
Strike Out,
Writers: Rosie Swindler, Emily Bekesh
Editor: Hannah Hummel
Graphic Designer: Hannah Leibovich
Digital Designer Director: Courtney Huang
Writing Director: Sidney Speicher
Editor in Chief: Aliya Hollub