Rideshare

Rideshare

Ben Finateri

Smashwords 1st Edition

Copyright © 2017 by Ben Finateri

All rights reserved.

Rideshare is also available in print.

To request a copy, please contact the author at benfinateri.com

This book has no monetary value.

When you're finished reading, please share it

with someone who will enjoy it.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

ONE

I'm confused, in the car, on the highway back to the city after dropping off a passenger at the airport, when the podcast I'm listening to on my phone gets cut off by an incoming call. Not a contact, but a local number, and frustration. One more solicitor or robocall. Buy this. Take our survey. Or straight-up scams. You owe the IRS, the bank is foreclosing on your mortgage. I never pick up. My phone is a phone in name only. In reality, it's an all-purpose pocket communication device. Portable encyclopedia. Portal to anywhere else.

Interruption over, the podcast returns, but the mood has changed, so I mix things up. iTunes open, shuffle, and what do we have?

AC/DC. Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.

Three miles up the highway and the Riverfront appears on my right. Restaurants, chichi shops, artisan and local. Familiar is different. Safe is risky. Boring is brash. The strip is new enough to gleam, the drip, drip, drip of chic development.

Concrete shoes, cyanide, TNT.

Me and my car take advantage daily.

Neckties, contracts, high voltage.

Bon Scott dies in the back seat of a car, I think.

A made-up memory?

Here's something real: The girls and sods possessed by the spirit of Bon wanting to throw up in my car. I get them home safe. My car clean. So far.

My phone pings. A voicemail from the caller. I listen, expecting a wrong number.

Hey, it's Grace.

From the cafe. She has my number? When? Two conversations, no recollection of any exchange of information. Her message offers little.

Oh, well. No big deal, Dave. Just wanted to say hi. Anyways, no worries.

No worries. The day of my father's funeral, Sarah and Myra, my two oldest sisters, flip a coin. Sarah wins, so Myra takes me for an early morning walk, beating the sun. We do laps around the neighborhood, as many as Myra needs.

She talks. No one is looking to me for answers. Despite my relationship with Dad.

Myra isn't lying, she just doesn't know the truth. The heat of our mother's eyes has already found me. I can't explain why to Myra then, wouldn't want to anyway. My sister doesn't notice me rubbing the blister on my thumb, or if she does, she confuses it with nerves rather than guilt.

I'm told not to worry. Aaron will take care of Mom, keep Robbie from devolving into really crazy, and Mom is tough and can take care of everyone, she needs us, and Sarah and Rose understand their responsibilities.

I'm told not to worry. Mom is tough and let her grieve. I need something, go to Aaron first.

No mention of Victor. Will he be at the funeral? Stay? I can't get a word in to ask.

I'm told not to worry.

Our mother's eyes send a different message. Stay out of the way. No worries, Mom. Happy to.

Today, happy leads me to last Friday.

Hannah and I meet up at the history museum. I leave the car home and take the bus over. I'm forgoing an opportunity: Hannah in the passenger seat, getting riled up from the ride. Fine, not a necessity this night.

Public transportation opens me to the lives of my fellow city dwellers, the repetition of that percentage of my moments that are the same as theirs, theirs the same as mine, our thoughts too, mere variations on a theme. We remain strangers.

What the cords of connection lack in strength is made up for by their number. They provide bountiful energy.

Hannah, soft brown hair, soft brown skin, soft brown eyes. Hannah in the sexy red dress, brown knee-high boots with a stacked heel. She's new to the city, staying with her sister, been traveling since she was pregnant with her son, Asdrúbal. I hide my surprise when she reveals he's eight. Born in Sri Lanka, he's lived in Laos, Morocco, Italy, and Mexico. His father has never been in the picture.

Asdrúbal is out of town for the weekend with his aunt and uncle and the cousins, brand-new friends. Hannah stays behind to have fun. Sex is the date's reason for being, but Hannah wants to go out first. I enjoy the company, and admiration time never hurts. The way Hannah moves, she knows her tempting thighs satisfy the delay of gratification.

We stroll around outside the museum. Traffic is blocked off to make room for food trucks. A band plays on a patio behind the building. People dance. I want to hear about Hannah's travels. I ask her questions about Mexico. Beyond Sonora, she gives me vague answers, changes the subject to food, grows distracted by the selection of trucks. I stray too, back a century to the desert of northern Mexico, cavalry charges cut down by Gatling guns, armies and cowboys fighting in the mechanized Old West. Splashes of gore in the violent arc of the land's history. My blood and bones speak of a kinship with those warriors. I move in time to them. Will they accept my entreaties? Do I wear the correct colors, have the right tattoos, follow the proper steps of greeting and taking leave?

Stay in the present. Help Hannah decide what to eat.

The night brings out the crowds. Families, young and old, groups of friends, other dates, coupled partners, and thankfully, a neighborhood without gentrified white haze rolling through. Too often in this city, people get cautious, shoot suspicion my way. With the light and cool of spring, I need to be careful. Slow the hoodie and sunglasses combo.

In Vegas, Mel describes me best. Like Sharif and Quinn, you can play someone from anywhere.

In reality, people see what they're signaled to expect. Nudge them the best you can. Hoodie down, sunglasses on forehead, maybe I don't look so big, and sometimes I even catch relief, people deciding whatever I am, it isn't threatening. A benefit of age is repetition. Opportunities abound to present people what they want to see. I'm like Lon Chaney, Man of a Thousand Faces.

My night with Hannah, anyone looking admires a handsome man out with a beautiful woman.

Soon, Hannah is ready to go to her sister's. I'm up for more people watching, a visit to the museum, but there will be other dates, other women. Hannah and I have a fine time. At her sister's, she's easy to please.

Hannah and I, this is our night, not to be repeated. She and Asdrúbal are merely passing through.

In the car, the city skyline rises in front of me. Cranes vie to become a permanent fixture. Spring means I'm another year older. Still, the days are getting longer. Find comfort in the sun and smell the sage and eucalyptus on the breeze.

Changes in years, changes in weather, changes in people.

When Mel and I binge Battlestar Galactica and we hear, All of this has happened before and all of this will happen again, Mel says, "Hey, that's from Peter Pan."

I stew for a second, then say, An appropriate line for a remake to crib, no?

Yeah, I see what they're doing.

Everything is written.

Mel, channeling T.E. Lawrence, says, No, nothing is written.

I decide to wait until I'm done driving to call Grace back, or text her, or maybe wait until I see her at the cafe, leave it to fate. Grace from not here. Thirtyish, works in tech, drinks wine. She knows I drive for the rideshares, doesn't know why, doesn't know about my podcast, doesn't know much of anything about me. My name and what she observes. Now I remember, no expectations, giving her my number.

I drive a new BMW 550i sedan, black. I deserve the comfort, performance, and safety of my car and so do you. If I'm going to be ferrying people around this bright city, style is required. Your driver doesn't look good, you don't look good. The car goes over well with women too, and when women like something, we should take note. Women are full of good taste and good sense.

Something else I deserve: A drive along the water in a luxury car with a beautiful woman next to me.

I am grateful for my car.

I am grateful for women.

Several ridesharing companies exist, I know. I'm stuck on the big two. I call them Miss Daisy and KITT.

Miss Daisy, the corporate one, passengers sit in the back, the driver doesn't speak unless spoken to. They're the company that's the target of hate because the founder refines what it means to be an asshole. Yes, I choose to make for and take from that asshole, temporarily. He's a tool. Don't expect me to get sucked down the drain with him.

KITT, fun, passengers encouraged to ride up front. You're driving a friend. Have a conversation, catch up. That's the pitch to newbies from all sides. Truth: Behavior is fluid. Regardless of Miss Daisy or KITT, people want to get where they're going fast and safe. The expectation of an efficient experience is the world as it exists now, only more efficient than before.

Miss Daisy and KITT provide suitable GPS in their apps, so I understand passengers growing anxious when they realize I'm using my innate navigation system. Sometimes, they say something. Stereotypes bubble and rise. Men's advice morphs, and rather than ask me to follow the app, they attempt to commandeer. Women remain hesitant, about my knowledge and their own, when compared to a satellite. Those who are patient learn my time in this city dominates Miss Daisy and KITT.

I've gotten all the poor saps where they're going safely, so far. Bon Scott's ghost can't touch me.

I drive because the world holds rewards for those open to them.

In Taxi Driver, Travis Bickle says, I don't believe that one should devote his life to morbid self-attention, I believe that someone should become a person like other people.

Relax. I'm not lonely coiled aggression waiting to burst. That story isn't mine. The desire to hurt others, innocent or guilty, leaves my system a long time ago.

iTunes shuffles to Nirvana and we shoot up to the north side.

My sister Rose and Kurt Cobain together forever. He lives on in her heart. As a kid, I hear Kurt through the walls after dinner. Rose has her methods. We all do.

I'm on a plain. I can't complain.

Older siblings bring with them so many complications. Access to good music isn't one. On his WTF podcast, Marc Maron often mentions the older brother, the record store guy, the uncle. The person who provides an opening to music. Emotions travel through years, spread and shared. Feelings as spores, like body snatchers, or Khan's mind-control earworms, but powers used for good, only good. Even with the decade between us, Robbie fulfills the older brother role, and a trinity of sisters throws in their mix. The movie of my life can't afford to pay for the rights to its own soundtrack.

This afternoon, the city calls me from the car. I park and walk down to the neighborhood’s main drag, catch the tourists, their chubby waddles and wide-eyed uncertainty. I sit in a tiny square near a statue of an old ballplayer, Adolphus Schmidt. Son of immigrants, he ran these streets in his youth. I consider cutting over to the Riverfront, to the block with the old brick buildings, to 1918. German tool and die makers barred from their shops because of the war. The buildings too close to the water. Authorities fear terrorism.

Instead, I retrace my steps, forward, to the 1950s. Italians and Irish battle over corners. Men wear suits and hats unless they're drunks. Women wear dresses. I look for a girl in saddle shoes to take to the drugstore. She lets me buy her a malt. We hear rumors of underground clubs, mixed, password needed. We'll fit in just fine, but for us, the clubs remain unicorns.

Back at the car, I turn on Miss Daisy. I haven't even moved my hand when the phone pings: Jon. He's less than two blocks away and I spot him, a guy walking toward me, not so tall, broad shoulders, thick in the middle, more strong than fat. A gent in a suit. Confidence in his walk. It's the '50s after all. The man smiles and waves, confirming I'm his ride, and I know this guy. Ring-a-ding-ding, three years in, my first celebrity passenger. An actor, but not just any actor, one of those guys, a face we all know, a face I remember from childhood. TV cop, movies too, dick or heavy, the occasional landlord or salesman. Jon, Jon, I can smack myself for not remembering his last name. He slides into the back seat, tells me where he's headed, I nod to my phone, say I'm on it and pull into traffic.

I'm driving my car and I'm in my childhood home.

Television offers early company and comfort. My parents are always working, getting ready for work, or just getting home. The days when Aaron is nominally in charge. Victor is a shadow. Robbie takes care of himself. Sarah studies. Myra does what she does. Rose tags along with Myra.

Cable TV and I ooze forth from the same primordial gunk, and cable, like a made-for-TV villain to a cop from central casting, says, You and me, we're a lot alike.

How can I resist?

The waves first enter as Happy Days reruns, new to me, and real too. The Fonz, Richie, Potsie, Ralph Malph, and Mr. and Mrs. C. are in Milwaukee living their lives for my viewing pleasure. A three-year-old invents reality TV out of ignorance. I don't know how long I watch Keeping Up with the Kunninghams. Sarah sets me straight, teaches me the actors' names during the opening credits, explains character and plot. I go along with my sister, but I don't believe her. I need time to convince myself.

A staggering three dozen channels, mine to discover. Lying on the floor in the living room, the soft carpet, alone, years before the VCR project.

Happy Days gives me Robin Williams as Mork, takes me to life in Boulder with Mindy, and soon I find The World According to Garp, cable staple.

In an early scene, the young Garp climbs onto the slanted roof of the boarding school where he and his mother live. He imagines himself as an ace bomber pilot, shooting enemies from the sky, like the father he never knew.

Garp slips, and almost slides right off the roof. His foot gets caught in the gutter, and with his upper body pressed against the roof, he holds on, yelling for help. His mother, Jenny Fields—introducing Glenn Close—finds her son. At the top of the fire escape, she stands on the railing to reach Garp, and grabs his ankle.

He frees his stuck foot from the gutter, cries out, I can't hang on, and Garp is falling, but Mom has him like Thetis dipping Achilles in the River Styx. Jenny Fields saves her son.

Garp doesn't need a father.

In the car with Jon, my sisters' voices come out of the speakers, their arguing and laughter from upstairs. Their music too. Sarah is in her Talking Heads phase. Myra wants Madonna or Michael. Rose saves her battles. My sisters stay away, allow me to have my TV reign, but they live in my kingdom, and Jon is there too, dick or heavy.

I keep a discrete eye on him in the mirror as I drive. My brain doesn't stop searching for his last name. He looks at his phone, out the window, his phone, lets out a small sigh-chuckle combo with a little whistle thrown in. I can look at my phone, connect to him on social media, or find him on IMDB. If he notices though, it'll be creepy. I won't tell him I'm a fan, won't recruit him to come on the podcast, or even admit I recognize him. He's chosen Miss Daisy for a reason. No problem. Conversation is unnecessary. Jon's presence alone thrills me. The tether that binds us is narrow and translucent, but feel its resilience. The time and place, here with Jon Whatshisname, I sit back, press into that long-ago living room carpet. Jon puts a hand on the seat next to him, rubs his fingers on the leather.

He looks at me and says, This is a nice ride. His raspy voice sounds dreamy.

Thank you, sir.

Another brush of his fingers on the seat, and he says, Comfortable too.

Thank you, sir. I'm content for the peek past the shadows. I won't push.

I drop Jon off at a house in Laurel Heights, the perfect capper. This isn't business. I'm welcomed to his day-to-day. As he opens the door, he thanks me for the smooth trip. His voice makes me swoon.

I say, My pleasure, and by the way, I love your work.

He pauses with the door open, tips an imaginary hat, and smiles.

I watch Jon walk from the car to the house. He avoids a guy, head in phone, hurrying down the sidewalk. No recognition of the gift of Jon's presence, not even a chance. The putz misses a rare opportunity to be handed evidence of reality.

KITT sends me two yuppie tourists who want to go to the Riverfront. They're looking for hip.

Funny, you don't look hip, says Harvey Keitel.

He'd take a sledgehammer to the pretension that has draped itself over this city. Nobody turns the dial from sweetheart to violent nutjob as fast as Mr. Keitel.

At the Riverfront, the boats stay silent.

I trade the yuppies for a techie going downtown. I'm spacey, remaining in my childhood home, with Jon.

Even after I understand the concept of TV, in my mind it continues to exist for one, watches me growing, getting bigger. TV provides. TV rewards. Not until I'm seven, do I notice the technology necessary to bring television to me.

Robbie is switching out some wires on the back of the set.

He says, Stealing cable. Long time now.

You like TV?

He makes a sad face and says, "I do it because