The Real Ride Home The hack that picked up was one ugly son of a bitch. His greasy hair was pulled back in a ridiculous looking pony tail, his yellowed teeth matched well with the nicotine stains on his fingers. It seems he fancied himself more of a race car driver than a cabbie and as he raced off into the night I knew this was going to be a long ride. I'm not sure what it was that possessed to open his pie-hole or to say what he said. I guess some people just like to hear themselves babble. "So, are you guys going to Burning Man?". All I'm able to sputter out is a no before lapsing into stunned silence. Does he ask everybody who gets in his cab that question? Is he detecting some hidden reserve of wild abandon that I have no idea exists? I briefly imagine what it would be like to spend that much time that far away from a bar and my eyes began to roll back into my head. He seems shocked, even appalled, that we aren't going to be joining him in the high planes and asks us why we aren't going. My companion is quick to respond by saying that she couldn't get that much time off work nor is she inclined to separate herself from indoor plumbing. "But it's just like camping!", he declares in a voice that makes me want to punch him in the back of the neck. Finally, my brain shuts down in self defense against this man's grossly inane chatter. I begin to relax. I'm in my happy place now. Clearly the driver senses that I'm no longer sharing his "vibe" and makes a sharp left at high speed. Bodies fly everywhere. Parents on the sidewalk shield the eyes of their children. I am crushed up against the window as I am the only stabilizing force in the place. My mind races to find a response to this reckless action. It needs to be definitive, something that can't be mistaken for anything other than a fierce rebuke. "That's a lawsuit, right there!" is all I can seem to muster. Which wasn't, unfortunately, enough to shut him up.
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