I don't actually live in the city. I live in Berkeley but I do this thing called casual carpool. In essence, perfect strangers drive up to these transportation hot-spots to carry other perfect strangers into the city, three to a car. Drivers don't have to pay bridge toll and passengers get a free ride. It's an adventure. I've met some people with way too much mayo on their chicken salad.
Most Mayo Winners:
-a gigolo with a escort service beeper
-a Chevy Malibu owner whose stereo got stolen and he stuffed the cavity with fake flowers and miniature American flags
- a woman who makes all of her own clothes.
Yeah, those were fun and amusing but today's was excruciating. A woman in her mid-thirties with perfectly coiffed hair pulls up to the curb. She whips around to face me in the backseat and asks me to keep my backpack on the ground mat, scanning my belongings to ensure that this directive is followed.
Her husband is in the passenger side. I pick up snippets of their conversation about an upcoming trip. The silence between them is strangely strained. The husband hums into the silence and asks her boring questions. This conversation feels tiresome and stretched thin. She responds brusquely. After a pause:
"Hey hon, where's your wedding ring?" She deliberately chatters over his question and goes off about the wonder that is Costco.
"Honey. Where. Is. Your. Wedding. Ring?"
"It's in my box at home. I just didn't feel ready to wear it again."
Oh come on. There's a perfect stranger in the car and you are airing your personal laundry now? Wait til I get to Howard and Fremont to do that shit. I just want to get to work bitches.
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