Things Lyft Drivers Don’t Say To My Husband

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Seattle Waterfront

Things that Lyft drivers do not say to my husband…

How old are you?

Do you have kids?

I hope it’s okay for me to say this, but you are beautiful. You don’t dress weird like other women.

Are you married?

You should marry a real man instead.

You are very beautiful.

You are not a real woman until you have given birth to children.

Are you a singer? You have the voice of an angel.

You are too nice to be American. I think you are lying. Where are you really from?

You are beautiful.

No you’re not. You look much younger. I thought you were a teenager!

You have such a beautiful voice.

I like that you are not dressed up for Halloween because it means that you are not a witch or worship Satan. And you are a good wife.

I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but can I have your number?

Do you love your husband? Are you sure?

If you were my wife, you wouldn’t need to go to work this morning.

Is this your home, or are you going to the address where you live?

Everyone should have a gun and a concealed carry permit. You never know when some maniac is going to have road rage and you’ll need to protect yourself. Gun control libtards are so stupid and they’re all gonna die.

You look much younger.

Really, are you sure you’re married? That’s too bad.

You are very beautiful.

I hope you don’t mind that I say this, but you are very pretty.

You were obviously raised by good Christian parents because you don’t have tattoos or pink hair and you dress conservatively. You are a very good person. Are you married?

When are you going to have children?

How old are you?

I love your voice.

Can I have your number?

Do you have any children?

What does your name mean?

Where are you going? What kind of appointment is it? Why are you going to see the doctor?

I hope you don’t mind me asking, but just out of curiosity, are your breasts real?

How old are you?

Are you married?

Your voice is so beautiful. Can I record you for my album? (This time it was a taxi driver for a unionized cab company who showed up at my house the next morning and stalked me for the next 5 months. Until I moved away.)

Do you have children?

You are very pretty.

Are you married?

You are very kind. You must have good parents.

I want to tell him: “No. I don’t have good parents, but thanks. My father trafficked me to pedophiles and my mother kicked me out of her house. I was homeless at 14 years old. I do have tattoos. Several. You just can’t see them. No, I don’t want to show you my tattoos. I would rather keep my clothes on in your car. My hair has been every shade of the gayest, most bisexual rainbow but it’s auburn right now because I think that it is a pretty shade. My current hair color reminds me of fall leaves. Yes, I am dressed conservatively as you commented, but let me assure you, I am a huge slut for my husband that you keep asking about. I am not a good Christian. I am not any kind of Christian. I am a Satanist on Sundays and an atheist the other six days of the week. I divorced my first wife. It was a very gay divorce. I’m not sure if my husband and I can conceive children because I’m 10 years older than you insisted I am and because I have had cervical cancer. What else would you like to know about my uterus and fertility? Please, tell me more about myself and how much I should leave my husband for you in the next 3.6 miles of this horrible Lyft ride to my doctor’s appointment. I don’t know how much I should tip you for grilling me on my fertility in the confines of your car which, by the way, really needs to be vacuumed. Your kid’s cheerios are back here, crushed into a fine multigrain dust that is coating everything in the backseat. The only thing you have not asked me is to clean your car for you.”

I try to be quiet and agreeable because I need to make it to my doctor’s appointment on time. It’s an appointment to check whether my reproductive organs (that you asked so many questions about regarding my fertility) are still cancer free. I am trying not to think about the cold speculum that I am about to have pushed inside me, painfully pushing my legs apart with the exacting turn of a screw. I am trying to be respectful. I don’t want to make you angry. I don’t want to offend you. I wish that there was an all-women and non-binary taxi service. Like a Curves gym, but for Uber. Like the all-women commuter trains in Tokyo. My face grows hot from embarrassment. I feel ashamed of my desire for driverless cars. Or at least a better public transportation system in America so I wouldn’t have to endure your questions alone right now. I stare distantly out the window, wanting to be anywhere but here. I try not to shift and squirm uncomfortably because I don’t want to grind your baby’s cereal dregs deeper into the plastic carpet fibres of your Prius.

“Is this okay?” you ask as we pull up to the door of my gynecologist’s clinic.

“No,” I want to say. “It is not okay.” But I don’t say that. Instead I chirp a cheerful soprano-pitched: “Yeah! This is perfect!” And I wonder how much I should tip you for thirty minutes of weird negging. I don’t want to tip you, but I’ve read about how exploitative Lyft can be with wages for their drivers. I unbuckle my seatbelt and slip my phone into my bag. I’ll figure out how much to tip you after my pap smear. Hopefully it will be clear again this year. They never tell you how painful your first LEEP will be. Or maybe it’s just me? Perhaps I have a very sensitive cervix. I’m hypersensitive about everything and you were well-intentioned, right? You didn’t mean to offend me and I didn’t feel comfortable telling you that I wanted to jump out of your car as we sped down the freeway. I didn’t tell you to stop talking to me. I didn’t tell you to stop flirting with me because I needed you to drive me to my doctor’s appointment. I needed not to be late. And plus, you’re just a nice guy trying to get by in an overpriced city, right?

I push open the clinic’s door. My phone screen lights up. It asks me to rate you. My finger hovers over the glass. I hesitate, twisting my wedding ring. It’s an anxious habit. I give you 5 stars. Driving for a living seems difficult and I don’t want to make your life any harder.

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Sabra is a child trafficking survivor who is seeking an agent for her true crime memoir | The Glass Castle x The Godfather | sabraboyd.com

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