Domestication

November 28, 2019 10:53 a.m.

Sometimes, a passenger or group of passengers will ask a question that I find immensely intriguing.

The day before Thanksgiving - yesterday - is one of our busiest days of the year, and, upon my arrival, a group of passengers happened to be in the midst of a fiery debate over the following question:

Can someone on meth successfully domesticate a possum?

That’s it. That’s the question. It seems like a simple yes or no proposition, but there are so many variables involved. 

How high is the person? Are they an addict, or are they a first-time tweaker? How long have they been awake? How much meth did they smoke? Do they have any animal domestication experience when they’re not high? If so, what’s their track record? What are the benchmarks for “successful” domestication of a possum? Are we talking about it just not hissing at someone, or does it need to be housebroken? How agreeable is the possum to begin with? How old is it? 

See? So many variables. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. 

My personal - and, I’ll admit, controversial - opinion, is that there’s got to be some sort of overlap in the venn diagram of meth users and people who have successfully domesticated possums. There just has to be. Go out there in the world and find ten people who have domesticated a possum and I guarantee among those ten people, you’ll find at least one possible meth user.

But what do I know? I just drive people around and stuff.

Rival

November 10, 2019 3:52 a.m.

My final ride of the night was a woman who wanted me to slow-roll by her man’s house to see if he was cheating on her. Or, more accurately, to see if a female rival’s car was parked outside his house. 

It seemed from her perspective, the female rival was the aggressor. Not the unfaithful lover.

I was specifically instructed to drive slowly, but not stop. And not to look suspicious. 

This, despite the fact that there was a woman in a bathrobe and bonnet in my back seat looking out the window at 3:15 a.m. as we made multiple passes down this quiet residential street that likely hadn’t had any traffic in hours.

After the fourth pass, she said we could return to the apartment building where she had been picked up.

As we drove, I broke the silence.

“I’m just a guy who drives people around, and obviously I have no stake in this whatsoever… but if he’s putting you through this kind of heartache, is he really worth keeping around?”

She sat quietly, contemplating - whether she was contemplating my question or what she was going to do to me for not minding my own damn business, I don’t know, but she was contemplating something.

Finally, she spoke.

“You’re not wrong,” she said. “You… are not wrong.”

We arrived at her apartment and parted ways. I hope she finds peace, whatever that looks like for her.