Last night’s Lyft driver has a glowing pink mustache on his dash. He offers water, candy, or gum. He is a pro. We chat and soon I learn that he’s been driving for two years, and that he’s writing a book about LA’s after dark crowd.
“I’ve driven eighty hookers,” he explains.
“Wow! That’s a lot of hookers. And you’re taking notes, yes?”
Like I said, he’s a pro.
“So… what’s the craziest story?” I ask.
“It’s not about a hooker.”
“That’s ok, not every story has to have a hooker.”
“Well, I had a couple have sex in my car once,” he says.
I swivel to inspect the backseat.
“No offense,” I say, “but your car is kind of small for that.”
He explains how he picked up the couple outside a strip club, but that he knows she wasn’t a stripper because he drives all the strippers. Less than a minute after he started driving, he heard the seat belts come off.
“It was a short ride,” he explains. “So I’m like, they’re going to make out, I don’t want them to take the seat belts off, but we’re just a few minutes away, and I just don’t want to have a confrontation, because sometimes those happen and they’re just… not good.”
“But then I heard moaning and I looked in the mirror, and things were… rhythmic.”
“Yeah. And I’m just thinking, crap, now I gotta go get my car steam cleaned, so my night’s done.”
“So they finished before you got to the destination?”
“No! They just kept going.”
“So you said something?”
“I set the parking break really loud and cleared my throat. Then I put on the dome light.”
“And that stopped them?”
“So then I thought, maybe they just need a minute.”
“And so I waited.”
“I just counted to sixty and then I said something.”
“Like stop fucking in my car?”
“Actually it was, your here!”
“That was probably more diplomatic. And that worked?”
We arrive at my destination. I exit, but before we part, I tell him he has a good story for the book.
“Can’t use it.”
“Dude, I have 80 stories about hookers. The title is ‘I Drove 80 Hookers.'”
“Not every story has to be about hookers,” I remind him.