I Thought My Uber Driver Was Going to Kill Me Because He Looked Like a Serial Killer

When you’re in the middle of a heat wave in Southern California — it’s either you ride the waves or sprawl under the shade of palm trees and light up.

In my case — I was in submission to the fan that commanded the space to bloat up with the breeze from the not so distant ocean. Moody with dizziness of beneficial sessions that set us back on the trail of creative manna — I was ready to head back to my neck of the woods.

The bus would normally suffice — but the potent fury of leaves that alight when you need to replace stagnancy with vibrancy had taken hold with a grip that signaled the need to be rescued without incident.

I called Uber and waited for what seemed like a flash of lightening. When my phone buzzed — I got up and gathered my belongings and then hugged my friend and wished her a cool night.

As I stormed down the stairs — I ran towards the silver Hyundai with visions of entering my sublet with summoned relief — as my bags hit the floor and my fingers ravage the fridge — for the bottle of wine and spicy leftovers.

My amazing musical came to a screeching halt — once I sat my ass in the front seat and turned to the dude commanding the steering wheel.

I felt a chill spread from my eyelids to the cracks of places I didn’t know existed as the face that greeted the sound of my closed door — prompted me to take a closer look at the passenger in the back seat.

She was passed out. I mean this chick was gone! Her eyes were soundly shut and there was no indication that she was casually aware of her surroundings.

Fuck me hard!

I turned towards the road and avoided the temptation to revisit the face of the man maneuvering traffic with a face that Stephen King wishes he could’ve traced.

My heart was racing in response to how fucking high I was and the realization that classical music was echoing about the chamber that had me at a standstill. I wanted to open the door and dive out — but I wasn’t high enough to escape the beams of real life.

He asked me how my day was and I affirmatively assured him that all was well. I wanted to pee so bad or maybe it was vomit. I couldn’t console myself enough to decipher.

Then he uttered the words that killed me.

“Where are you headed?”

I gathered the courage to face him. His features were bluntly hardened. I studied how his angular profile proportionately distributed the shapes that aligned in ways that seamlessly produced a functioning monster in daylight.

I immediately fought for my survival.

I carefully chided him for asking me where I was headed when he was able to access the information he sleekly posed with murderous zeal. He apologetically explained how he meant no harm. He was just trying to start a conversation that I had no intention of harboring.

The girl at the back was still out of it. What the hell did he give her?

As the cool air doused my skin — the sensation was oddly embracing and objectionable at the same time. I checked the mirror and sank even deeper when there was no sign of life emanating from the only person who could assuage the rising temperature.

When he asked if the ferociousness of the AC was adequate. I assured him that I was comfortable. In that moment — I took a longer glance and concluded that he was an actor.

Nobody who looked that menacing — could avoid the tentacles of an industry that begs for sinister humans on a daily basis. I plotted the career he should be enjoying because how else could I sit still while staring out the window — wishing for the parking lot of a Church’s Chicken or a horn loud enough to rouse the interest of the passed out body — directly behind me.

The programmed voice that alerts you know when you’re close — came through — and the girl with closed eyes — was revitalized on cue. Maybe — this was his plan. To knock us out and then wake us when our memories have been scrubbed away — as we robotically exit and enter the lair of our purchasers.

The car came to a halt and she got out after thanking her deliverer.

My high was releasing me and it was disorienting to be that aware of the empty space that engulfed me and the stranger — backing away from his logged evidence. And as we headed for the main road — he looked at me with fiery eyes as he mentioned the blaze in Burbank.

I agreed that the dry air wasn’t helping to stifle the remake of The Towering Inferno. Then I cast him as the menacing beaver with the beady eyes behind a furry cape with lips slivering with toothy anticipation — as the flaming mountains give him height.

As we rounded the corner that could’ve provided refuge from the creature in a stark white shirt that keeps referring to all things humanly inclined — I calmed myself into believing that I was the only one driving this vehicle of madness.

I wanted to interrupt our conversation with the random confession of how I was convinced that he was going to eat me for dinner, but then 7-Eleven appeared and I realized that assholes are always slated to die another day.

He looked like a slimy figurine with a penchant for pickups and prolonged drop-offs, but as they say — looks like can be deceiving. As the soberness cleared my vision — I noticed how much more scary he appeared.

I reached for my bag and thanked him for sparing life. He heard something totally different, but as the door slammed behind me — I quietly thanked the God I don’t serve — for delivering me to the place where superficiality and judgment intersect — to produce a maniac who watches a shitload of Netflix and smokes more than enough of the good stuff.

Either way, my vision has never impaired my ability to recognize what happens when you enter a car with a sharply-dressed rodent carrying a young girl who looks like she’s been sleeping for days.

Once the doors close — you’re fucked.

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