My passengers ask how I like living in LA.
“I don’t know. It’s pretty. I work my ass off all night and day and I have nothing to show for it.”
Most of them exhale in relief and say something like “I hate this fucking place too.”
Trust fund kids dressed to kill. They’re going off to live it up and do whatever they’re off to do. I live vicariously through them as I shuttle them to various places I either can’t afford or don’t have the clothes for.
I’ve got that whole “on the outside looking in” thing going on and yet I’m learning where the street festivals are, where the great jazz and Italian spots are hidden up in the hills.
I want to go to the jazz festival.
Or that art show.
One time I got summoned up some mountain in the desert just east of Palm Springs to pick up a hiker and I was like, mother fucker, this is amazing. I want to drop this dude off, log out, change into some sneakers and hike this trail myself.
I should have.
“What is there to do in Palm Springs?”
“Uh, you can take the tram. It’s awesome late at night after dark. I like to fuck off and drive around in the desert in a convertible at night. Anything else in Palm Springs, you’re pretty much going to need a penicillin shot afterwards.”
“You need a what?”
Whoops, I’m talking to normies.
I hate bar time.
I hate dodging drunks and aggressive idiots in sports cars at 2am.
I do kind of like people on drugs other than cocaine. Fuck coke heads, though. I hate them.
“Fuck. My edibles just kicked in!”
I just giggle and put on The Orb or Glass Candy or something.
If your roll’s peaking I’ll rock the wheel a little.
I’ve driven this fucking thing on drugs they haven’t even named yet.
It makes my day when a passenger recognizes some really obscure track I’m playing.
Or they sing along.
“Dude, you’re into some Rose Royce tonight?”
Fuck yeah I am.
Having lived and/or been everywhere is an asset. There’s a good chance I’ve been to your hometown and can place landmarks and spots there.