5 AM Uber

“Good morning.”

It snowed a few inches last night, and you know the city hates the hood, so nobody plowed these blocks. Uber driver still speeds like I’m late to a wedding where I’m the officiant.

But the only kiss I’m finna witness is this guy's front bumper to a pole. Radio blasted like it's time to warm up the consummation bits with your granny as a hypeman, and he’s the worst DJ alive, but he’s all you could afford.

Clearly, cuz

Mans put me in a shared car, doubtful anyone would join the ride. Ignant that us Bronx bitches always find a way home. And we always travel in groups.

Now it’s three of us. Homegirl beside me has 75 bags and last night’s drinkiedrink in a clear cup. Homegirl in the front has her man on FaceTime while he huffs through a nightmare or an orgasm or his sleep apnea with the smoke detector chirping in the background every two minutes while she scrolls Instagram with its loud-ass sound bites. I’m seated behind the driver with pasteles strings in my ears, Google Docs on fire, anxiously looking over the DJ/driver's shoulder, trying to figure out how many exits he’s gunna skip before obeying Big Brother GPS and the pemdas of this shared ride. Uber Motherboard asks him the scariest full-screen question: “Are you taking a detour?”

Everyone notices I’m on edge. Either we’re all dying for getting in DJ Ubi’s car or —

“Ehcumi, uhhhh—” the driver hesitated before calling me by the man’s name who paid for my ride. He asked to use my GPS. Says the app keeps giving him riders and redirecting him, “but there’s no space,” gesturing to sleep apnea’s girlfriend, who never put on her seatbelt. He’s using his hands when he speaks like good Dominicans do, then mutters something in Arabic, and he’s suddenly and officially my favorite character in this story.

“Get off on exit 9.” The muttering continues, and he floors the gas. Okay, cool! Ya bitches is dying, not me. DJ Dominibibi got me on the door-to-door service. I’m his favorite. Or maybe I know too much, and he can tell nobody’s pulling a fast one on my anxious ass. Either way, my exit is up next and we’ve made record time. Motherboard is NOT pleased, but I am.

We pull up to my slushy block, and before stepping out, we exchange niceties—“Thank you, have a good day.” “Good night.” I telepathically whisper “good luck” to the bag lady, and they splash off into the distance.

What in the world was that ride… I pull off my pasteles strings and space boots at the door with a sigh, giving into the Puerto Rican curse of laying your coat where it lands, since my cart of clean laundry is blocking the closet door. Thank God I finally did my laundry. Fuck… I don’t have sheets on my bed.