Along for the Ride

In my next life, I want to be an A & J Cab driver. Not just any A & J Cab driver, but the one who delivered me to the first-year grad kegger Friday night.

It’s not that I’d like to trade vehicles -- I’d say the cab has 50,000 miles on my Acura, at least. And a shag-carpeted shotgun must be hell to vacuum.

Then again, if I were the A & J driver, I probably wouldn’t lose sleep over a few dust mites in my shag. Nor would I worry about blackheads, water retention, or the whiteness of my teeth relative to Jessica Simpson’s. In a moment of weakness, I might flex my bicep against Vin Diesel’s. Eh, screw it.

You, Vin, that moron in the next lane...not a concern. R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me.

Aretha provided the soundtrack for most of my 10-15 minute ride. No comments on the weather (humid, 80s); no predictions for the big Homecoming Weekend game (UVA Cavs vs. ?); no inquiries about my destination other than its address, which I provided in a semi-apologetic, lowercase voice.

I shouldn’t have called for a cab -- I didn’t plan on drinking much, and the kegger wasn’t terribly far from my apartment. But I placed zero trust in my ability to follow Mapquest and keep four wheels on the road. I’ve mentioned my constant disorientation and my eentsy driving phobia (which, incidentally, is improving since Charlottesville is an auto-essential town). Combine these two idiosyncrasies, and you get a DWL. Dangerous When Lost.

As soon as I’m lost...usually, we’re talking 5 minutes from the driveway...the panic light flickers. The advisory message says “Turn around immediately.” Decent advice, but perhaps too elementary. What’s meant by “immediately”? My brain interprets it as “instantly,” “now,” “without delay.” Thus, I tend to swerve into the turn lane before checking for oncoming traffic. Or I attempt a U-Turn in the middle of the road.

The last time I engaged in a “lost maneuver,” a fellow motorist yelled a compound word that rhymes with “duckbread.”

A cab seemed like the smart way to go.

Who would’ve guessed, an A & J Cab driver can get lost, too. Well, not “lost,” exactly. We reached the correct street with Motown trumpets blaring. Once we pulled into the neighborhood, though, there was the small matter of finding the right house.

Had I been driving alone (assuming I made it that far alive), I would’ve looked for the house with a bunch of cars in front. Long-standing TFA Delta rule: when it’s party time, find the home with foreign plates in the driveway.

Alas, I would’ve failed miserably. Charlottesville is a college town: pubs on every corner; a Starbucks at every stoplight; and Friday-night keggers at every one- and two-story within 20 miles of the school. My destination street looked like a mid-high SES parking lot.

Aretha segued into Lionel Ritchie, and the cab got very quiet.

One minute of address hunting...two...three...I wanted to say, “You can let me out here! I’ll find it!” But the street stretched for at least a mile, and what if we were at the wrong end? I watched the digital meter rise by half-cent. The cabbie leaned diagonally, mentally cutting the leafy mailbox camouflage. Prince Valliant, minus saber, plus Chevy.

“Can you read that house number?” No, I couldn’t. Damsel in distress? Oh, c’mon... If I wanted to be the A & J Cab driver, I’d have to accept the challenge. Er, take the wheel. I craned toward the righthand window. “I think I see it...no...”

A pair of headlights flashed behind us.

You might think that a little extra light isn’t such a bad thing, when evening darkness proves stubbornly obfuscating. If your mind works this way, you’re not my cab driver.

Time was on our side, but speed wasn’t. If we had any hope of negotiating this great “I Spy” street scene, we had to move slowly.

Unfortunately, most college students don’t move slowly toward a keg. Especially not on Friday night.

I pressed against the window. Lionel harmonized about precious love sent from above. The cabbie sighed sharply. And the anxious frattie crept inches from our bumper.

All the makings of a Vin Diesel car chase, in slow-mo.

Well, like a blockbuster chase scene, it ended in a blaze.

Two beaming porch lights illuminated a white, country-style house, front porch already littered with red Dixie cups. We found it! Or, the A & J Cab driver found it! No, we both found it. A joint mission. Us vs. the Night, the Frattie, the Shubbery.

I reached over the gearshift, past the boundary that separates brave cabbie from small blonde girl. In my hand, I clutched the fare, plus 50% tip. Money seemed beside the point -- an impersonal celebration of our victory.

The A & J Cab driver leaned toward me. He stopped.

He stuck his head out the window.

He shouted: “Fuck you!”

“Have a good time, sweetheart,” he smiled into the rearview.

Then, he was gone.

Maybe someday I’ll share that surly confidence. In my next life -- if not in this one -- I’ll make the road obey me, instead of vice versa.

In the meantime, I’m buying an atlas.