Monday, 08 March 2010 21:35
I was in a car on my way home from work this evening (Sidebar: It is always dangerous typing things like that, because now my work knows that I was able to go home before at least 9:30 p.m. I am such the slacker.), and my driver decides he wants to talk. But he doesn't just want to talk. After I tell him I'm at 33rd and 8th, he proceeds to say how he wishes I lived in Connecticut, so the job would be worth more. He continues saying this for a while, all while disclaiming that it doesn't matter, and he'll act professional because the customer is always right. I guess this is all understandable, since I do live somewhat obnoxiously close to work. But read where it all goes wrong, after the crease.
He continues to say how he and all his driver friends stand outside our building hoping for the Connecticut jobs, and how it's a dream for them every time a customer walks towards them. But then he says, and I apologize to those of you with sensitive ears/eyes, "But then you come and tell me 33rd and 8th, and it's like an electrical short circuit on my dream. It's like you took a knife, and...and you just stabbed me. You just fucking stabbed me in the side [hand gestures]."
Just what exactly am I supposed to say to that? I don't know. So I sort of smile and nod. He goes on to say, "But don't worry. Even though all the drivers are angry on the inside, they are not angry at you. Just you and everyone like you." Harsh, man. Harsh.
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