Uber Ignorance
“It’s no different from jumping into a taxicab, Mom,” I said, glancing up from the Uber app I’d been scrolling through.
“But anyone can drive up and pick us up? I just don’t know about that,” my mother said, peering aroud my shoulder to look at my phone, even though what was on it would make no sense to her.
“There’s a decent screening process, Mom. Background checks, traffic violations checks, and all that, Mom. Uber drivers are probably vetted far more thoroughly than teachers,” I replied, glancing up at the corner we were standing at to see if “Axl Ryder” had arrived in his black Nissan yet.
She tutted, under her breath as if she didn’t want me to hear it. But of course, she was right at my elbow, so she knew I would. I knew she’d be skeptical. It had taken me six months of hint-dropping and six more months of threatening that I would go to Chicago by myself if she didn’t want to go. That I might be rushing headlong into drug or gang wars was the final straw. She seemed resigned after that to let me handle the traveling details.
Until it came to Uber, apparently. Grilling me about something she didn’t quite understand herself was like breathing to her. It had taken years, but I finally understood that it was her way of connecting to me, trying to understand me and the world I lived in.
“Oh, is he an Arab?” she remarked as the black NIssan sidled up to the curb where we were standing.
“Maybe. It doesn’t really matter, Mom. Good, safe driving transcends all nationalities,” I replied, going for a altruistic tone.
Thankfully, she didn’t perceive it as sarcasm and chastise me for being disrespectful. She was likely more proccupied with the Arab driving than my supposed tone of voice.
It was a 15 minute drive to our hotel, and for the first five minutes, my mom sat in the luxe leather backseat with pursed lips and a tight, unlined forehead. Axl and I chatted about our three-day stay, and I told him what we planned to see and do. He smiled and laughed and gave us a recommendation for lunch near Millenium Park.
“Do you and your mother walk?” he asked. I glanced at my mother, whose brow now couldn’t help wrinkling in confusion at the question. Of course we walk, she was thinking, we’re humans.
“She’s the best walker,” I declared, turning to her and grinning. I wasn’t lying. She loved to walk.
Axl smiled again and nodded broadly. I saw him look in his rearview mirror and make eye contact with my mother.
“My Amma loves to walk Navy Pier on nice, sunny days. It’s a nice, brisk walk out and then she can look over all the lake. I take her on Sundays, in the afternoon.”
“Is your mother a good walker?”
My mother had been silent this whole time, before finally chiming with that question? I prayed to all the cherubim above that she would not say something ignorant.
Axl caught her gaze again in the mirror and his smile was kind and indulgent and sincere.
“She is the best walker, like you,” he said.
Five minutes later, Axl had dropped us off at our hotel and helped with retrieving our bags from his trunk. He waved to us just before he got back into his Nissan and my mother waved enthusiasically back!
I stared at her for a second before she turned to me and said, “We can get him for the ride back, right?”