They were from Kentucky, Indiana, Sacramento and they were in town for a wedding. One of their sons ordered the Lyft. I picked them up in Chinatown where they had been shopping and they were practically jumping up and down with excitement by the whole idea that this was possible. A stranger picking them up off the street, all done through a phone. Once the one in the front seat confirmed my race, she exclaimed, “I love Korean soap opera! And I have Korean friend. She teach me dancing and singing.” She launched into a Korean folk song and waved her hands in the air as if she was carrying fans.
One of the ladies in the back slipped off her shoes and her naked toes nudged up onto that compartment thingy in between the driver and shotgun seat. (Fifty points to whoever can tell me what it’s really called.) I love that Asian people just slip off their shoes whenever they feel like it, really I do. It’s like a cat curling up in the sun — they make themselves at home.
Somebody’s son called and they put him on speaker so they could all talk to him. They spoke in Vietnamese loudly, the way old people do when they’re calling someone long distance. It sounded like the ringing of bells, high low echoing then holding on to the last note til its sonorous fade.
One of them asked if I liked my job. Another asked me if I was dating. (Yes and kind of, trying, not sure what that term even means anymore.) They giggled when I asked if I could take their photo. I don’t think they understood exactly what a blog was. But they were up for it. I helped them with their bags. They posed and smiled. Click.
I gotta call my mom. I miss her and her feet.