I’m sorry I thought you were a drug dealer. But honestly it’s wasn’t a race thing. One, I thought I smelled the mary jane on you. But that could have been the construction workers stand by. Or all of LA. Two, I picked you up at a pretty fancy house right in the middle of Hollywood where the Hills begin and you had on a ski cap and dark green jacket, skinny jeans and work boots, kinda like a hipster robber. Three, when I asked where you were going, you muttered Santa Monica without giving me an address. So I made assumptions which is what people do — we piece together the clues and put them back together in a familiar shape. So H, it wasn’t til we got to Westwood that I figured out that you were way outside any shape I could have imagined. You mentioned that you went to school in Westwood, Pacific Palisades and Brentwood (!!!) and that you were only 21. Hell no — I was sure you were in your 30’s from your laconic world weariness. The only time you sounded 21 was when you were talking about your roommate who you’ve known since you were 10 who’s now making beats. You played me his stuff which I really liked, then you told me he’s a Saudi Arabian prince!! So you schooled me on the Saudi Arabian royal families (one’s super straight, the other one’s totally decadent and has a whole sleeping with their cousins thing going on). And when I asked if you guys used to party hard, you laughed. I guess you grow up fast when you’re around incredibly rich people who grew up around other incredibly rich people. There’s a different standard. Me at 13, I still believed in unicorns. So your mom saw what was going down and shipped your ass to some podunk town hours away from Los Angeles for 7 years. (Honestly, I think she did the right thing. When you’re older, you’ll see. I swear.) You told me you were going to work at a skate shoe brand which I think is awesome and proof that your moms grounded you good. Anyway, I learned my lesson (again). Don’t judge a book by its cover. Or its smell.
Your Lyft Driver