What a Lyft Ride Taught Me About Love and Hate
All I wanted was a less-awkward Lyft ride. What I got was a lesson in hate, fear, and — most importantly — love.
We were pretending to drink alcohol illegally in a speakeasy, an adult game of make-believe. It’s funny how pretending to do something that is against the law can be a form of entertainment for us, when in some places, the secrets that spilled out of our mouths over portions of rum and gin would be more incriminating than the liquor we spilled into them.
The Lyft she and I stumbled into after our pseudo-criminal activity had run its course was driven by a chatty older white man.
She was too tipsy to speak, so I offered him a slice of my life, just enough to keep awkwardness at bay. I told him I was a writer who enjoyed capturing others’ stories. He told me he had stories from his 24 years in the Army, so I asked for the most memorable one.
“The only time I ever wanted to shoot someone was after seven men were killed and I had to guard the bodies,” he replied.
I was only slightly invested in listening, but as he continued on with his tale, I thought I could infer that he wanted to shoot whoever committed the murders.
