my uber driver believes in me

I went to my sister’s in Northern California for Halloween. It was a picturesque little town, situated smugly in the 5th Circle of Suburban Hell. I was relieved to fly back. Upon landing, I called an Uber to drive me the short distance up the 405 home. My guy was from Cambodia, the era that we don’t like talking about. I avoided the topic as best I could.

We talked about the gig economy, as I find myself DoorDashing when strapped for cash. He said a hundo a day was a good day and I replied in kind. He asked me what I did for a living, because DoorDash couldn’t possibly be my main thing (it is). I told him I was a writer. He said he couldn’t write. He went to school, he was educated, he could read, but he couldn’t write. Writing is hard, he said. It’s good that you write, he said.

I told him I wasn’t very good, as I’ve yet to be published. He went on to list the writers that had a late start. Mark Twain, he said, dropped out of high school. Malcolm X? He didn’t become literate until he went to prison. I had a head start, he said, and that I shouldn’t give up if those guys hadn’t. I found myself surprised at how learned he was about writers, despite proclaiming that he couldn’t write. He flashed a row of yellow teeth in his rear view, a positivity that I found inspiring considering the assumptions I was making about his past.

You’ll be a great writer, he said.

We pulled into my driveway and I tipped him in cash. I thanked him and told him that that was the most genuine conversation I’ve had in some time. I grabbed my luggage and shook his leathery hand for longer than was necessary.