“I want to throw this asshole’s suitcase out of the car and leave without him,” grumbled the well dressed Indian man sitting next in the driver’s seat with a tinge of frustration that didn’t match his calm, clean-cut exterior.

I was somewhere in Milpitas, hitching a ride to Los Angles with this closet animal. Outside the car, the “asshole” stood nervously, waiting for his brother to “bring him some documents”. It felt like the opening scene to some shitty movie, an action adventure road trip drama, starring a young nomad, a grumbling middle-aged Indian businessman, and a document-wielding asshole.

It was real life, it was weird, and it could only have been set up through CraigsList rideshare. 

After waiting another minute and checking his watch, my Indian driver growled, “I’ve got a schedule to keep.”  He stepped out of the car, then turned back to me and said, “I’ll be right back,” slamming the door behind him.  As I sat waiting, I could hear a muffled argument unfolding outside. At one point, the trunk was popped, a suitcase was pulled out, and driver returned to his seat. With a blank, determined expression on his face, he put the car in gear and started to drive.

A minute of awkward silence passes.

“He’s not coming with us?” I asked. 

“He couldn’t get his shit together.”

So we left the asshole behind, waiting for his “documents” and contemplating how he was going to get to Los Angeles, now that his ride had ditched him in a parking lot in Milpitas. 

The ride to LA was mostly uneventful.  My Indian driver weaved in and out of traffic like a madman, but I didn’t want to protest his driving skills – the man had a schedule to keep, after all. Occasionally he would mumble along with the music, an 80’s mix he had burned “back when Napster first came out.” When the song would hit a high note, he would start to sing along, then, remembering that he had a hitchhiker in his car, he would fake a yawn to account for the high-pitched squeal coming from his gaping maw – very entertaining.

I arrived in Los Angeles a few hours later, put 30 bucks in his gas tank, thanked him for the ride, and was on my way.

Later that night, I somehow found myself at a Persian party, one of only a handful of non-Persian attendees. But that’s another blog entirely. 

Next stop: Palm Springs.

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