I
am eager to look out the window as we drive and wait for a sense of homecoming that is bound to wash over me soon, but my cab driver,
Jerry
needs to talk because his relationship with his bipolar girlfriend is on the rocks and she tells him he is stupid and that he smells and everyone else tells him his bipolar girlfriend only loves his money.
I
want to be encouraging, but that sounds bad.
Jerry,
who may not be stupid but inarguably smells of cigarette smoke and orange TicTacs, started driving at nine o’clock in the morning and now daylight is all but gone.
I
am only his third fare of the day.
Jerry
doesn’t know the street where my motel is and doesn’t have GPS on his phone, so
I
hold mine out for him to hear the directions as highway signs and landmarks flash past us.
Jerry
buys burgers for his bipolar girlfriend’s fourteen-year-old son because buying burgers for people is how he gets them to tell him things, like whether his bipolar girlfriend is cheating on him.
I
want to feel sorry for myself because I’m missing everything outside, but
Jerry