This volume of the Lunch Break Report is coming to you from my recliner, where I have been stuck for sometime now with a broken rib. As I sit here wishing I could be out getting my Uber on, or puffing on this bomb Strawberry Kush and wax cumble I have (can’t risk the cough), I recalled a lame little unimportant story to share with y’all. I give you…
The Three O’clock Free Crack Give Away
A late night round trip to the gas station booked by a young new couple all touchy and feely in the back seat. We traveled from gas station to gas station, but they were all closed at three in the morning. The girl, a self proclaimed Youtube personality (she was reluctant to talk about), asked me to shoot up to 7/11.
Ms. Youtube wanted to take a trip into the hood–well, from one hood to another. I was actually on my way home from late night bar runs when she ordered the ride. I figured why not squeeze in one more. Melven (another Uber driver), as she named him, cancelled her ride before I snagged it up, she wasn’t too happy about it. Ms. Youtube kept the early morning lively with her unique sense of humor.
As I pulled into the parking-lot, the three of us observed a congregation gathered just outside the front doors huddled next to a trash can a boom box with speakers that lit up sat on top of. There had to be five, six people in this group and another small group inside. The look on the guy’s face behind the counter said it all.
I felt bad for the guy.
The fare got out from the back seat manuevering throught the circus, and the dude ghosted her the entire time. It was kind of sickening, like high school kids on their first date with hormones ready to explode–been there, done did that. They disappeared into the Kwik-E-Mart while a fine upstanding citizen stopped right in front of my car and put on quite the demonstration on how to smoke crack.
It was absolutely–well, I’m not sure exactly what word to use to describe that experience, but it definitely was an experience. The bulgy wide-eyed junkie smacked his beak lubing up his snake skinned lips with his Jabba the Hutt tongue.
All the crack must’ve been gone, because in a matter of minutes the crowd soon dispersed, and it was almost quiet again, as it should be at three a.m.
I was soon greeted by some number in a tight white dress showing off each roll she was stacked up upon. This hotty noticed the Uber sticker in my windshield.
“Oh, you looking for someone to give a ride?” She said as she shuffled over in some clunky high heels.
Oh hells nah, I thought to myself, “No, my passengers are inside, I’m just waiting.” I smiled.
She crouched down to get a better look at me, “Didn’t you give me a ride earlier?”
I shook my head.
“Don’t you drive for Lyft?” She looked back at the decal stuck to my windshield, eyes bugged out on the verge of falling out of her fucked up face and onto the hood of my car. She was gross–and probably could’ve supplied me with a years worth of stories from one single ride.
The lovely couple exited the Crackheads-R-Us, with the dude still getting his ghost on behind his girl. I’m not sure how they acomplished any shopping in that position, but I guess they had experience, because she had a bag of merch.
They piled into the backseat 0nce again. Ms. Youtube was a fast talker, funny, witty and I’m betting a superb shit talker and as entertaining as the trip was, and as funny as Ms. Getting Felt Up was, I would have rathered Melvin took that one.
Club crackhead was an event I could have done without.