“Ms. Perez?”
“Airport?”
“Yes ma’am. Here, let me help you with your luggage.”
The bags were heavy and criss-crossed with streaks and tears; the zippers strained at the seams and the tiny wheels squeaked in protest as I dragged them across the driveway. As I huffed and puffed to heave them into the car’s trunk, I saw Ms. Perez shake her head in disapproval. Ms, Perez was a short, stocky lady, with thick, black hair streaked with generous strands of gray. She had a broad face, adorned with slightly hooded, almond shaped eyes, pearly white teeth and a hooked nose. Aztec I thought, maybe Mayan. What’s the difference again? Visiting family or returning home? Illegal?
When I first thought of driving for Lyft, it was primarily to understand the intricacies of the shared economy and use that knowledge to assist with Tifyn, my own venture, that hoped to provide a market for home cooks and local chefs. But as I started driving on the weekends, the activity soon devolved into the voyeuristic, judgmental behaviors typical of all social media outlets, with the added creepiness of actually interacting with total strangers, and getting paid for it.
“So where you headed to, Ms. Perez?”
“O’Hare.”
“I mean, where are you flying out to today.”
In my rear view window, I could see her rummaging through her purse, looking for something and finally pulling out a blue booklet: a US passport. Huh.
“Sorry, did you ask me something?”
“Oh nothing important, just where you were flying out to.”
“Caracas.”
She must have noticed the blank look in my eyes, because she quickly added, “Venezuela.”
“Of course. Business or Pleasure?”
Apparently it was neither. Claudia, who had immigrated to the US in the eighties as a single mother, worked as a maid by day and took classes at night, eventually got an administrative job, raised her two kids, beating them within inches of their lives to keep them in school and out of trouble, and now that they were married and settled, one of them in Australia, the other in California, she was alone, retired, while her older sister back in Carapuno had been diagnosed with cancer and needed her help, and the childhood memories of the turquoise Caribbean coast beckoned her, away from this cold depressing weather in the midwest. So no, it was definitely not business, and not necessarily pleasure, but just the next phase in an already eventful life to be spent with family and friends and loved ones.
As I dropped Claudia off at the airport and watched her shake her head at the porter struggling with the luggage I heard the phone pinging again. There was a ride ready for pickup on Terminal 2 with a drop off in the city. I was about to select it, when my phone pinged again and a text message from Alia popped up.
I rolled the car window down and shouted out, “Merry Christmas, Ms. Perez, and a Happy New Year!”
And Feliz Navidad and a Happy New Year to all of you as well.