The Bimbo In The Backseat
Another grey sunrise, another work day.
My first annoyance of the day is a ditzy, blonde, anorexic in 12 inch heels, screeching that she needs a ride to the airport. A modelling job I suppose?
From the moment her heels click their way into my backseat; all I can hear is the infuriating buzzing and humming of her cell phone. I can almost sense the smell of inane gossip being spread around her contact list. Like a disease. Infectious nonetheless. That, and the putrid, fruity stench of her nauseating perfume suffocating me. She doesn't seem to care, or even notice.
She's already somehow decided I'm unworthy of even a measly, "Hello," or "How was your day?" Somehow I can already tell that this is going to be a very long drive.
The sun scorches my unsuspecting eyes as I spin the steering wheel round and round. I simply try to stay fixated on the grey asphalt terrain in front of me. However, I can't help but stare at her through the rear view mirror. I'm envious of her.
I know she's probably on her way to a first class trip to an orange tropical paradise, with the only true cost being trying on a few outfits. A glorified clothing hanger. Yes, I'm somehow envious of a piece of plastic.
I always pay close attention to my passenger's habits and actions. I mean, I have to don't I? They could be doing anything back there. Saying, doing or thinking anything.
For example, today I notice that the pageant queen in the backseat bites her nails. I absolutely love having to hear the shrill, nonstop snap of my passengers devour their fingernails! Second place only to the calm, serene sound of nails on a chalkboard! Quite the delightful soundtrack to an already outright pleasant car ride.
She's carrying three bags. What could she possibly have in there that is so important?
Maybe she's a spy? Maybe she's delivering important, life-changing documents to the CIA?! Maybe she's a police officer on her way to arrest that serial killer that's been on the loose for the past year. I wonder why it's taken them so long to catch him? He could be anyone. She could be anywhere.
The alternative being that maybe she really does need that many outfit changes on her two day vacation. God forbid she forgets that seventh bikini.
Maybe I'm wrong- how could I possibly imagine a day in the life of a princess? My mother always told me that I was destined for underachievement. She always wanted me to marry a rich man and live the life of luxury that she dreamed of. I'm glad I proved her wrong. It doesn't even matter.
After what seems like forever and a day, our journey is finally over.
With all the stealth of a cocaine addict, and just a hint of drunk elephant; Miss Beauty Queen stumbles out of the car and whispers a barely audible sea of what I can only assume was a "Thank You." Should I warn her about the killer? I decide to let it slide. In all honesty, I'm just waiting for her to stop making that dopey, squawky sound.
She hands me the taxi fare and flits of to the airport terminal, she's probably already missed her flight. How irresponsible of her.
For some reason, today I decided to have hope! I thought that maybe, just maybe, the bimbo in the backseat might have left a tip. However, colour me surprised! Even better than a financial reward for a job well done, she decided to leave me with a pool of blonde hair and orange spray tan.
The taxi driver speeds off, on her way to find his next victim of the day. They never did find that serial killer.