Married to the Mafia

The sun is beginning to set and I’m starting to worry that the man in my back seat has realized I am highly under qualified for what is likely the simplest job of the modern age. The GPS has continuously rerouted me through several dirt roads seemingly leading me back to my starting point. The man is quite large, actually. It was something I hadn’t noticed when he first slid his way into the back seat of my Ford Explorer, although I keep my seat as far up as humanly possible, so it’s not like he’s had any lack of leg room to complain of. I finally seem to be heading back into civilization when the man clears his throat behind my driver’s seat. “I’m so sorry, the GPS really doesn’t typically act like this. There are more water bottles under the seat next to you if you’re thirsty. I promise they’re sealed, aha.” Fuck. Why would I say that? If he didn’t believe me to be socially inept before then he certainly does now. Or he just believes me to be a lady of the night seeking revenge on every large, bald-headed business man resembling the one who wronged me. I’m approaching what appears to be the final stop sign of our 6th rerouted isolated dirt road of the night when the man’s phone begins to buzz in the seat next to him. I steal a glance over my shoulder to find the man enthralled by the view outside of his window. His phone continues to make slight movements toward the edge of the seat. Just as I continue past the stop sign, the buzzing stops. “What?” the man croaks into his phone. I stare attentively at the road ahead of me, hoping to provide him with as much privacy as possible. Over the next several minutes the backseat of the SUV is filled with strings of “Hmm”s, sighs, and verbal expletives before the man throws his phone down on the seat beside him. 45 minutes of prolonged silence later, and we arrive at the entrance of a flashy gated community. One starkly different from the gravel filled driveway leading to my own childhood home. I pull forward slightly, allowing the man to roll down his window and punch a few digits into the small box just feet away from the gates. Finally we make our way through a mansion lined, winding street, and arrive in front of a “home” that makes the housing approaching this one seem like double-wide trailers. The man swiftly slips out of my backseat before presenting himself in front of my driver’s side window and motioning for me to roll down my window. I swallow my anxiety and roll down the window. The man suavely presents to me a $50 bill nestled between his middle and index fingers and I take notice of the large floral tattoo covering the back of his hand. “No, really, that’s okay.” I insisted on him, putting my hand out to block him from dropping the money into my lap. He sighs, and opens the back door to my car once again, then dropping the bill in the backseat and swiftly closing the door before making his trek up the driveway.