Strip clubs are a common source of rides at 2AM. Sometimes the rider is a dancer, sometimes they're a bouncer, sometimes they're a patron. Sometimes the rider has a whole dang posse.
An interesting thing about Lyft is that customers pay for the ride and not by-the-person, so the ride costs the same regardless of how many people they can squeeze into my Chevy compact.
One Saturday morning I picked up a large group outside Sassy's. "Yeti" sat up front. He squeezed in and pushed the seat all the way back. This dude was big. He wasn't fat, but he was really tall and not skinny, either. Even with the seat back, Yeti sat with this knees up to his chest. His friends climbed in back. The six of them made two layers across the backseat. My rear view mirror showed a crowd scene. The group made jokes about "lap-sitting" and that now I knew my car could fit seven people. i told them it reminded me of a clown car in the circus and also of those old photos of college co-eds cramming twenty people into a phone booth. Why don't people do that anymore? Maybe because we don't use phone booths anymore?
Before we even go to the bridge, one of the women in the back started heckling Yeti for a story. She was kinda on top of the pile.
"Tell us a story!" Soon, the others were egging him on, too.
"Mamas and Papas!" came a muffled voice from under her.
"You wanna hear about 'Mamas and Papas'?" Yeti asked, turning slightly and grinning.
"NO! We already heard that one," said the first woman.
"I didn't!" protested the muffled voice.
"We already heard that one," she told Yeti.
"Wait, what?" Came another man's voice from the bottom row somewhere. "I haven't!"
"Fuck you," said Yeti. "I'm not telling that one."
"Tell us about your first time."
"My first time?"
"Yes!" the backseat cried out in unison. It was deafening.
"Tell us how you lost your virginity!"
"Was it the nanny?" the woman asked.
"No, we never had sex. We just played Mamas and Papas."
"Mine was," a man chimed from the back.
"It was Jenny Newberg."
The laughing stopped. Everything was quiet except for the sound of my window defrost. Seven passengers make for a humid car.
"She did my brother a month before."
"And he's two years younger than me."
"Is this after you joined the church?" someone asked.
"Wait, what? You were in the church?"
"I joined because of this. She fucked me up." Silence fell again. "We were in her room. I told her, 'I want to make love to you.'"
"She was like, 'Are you sure?'
"I was like, 'I want to please you.'
"It was so fast. She was like, 'How was that?'
"I was like, 'Amazing,' but the more I thought about it, the worse I felt. What had I done? I didn't respect her. I hadn't honored her. I felt so bad. I called up Jonny that night, and I told him I had just lost my virginity."
"What did he say?" a woman's voice asked from the back. I guess everyone knew who Johnny was.
"He asked, 'Was it worth it?'
"I was like, 'No! It was terrible! I shouldn't have done that. I hadn't shown her respect.' I was ashamed at what I had done."
"What did he say?"
"He was like, "I'm sorry you feel that way.' I found out later that he had lost his virginity the month before."
"He didn't tell you?"
"No, I found out later, after I had joined the church."
"Tell us another one!"
"I don't know which one to tell," Yeti said. I'm the same way. I can't ever think of a story, but if you give me a topic, I can go from there.
"Here, let me see your list," that woman on top of the pile said. She must've switched laps, because she was leaning forward, filling the space between the front seats -- all arms, knees, and long brown hair.
Yeti handed her his phone, and she started scrolling through it. Apparently, Yeti kept a list of everyone he's had relations with on his phone.
"Oh man," she complained, "these don't have last names!"
"I never use last names."
"Oh man, I do."
"I never use last names," he repeated.
"Mexican chick," she read. "Tell us about her."
This went on until Yeti tired of telling stories. He begged off, and he said, "Give me your phone." Scrolling down, he mumbled, "Yours don't have numbers... oh. You're at 37." Then, "Who's Bobby Donner?"
"He fucked me when I was drunk."
The backseat tittered.
"I guess they all do," she seemed to realize. She snatched her phone back. Her stories weren't as entertaining.
By this time we were in Goose Hollow, and they all climbed out, leaving foggy windows and way too much information behind.