I Met God in an Uber

And not in the annoying kind of way.

Jul 17, 2024

On meeting Catherine, God:

“Dude, did we just meet God?” Alex asked me as we slid from the backseat of a Nissan Rogue.

We had indeed just met God. A 49-year-old woman who was sent to simmer our troubles into a big pot of its-okay-honey soup. Catherine, the part-time-strength-coach part-time-Uber would become two scrawny white boys’ Messiah.

Thursday night: third beer in hand. I dance a felt ball on a string to entertain myself, which happens to entertain Alex’s cat. Indiana Jones, the black and white shorthair demonstrates a soiree of arabesques and jetes. My head is slouched into my neck like a fat grocery store clerk, and I sink deeper into the dullness of the night. The drive from Burlington to Williamsburg lagged my mind and I began to drift. I started to dream of pretty Virginian girls with bright blue dresses and teeth that couldn’t be a shade whiter. For some reason, I have conceived the notion that Virginia has prettier women than North Carolina, it doesn’t really. (There is, however, something to be said for the natural avoidance of women from the Southern half of Carolina.) Perhaps Virginia is the perfect middle between Southern charm and Northern wit.

“Alright our Ubers name is Catherine. I hope she’s cool,” said Alex.

“Wait, what? You still want to go out?” I replied half asleep. Earlier in the night we talked about heading to one of the ultra-hip college-time bars on the downtown strip, but I decided in my head that the mood had died. That decision was instantly reversed by the half-grinning look of disappointment on Alex’s face.

“Sorry, man. This is one of those times when I’m just gonna have to force ya,” Alex said.

Fuck. I’m drained, but my half-dream left me feeling socially unfulfilled, so why not dive into it? (Post-Catherine I wouldn’t even think about being tired.)

“Okay, give me a second.” I bury my face in two handfuls of cold water from the bathroom sink.

“She’s here,” said Alex.

Fuck. Already? “Sheesh that was fast.”

“Yeah, man. Let’s go.”

I quickly swing open the door nearly whacking Indiana Jones who often curiously listens to bathroom noises.

“You mind if I bring your dab pen?” I brought my own, but the power button fell off during the drive and Alex isn’t into smoking cannabis nearly as much as I am.

“Yeah, bring it, of course, let’s go, she’s here.” Alex began to hurry out the door.

I rush out behind him hopping on one foot, still tying my left Reebok. I bought this pair of plushy-white Reeboks a couple years prior and was wearing them into the dirt. Alex was wearing a similar pair that he got from Ross. He keeps saying that they are knock-offs, but I doubt it. They were not as plushy as mine but were still a decent pair of shoes, nothing knock-off about them. My dad got me knock-off Nike soccer cleats once:

“They say Nike on ‘em, don’t they?” I eventually learned to be more Grateful

My shoes are tied, and no Catherine.

“I thought she was here?” I sniped at Alex.

“The app said 2 minutes.”

“Two minutes doesn’t mean here.” I was being an asshole but, in my defense, I had rudely awaken from my dream of soft thighs and hair ties.

“She’s right around the corner,” Alex reassured.

A bullet of anxiety ricochets around my stomach, I’m feeling uneasy about going to the bars. My feet become concrete, and I’m stuck in place.

“Dude, there she is! Do you think she’ll be cool? I’m gonna ask her for life advice.”

“Just don’t make us look bad,” I reply lamely.

Alex is the type of person who is never afraid of becoming best friends with an Uber driver. I’m typically the type of person who is polite and quiet. I don’t want to bother the driver, for some reason (boring).

Alex and Catherine helped change that about me and so I will help you:

I mean, what’s stopping these imaginary anti-conversationalist Uber drivers from pretending to not speak English or acting deaf? Nothing—You should try to become friends with your Uber driver. Every. Single. Time. Get your head out of your ass and allow yourself to be cringe. You just might meet God.

Back to meeting God:

Catherine arrived in a fairly new black Nissan Rogue. She rolls down the passenger window revealing her big, beautiful smile. Funky music pours out of the car. (Probably something by Prince, or Eryka Badu but I didn’t recognize it.) Her teeth are beacons in the night, radiating kindness and an aura that everything is going to be okay. I look down and my feet are in fact not made of concrete but were in fact DANCING toward the rear passenger door. DANCING! I boogied the whole way from Alex’s front door to the car; everything was instantly different and good after seeing that smile.

“Heeyyy, how y’all doin’?” Catherine warmly asked us.

“Great! We are headed to the bars, gonna try and have some fun, meet new people, how’s the night been for ya?” Alex asked.

“I just started and it’s fairly busy, can’t complain about anything.”

“That’s great to hear. Meet any cool guys so far?”

Alex wasn’t hiding that he wanted us to be the “cool guys” she meets. That would usually bother me for some reason, but not this time. This time I also wanted to be one of the “cool guys.” I give Alex a sly nod and he responds in parallel.

“Everyone has been cool so far, so don’t change that,” she giggles turning around in her seat pointing at Alex; the same grin is plastered across her face and now I could get a good look at her. She has smooth chocolate skin and small brown eyes snuffed by her puffy rose cheeks. She looks strong. Happy. Comfortable. Confident. I would trust her to sail this Nissan across the ocean and back.

I speak up:

“What music do you like?”

It was random and kind of a dumb thing to say now that I look back, but asking it helped me open myself up.

“All music. Do you want the aux?” Still smiling, she turns and hands over the thin black music cable. It was akin to the passing of an Olympic torch. Giving away music control in your own car is an act of service that shouldn’t be underestimated. How many times have you been held hostage to that shitty pop song from 2016, just begging your ears to quit working? If only you had control, you could play YOUR favorite shitty pop song from 2016. If you trust your passengers’ taste, a group playlist is the best option for democratizing the vehicle, if not, it’s up to the driver, baby. But, to give away FULL CONTROL? Unheard of. Catherine was just that good.

“Well, shiiit,” I said to myself.

I chose “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” as performed by Tom Petty, Prince, Steve Winwood, Jeff Lynn, Dhani Harrison, and more. Of course, it is originally by The Beatles. And of course, it was really written by George Harrison. (With the help of Eric Clapton tearing out the guitar solo.) In the version we are listening to, Prince rips that solo into an unforgettable, electrifying spectacle for the mind. Even when listening to The Beatles version I expect to hear Prince’s solo, but in comes Clapton. I’m not disappointed in Clapton by any means, Prince is just that good.

It started with Catherine subtly bobbing her head. I feel the rhythm and begin to bounce. Very quickly the three of us are nodding and swaying in sync. Pretty soon after that the car is a full on dance party.

The mood of the night was now about getting it on.

“Could I ask you for some advice?” Alex interrupted.

Oh god. Is he about to fuck this up?

“So, we have this friend, Nathan. He’s going on a date with an older woman, and he’s really nervous.”

Without even thinking about it, she answered:

“She agreed to go out with him for a reason. She must be looking for someone like him, so all he needs to do is act like himself.”

Be yourself. Not the most profound advice, but it was true.

“How old is he, and how old is she?”

“He’s 22--,” I answer.

“--and she’s 31,” Alex follows.

“Then all he has to do is be the best 22-year-old he can be. The worst thing he can do is try to impress her by acting older. If she wanted older, she’d go for older,” said Catherine.

If I were in Nathan’s shoes, I would definitely fuck the whole thing up by trying to act older.

“That goes for anybody. When you start to change yourself to conform to someone else’s standards you end up a mess. We are happiest when we are ourselves, it’s fighting the ‘You’ that makes you sad, angry, frustrated, unattractive. If your friend wants to be happy, he just needs to relax and realize that it’s okay if the date doesn’t go well. And, chances are, if she liked him enough to agree to a date, and he doesn’t fight his ‘You’, they’ll have a great time.”

Wow. Don’t fight ‘You’. I fight ‘Me’ all the time and sure enough, it always leaves me feeling bad. I have to work with ‘Me’ to be truly happy.

Alex and I laugh and squirm in the backseat in giddily excitement—this is exactly what Nathan needs to hear. This is what I would want to hear.

She had an answer for everything. We talked about her life as a strength coach prompting Alex to complain that he doesn’t exercise. She replied, “You sit down and stand up, don’t you?”

I mentioned struggling to find work in Virginia and she told me it would come when the time is right. I believe her.

Alex talked about his own love life but was beginning to answer his questions before they fully came out of his mouth. Catherine had bestowed a superpower upon us. Everything felt blissful as we made our arrival.

“Can you always be our Uber?” Alex asked.

“Ha-ha, if the wind carries you to me, and me to you,” she said.

We thanked her and got out of the car.

We met God. Not in the annoying Christian I see God in everyone kind of way, and not in the coo-coo-for-coco-puffs Jim Jones kind of way. We met a guide, a mentor, a Virgil. We met Catherine. The rest of the night was alien—we walked on new ground and couldn’t be bothered. Just like Catherine said: everything was okay.

Later in the night we made friends with a part-time-boxer part-time-motivational-speaker named Antoine. He tagged along with us for our Uber ride back home. The driver wasn’t Catherine, his name was Steven, who barely spoke English. Antoine and I drained the dab pen in the backseat while Alex tried to convince the driver to let him have the thin black music cable. We were listening to shitty pop from 2016.

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