Regina and the Racist
By Kit-Bacon Gressitt
“When my son was murdered, I read Job,” Regina said.
Regina was my ride-share driver, fifty-something, and a seat-full of voluptuous curves. She was chatty and she talked with her hands vociferously, which was only a little scary. After each burst of information, they’d reclaim the steering wheel.
Usually, Regina told me, she has a gig driving a charter bus up to Boston and back, but then she has to wait four or five unpaid hours before she can return her passengers to Philadelphia. And if they don’t tip well, she’s better off with Uber or Lyft. She has a lot of friends, but they’re not all real friends, “Not like the real close ones, you know?” She has fewer of those, but they’re good ones. She also has mixed-race grandbabies she has to worry about, given, well, everything.
I was heading home to California from Philly after a Mother’s Day visit, and I’d been thinking about my long-gone mother and my adult daughter, wondering how she’ll fare when I go belly up. Regina’s thoughts seemed to be in a similarly cheerless place, missing her murdered child while she drove me to the airport. ...
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Photo by Diego Torres Silvestre via a Creative Commons license.