The following excerpts are gleaned from my journal of rides
since beginning to drive for one of the major ride-sharing companies.
Names are changed, but destinations, dialogue and comments are not.
Your your own Ridesharing experience are welcome.
Send them to Dr. Write

Number of Rides Given = 374 / Total earnings = $2,406.99
Miles Driven = 2406.99 / Gas Cost = $514.05

July 10, 2017

I'm never sure of the relationship between couples I pick up. Husband and wife? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Dating? On several occasions I have made a wrong assumption and been corrected: "'re just friends" or "We're not married...not to each other anyway."

    9:54amTony gets in and asks to go to the fairgrounds. He's going to get his car.

    "Not the fairgrounds, actually...around the corner from there."
    He explains that he was helping a friend at a festival that was held there yesterday.
    "Couldn't pay me," he says, "but I got all the beer I could drink."
    I laugh. "Sounds like a deal," I say. "What were you helping with?"
    "Guitar straps. My buddy does custom made guitar straps."
    "Yeah," he says. "Makes a good living at it. You've probably seen his straps...fancy stitching, the singer's name...stuff like that."
    I nod. I probably have seen them; just never gave it much thought.

    11:34am I pick up Barbara and three others; bachelorettes heading to the Loveless Café; I can hear snatches of their conversation.

    "She's, like, so controlling, you know, but not, like, in a controlling way. You know?"
    "So what was that like?"
    Well she, like, invited everyone in my group, like MY group, you know; all of my friends, everyone I hang out with, but, like, she didn't invite me."
    Sympathetic responses ensue. One of the girls is frantically typing a text message.
    "It's Cynthia" she says, as she reads text message. "She, like, wants to know which was, like, the better therapy for me, the beer or the pie. So I told her, like, the pie, like absolutely, the pie."
    They all laugh.
    There's a momentary silence. Then the girl seated directly behind me taps me on the shoulder. "You're going the wrong way," she says.
    I blink. "Oh," I say, as calmly as possible. "What's the right way?"
    She snorts. "Well, I don't know. I don't live here."

    10:06pm 'HOME'.
    That's what this rider has given as his destination. No address or place name. Just 'HOME.'

    I find him, or rather he finds me. He's waving as I drive by the string of bars on lower Broadway. Can't tell which one he came from. (Or maybe he did the lower Broadway crawl.)
    He gets in and I ask where he's going.
    "Home," he says.
    "I know that," I say. "But where is home?
    He takes a deep breath. "It's where I live," he replies in a tone that suggests he thinks I'm pretty stupid if I don't know where he lives.
    "I need an address," I say. "A street and a number."
    There's a long pause. I'm pretty sure he's searching his memory banks. Then, at last, he gives me the address.
    I thank him and as we head off I can hear him muttering "Home...home..."

July 7, 2017

You may recall that I have mentioned the bachelorettes I've driven. Now The Nashville Scene (a weekly publication about events, eateries, and the like) has an article about the phenomenon Here's a link to the piece: Bach [pronounced 'batch'], Please! Get Off Of The Bus!

    Kelly is angry. I'm taking her to her boyfriend's house. And I'm pretty much at a loss for words.

    "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm just very pissed off right now."
    "He hung up on me."
    "Won't deal with it, you know?"
    "So he hangs up. Just because I get upset."
    "Mmm hmmm."
    "Down there...the beige house."
    I pull over and she opens the door and turns to me.
    "Can you wait?"
    I shake my head. "Not really...I mean..."
    "OK...I can walk." And she slams the door.
    "Hell hath no fury..." I think.

    Australians...going downtown to Lower Broadway.

    "OK," I say, "I have a question."
    "Sure a'right."
    "'Crocodile Dundee' or 'Priscilla, Queen of the Desert'?"
    They laugh. "No contest," one says. "Priscilla," the other adds.

    Turned off my phone during lunch. When I turn it back on, the name 'Bill' shows up. And within seconds, the phone rings and it's Bill

    "This is Bill."
    "Are you my Uber driver?"
    "No...I'm not an Uber driver."
    "Can I talk to the Uber driver?"
    "There's no Uber driver here."
    "What happened to him?"
    I tell him who I drive for.
    "You're not Uber?"
    "Is the Uber driver there?"
    "No Bill. You didn't call for an Uber driver"
    "Are you sure?"
    "Yes...I'm sure."
    "Can you give me a ride?"
    "No...I can't do that. You have to order a ride from my company."
    I tell him the name of my company.
    "I don't have that one," he says.
    "You must have it" I explain. "Your name came up as a rider for me."
    "So you can give me a ride?"
    "If you redo the order...yes."
    "And that'll make you my Uber driver?"
    I take a deep breath. "Sure," I say.
    "OK" he says, and hangs up.
    And my display shows he has cancelled his ride.

July 3, 2017

    Crystal wants a ride to Walmart, with two stops.

    "Can you stop at the KFC?"
    "On Dickenson."
    And soon she points out the KFC.
    And I pull in and park while she goes inside, returning shortly with a KFC bag.
    "Oh...and I need to stop at the Dollar General."
    "Dollar General."
    "Yes...the one on Gallatin Road."
    "Gallatin Road," I say, wanting to add "Sure thing. Miss Daisy."

    Picking up two women...girls really, in their late-twenties. They tell me they're teachers, in town for a conference.

    "Where you from?"
    "Milwaukee," they say.
    "Milwaukee," I repeat. "So..." I add. "When you go back, tell LaVerne and Shirley I said hi."
    A long pause, then, one of them says "Who's that?"
    And I figure I don't need to say they're friends of Joanie and Chachi.
    And I sigh.

    This pair of women in their late thirties are picked up at the Performing Arts Center and are heading to the Post Office where they parked their car. I might make three dollars on this ride.

    "Coming from the show?" I ask.
    The touring company of Wicked is in town.
    "Yes," one replies.
    "How was it?" I ask.
    "Good" the other says, "But I liked The Sound of Music more."
    "Oh yes...Sound of Music. That was good. But it wasn't as loud as Phantom of the Opera.
    "Yes...I suppose you're right," her friend says. "Or Cinderella. The colors were amazing for that one."
    "Oh yes...the colors. Not like Mama Mia."
    "And that wasn't anything like the movie. Did you see the movie?"
    "No," I say, not realizing the question was to her friend, who replies immediately.
    "Hated the move," she says. "But now, Chicago. Now there was a show."
    You liked that?"
    "Not really."

June 30, 2017

    Frustrations: The app goes off and I grab the phone and my keys and go to the car. I climb in, start the engine and begin to back out of the driveway when suddenly, PLING! The rider has cancelled.
    Maybe it's because the dot showing on their Rider App, denoting my car, didn't move. Or maybe it seemed to be going away from them, which may have been true when the alarm went off. I think a lot of them don't realize that I'm heading out from home, or that there's a railroad track I must cross and if a train is coming, I can't move. Or that I'm taking a different route or I'm in the far right lane when WAZE says "Turn left!"
    Or maybe they just don't like me.

    Two couples; late twenties; nicely dressed; the two guys arrive first and get in, chatting like they're in an episode of "Friends.".

      JOEY: Maybe we should honk the horn.

      ROSS: No.

      The two girls emerge from the house and scurry to the car and get in.

      ROSS: You guys took too long to get dressed.

      JOEY: Yeah. We have to be there in half an hour.

      ROSS: No, four minutes ago we had a half hour; now we have to be there in twenty-six minutes.

      JOEY: Relax Ross, we'll be fine. It only takes ten minutes to get there.

      ROSS: Well, you know, I'd feel a whole lot better if we had more time.

      JOEY: Which we would if they hadn't taken so long to get dressed.

      RACHEL: We're sitting right here you know

      ROSS: Really.

      RACHEL: Ooooh! Wow!! Really. Yes.

      ROSS: (To Ross, who is seated next to me, in front) I think you're in my seat.

      RACHEL: What does it matter what seat?

      ROSS: I don't know, but I called shotgun.

      JOEY: Hey, Ross, want some of my water?

      ROSS: No. (to Rachel) So, you're all dressed?

      RACHEL: Is something missing?

      ROSS: No! You're perfect. You look great. Doesn't she look great?

      JOEY (to Rachel) You want some water?

    Picking up Laura at Rocketship Elementary School. That's really the name of a school here in Nashville.
    Here's a photo:

    I ask how long she has been teaching.
    "Two years."
    "What grade?"
    "You like it?
    "I love it," she says. "It beats what I did before."
    "What was that?"
    "I drove the Oscar Meyer Weiner Wagon."

    I get a PLING from Cassandra, but before I can respond, the name is replaced by Shondra. WAZE tries to adjust, but seems confused (as am I.) I'm now hearing to sets of directions.

    One voice says: "In five hundred feet, turn left."
    Then the other voice says: "Turn right. And then turn left."
    But then the first voice says: "Exit to Ellington Parkway."
    And immediately, the second voice says. "Stay to the right."
    And I this what it's like to be schizophrenic?

June 28, 2017

    Bachelorettes at an Air B&B to Pinewood Social Club. Seems it's a popular place for them, but they can't agree on how to get there.

    I point to the screen; WAZE shows a map. "This will take us."
    "Is that right?"
    I point to the destination: Pinewood Social Club.
    There's mumbling from the back seat. The girl at my right reaches for the dashboard. "Watch out."
    "Sorry," I say, though we were well beyond the space needed to avoid the car that cut us off.
    "Here it is," one of the girls in back says and holds her phone over the seat for me to look.
    "Please don't do that," I say.
    "It's on Pinewood."
    I point out the window to the street sign. It reads Pinewood. I turn left.
    The girls are silent. The street is crowded with construction workers and the road is blocked. One of the workers is motioning for me to turn left. I oblige.
    Another of the girls points. "It's down there," she says.
    "But we can't go down there," I reply. "So I'm letting you out here."
    One of the girls mutters: "We have to walk?"
    A second one opens the door and replies: ""
    I call after them: "Have an awesome time!"

    Royshon lives nearby. His mother operates a small child care business. He waves me down and climbs in.

    "How yer durrin?" he asks.
    "Splendidly," I reply and he gives me a strange look. The navigator shows an address north and west, an area I'm unfamiliar with, but the voice in my ear tells me where to turn.
    Royshon says something.
    "I say this what on how it for me."
    I play it back in my head, but come up with the same thing.
    "I'm not from here," I say. "And I have trouble understanding the accent. I'm from the East."
    "East...yeah," he says. "My sister from there."
    He goes on to explain that he will be a senior in high school this fall and that he works at a fast food resyaurant.
    "I shoulda been sleepin'" he says, obviously making the effort to help me understand him.
    "Why's that?" I ask.
    "Cuz I got some late shifts comin' up in a coulple days."
    "So you want to sleep now?"
    I pause for a moment. "OK," I say, "but that's not the way it works."
    No reply.
    "It's not like a bank account. You can't save up sleep hours and cash them in later."
    He laughs.
    "This what on how it for me," he says and I can hear my wife in the background. "Belltone," she says. "Belltone!!"

    Two therapists from Michigan want to go to Green Hills Mall. Husband and wife, I assume. But maybe not.

    "We work together," he says.
    A team of therapists, I think. I wonder if they play good therapist/bad therapist.
    "Of course you love your mother," she might say. "Every boy loves his mother, but..."
    "But not like that," he says. "That's sick!"
    "We'll get out here," she says, shaking me out of the reverie.
    I drop them off at Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville bar.

June 25, 2017

    Took Charles to get his car.

    Took Fredericka to get her car.

    Took Louis to get his car. (Love those Sunday morning 'hangovers.')

    Two couples..probably mid 40's...dressed in official tourist-wear. Pick them up at another AirB&B. (There's at least one on every block in this neighborhood. So much for knowing your naighbors)
    "We're going to Broadway," says the Alpha male.
    "Any particular place?" I ask.
    They mumble among themselves.
    "Music..."says one of the women. "A bar with live music," the other woman adds.
    "OK," I say. And we're off.
    I turn left onto Broadway from 8th Avenue. And there it is:

    A small part of the Broadway bar scene.

    "Oh..." the first woman says.
    "We'll get out here," the Alpha male replies.

    It's Juan I accept and as I step out the door he cancels.

    Andrea wants a ride. I accept and WAZE says she's six hours and forty-two minutes away.
    I cancel.

    Samantha and Tom are going to a costume party (she explains as they climb in). He's wearing plaid pants, a green and yellow print shirt, and a giant red tie.
    She's wearing a fur coat. The outside temperature is 87 degrees.

    "Could you turn up the air conditoning?" she asks.
    I turn it as high as it will go.
    "Is that it?"
    Boyfriend shakes his head.
    Girlfriend sighs heavily. "No one else will be wearing it," she says.

June 21, 2017

    Paul is a regular; he lives a few blocks away. I get notified and go to pick him up. The ride is always the same. Down the road to a convenience store where he's quickly in and out, always with a black plastic sack the contents of which are not visible, so I speculate (to myself) -- a drug deal? a money drop? a beer run? beer and cigarettes?

    "Woah!" Paul hollers as we pull in and a car is pulling out and doesn't see us and we almost collide. I have to hit the gas to jump us out of the way and barely evade the other car.
    Paul leans over and blows my horn and yells: "Hey man! Watch out!"
    I have stopped the car and I'm watching the other car drive away.
    "I'm sorry, man," Paul says. "I mean that guy was a jerk."
    "Yes...well" I explain,"sometimes the jerks stop and get out of their cars and..."
    "Hey," Paul says, patting me on the shoulder. "I got your back, man. Don't worry."
    But I'm also thinking that some of the jerks even have guns.

    Dennis is a musician. He's on his way to a gig at a little out-of-the-way music spot called Santa's. And he's late.

    "Hey man...thanks. I'm running late, ya, I gotta be there by four.
    "I'll do my best."
    "I appreciate it," he says. "I don't want to lose this gig. We've been doing Wednesdays for over a year," he adds.
    "Nice," I say.
    "Yeah man..."
    "What kind of music do you play?" I ask.
    "Country classics..." he says, "...mostly."
    "Any Willie...Wheel...Bob Wills?" I ask, trying to sound knowledgeable.
    "Yeah..." he explains,"but more Hank and Marty...Red Foley." (I presume Hank is Hank Williams and Marty is Mary Robbins, but Hank could be Hank Snow. What do I know?)
    We arrive at Santa's at five 'til four and Dennis unloads his gear, thanks me profusely, and invites me in for a beer. "On me," he says. "I'm buyin' for as long as you're stayin'."
    I thank him, decline respectfully, shake his hand, and drive away, considering that the invitation was hard to pass up.

    Two girls, look to be in their mid-twenties, climb in; they're going to a residence that's not too far, but this is my neighborhood and as we round the corner we drive by a guy dressed in black walking alongside the road.

    "Not too smart," I say. "He needs to wear something white."
    " know why they do that..." [The 'they' is the first clue to this woman's attitude.]
    "Because no one taught them how to be safe."
    (She snickers, softly.) "They don't want to be seen," she says.
    "What can you expect..." the other one chimes in. " this neighborhood."
    Shades of Trayvon Martin., I think. "What do you mean?" I ask.
    "We're in 'the hood,' the first girl replies.
    The a hoody in the hood.
    "I'm just glad we don't live here," the second girl adds.
    I nod. "Me too." And they think I'm agreeing with them.

June 18, 2017

    Picked up Greg at home and took him downtown to retrieve his car. He left it in a parking lot and took a rideshare home. Which is a common ride I give on Sunday mornings. It always makes me think of the Kris Kristofferson lyric: "On the sunday morning sidewalk; Wishing lord that I was stoned; Cause there's something in a sunday; That makes a body feel alone." And I have to wonder if this ridesharing thing makes people more apt to do this and thereby cut down on drunk driving. I hope so.

    Anna and Timmy are standing at the curb; he's holding jumper cables. I'd like to think they're headed for some kind of kinky sex party, but no.
    "Kroger," he says as they get in. "On Gallatin."
    "Bad Koger or good Kroger?" I ask. [There are two Kroger Supermarkets about a mile-and-a-half apart. The 'bad Kroger' is older, grungier, fewer 'gourmet' items , non-gma, and organic foods and more cheap wine. The other...well, you get the picture. That's the 'Good Kroger.' They're bigger and not the sort of place anyone would go with jumper cables.]
    "Say what?" he asks.
    "The one on the corner of Eastland?"
    "Yeah...that one," he says.
    I nod. "The Bad Kroger."
    "Yeah," he says.

    Juan wanted a ride...then cancelled almost immediately. He does this two or three times a week. I have no idea who he is, but my paranoia makes me wonder if he cancels the moment my name comes up as the driver. Or worse yet, maybe it's my face. Should I delete that serial-killer photo? And what if I were Jorge? Or Juanita? (Why, just last week I picked up Julio down by the schoolyard.)

    Alex gives me an address and we head out as he gets on his cell phone and begins texting.
    "Oh...wait...not there."
    "Wrong address," he says. "I'm hooking up with some friends and..." He's interrupted by another message. "Pearl the railroad..."
    A change of address pops up on the Navigator. The voice in my ear says "In five hundred feet, make a U-turn."
    My passenger is texting.
    I make the U-turn and we drive toward the new destination for about five minutes, then...
    "Wait...not there."
    "Not where?"
    "There," he says. "Hemingways. You know where it is?"
    I shake my head. "No."
    "Hang on," he says and I see him typing and after a minute a new address emerges on the Navigation screen. "There," he says.
    The voice in my ear says "Turn right on Pealr Street. Then turn right." And we navigate to Hemingways, only Hemingways doesn't look like a bar; it's a stone building with a single light shining from a solitary window.
    As soon as I stop, my rider jumps out and heads to the building.
    And I head home.

June 15, 2017

    Paul signs on from downtown for two stops, the first at his house (to get his 'stuff') and the second at his girlfriend's. He strikes me as a very 'slick' fellow, talking primarily about his work, though it's not entirely clear what he does.

    "Just pull up in the driveway," he says, pointing out the 1950's style ranch house sitting uphill above a neatly manicured lawn. It's then that I notice his cufflinks. (Does anybody wear cufflinks anymore?) "I'll be right back," he says, and bounds across the lawn to the front door.
    A few minutes later he emerges, a hanger bearing a sport jacket and slacks slung over his shoulder and a black tote in his other hand. He opens the back door, hangs up the jacket and pants and places the tote alongside himself. I click on the LYFT app to indicate we're ready.
    The girlfriend's is acrosss town, near Green Hills Mall. He is immediately texting on his cell phone, perhaps to tell her he's on his way.
    The girlfriend's house is a good deal more modest than his, a frame structure with a carport, no front lawn and a gravel driveway. She's waiting for him at the door.
    It's rides like these that have me conjuring up a back story--the girl from a farm somewhere away from the city; the guy from a metropolis in another state who was first in the family to college and has adopted cosmopolitan ways of the sort that had her assuming he was from better roots. And I picture how it all unravels when he takes her home. (But no problem when she takes him to her family to meet Dad in his bib overalls and corn cob pipe.)

    Picking up a Rideshare company employee from the downtown office. The fourth this week.
    "Maybe you can answer some questions for me," I say.
    She smiles. "Sure."
    "Comments," I ask. "Somebody put in a comment that I was speeding. The message I got said 'A member of the community has reported that you were speeding...' What does that mean: 'a member of the community?'"
    She's a bit evasive. "That's an automated message," she says. "Somebody turned in a report."
    "OK...but was it a rider...a cop...the app (because it measures my speed)...? They're all part of the community--not to mention the old folks at the neighborhood community center. There's an old biddy down there who thinks anything over twenty miles an hour is in the Indy 500."
    She laughs. "Oh't worry about it. We look at those messages and delete most of them."
    "OK," I say. "But if the message is from a rider and I post a message that says a particular rider was drunk and abusive does anyone correlate the two?"
    "I don't know," she says. "I'll check into that."
    Ya think?

    A bachelorette party group. Nashville is reportedly the Number One destination for Bachelorette parties. (Vegas is Number One for Bachelors.) This is the fourth group of party girls I've had as riders.
    "So...we're, like, going to Broadway. OK?" (They giggle.)
    "Any particular place?"
    One girl to the others: "'s the name of that place?"
    Another: "I dunno."
    The third. "I can look it up. OK?
    The first: "OK. For sure. Look it up."
    The third: "OK."
    As I head toward Broadway I have to wonder if they're aware of how they sound. Does anyone who's a stereotype know when they're behaving like a stereotype? Do they do it intentionally?
    "OK..."the third one says. "Here it is. It's called 'Pinewood Social Club.' Do you know where it is?"
    "Sorry," I say. "I don't." Then she gives me the address: 33 Peabody. "OK?"
    "OK," I say. "Fer sure."

June 12, 2017

    I'm starting to feel like I'm the official musicians driver for East Nashville -- struggling artists as opposed to the big names; some with regular gigs dowtown (on Broadway, the pseudo Honky Tonk mecca of Tennessee)

    Andrew emerges from his house with a guitar slung over his shoulder. He places it carefully on the back seat and climbs in front next to me.
    "Broadway," he says, but I know that from the LYFT app.
    "To work?'
    "Just got a call. This girl singer got a gig down there at Tootsie's."
    I nod and we head out toward downtown. "How does that work?"
    He explains. "Usually a single performer cuts a deal with the bar, then he or she hires backup players. We work for the performer, not the bar."
    "And that works OK?"
    He shrugs. "It works. OK or not. That's how it works."

    Henry; leaving St. Thomas hospital
    He's visiting from Great Britain; had a touch of bronchitis.

    "On vacation, are we?"
    "So what have you done while you were here...beside being a guest at the hospital?"
    "Oh...well...the museums; country music, you know."
    "You're a fan then."
    " might say. I did a bit of karaoke at that place...Wannabee's."
    "I've heard of it. Never been there though. So you're a singer?"
    "Not really...just wanted to tell my friends back home that I sang in Nashville."

    Picked up Autry and friend at a hotel downtown.
    "Suzie Wong's restaurant. You know where it is?"
    "Sure do...not far."
    "Have you ever eaten there?"
    "Actually, I have."
    "And is the food very good?"
    "Yes" I say, "it's Asian, noodles and the like; a lot of it spicy."
    "No problem," one of them says and I wonder if they know it's a very popular gay spot. Maybe they do. And what does it matter. I'm just the driver.

    June 9, 2017

    Teresa; going to work at the Calypso Bar
    "Can you stop at a convenience store?"
    " this one OK."
    "No...the one on Fifth Street."
    "Oh...OK" and off to Fifth Street and a stop at the convenience store. Teresa goes in and comes out immediately.
    "I forgot my wallet. Can we go back to my house?"
    "Your house? Sure..." And back to her house to get the wallet and then back to convenience store.
    And to the Calypso Bar.
    I leave, singing Daylight come and me wan' go home!"

    Picked up Audrey and friend at a hotel downtown.
    "Hi...we want to go to a shopping mall. What's a good one?"
    They tell me they're from LA LA Land and I have to wonder why anyone would come to Nashville and want to go to a place that looks exactly like a place I'm sure they have back home.
    "Well," I say, "There's Opry Mills."
    "Great," one of them replies. "How far is that?"
    "Twenty minutes."
    "OK" she says, and off we go to Opryland and Opry Mills and Opry World. Hee Haw y'all!

    Here comes Adam and I help him load his stuff into the car: a turntable, two cases of vinyl (records), an amplifier, two speakers, a backpack and a dufflebag. He wants to go to the Hilton Hotel.
    "I'm a DJ" he says. "But I need to stop at a friend's to pick up my laptop."
    He gives me the address and we drive to the friend's house. I watch as he retrieves the door key from underneath a potted plant. (Too much information?) He goes inside and returns quickly with a laptop and puts the key back in its 'secret' place. Then we're off to the Hilton where we unload it and put it on the bellhop's cart. And the bellhop rolls his eyes.

    Somehow the vinyl semms appropriate for Nashville.

    June 7, 2017

    Joe and Ryan, from New Jersey
    Joe moved here a year ago. Ryan Is his buddy from college days. They went to Rutgers.
    The app says they’re going to Acme Feed (a local bar downtown). “Anywhere near there is fine,” Joe says.
    Joe yawns. “Did I sleep last night?” he asks.
    “Yeah,” Ryan replies.
    “I don’t remember sleeping.”
    Ryan laughs. “Do you remember talking to that guy in the cowboy hat last night?” he asks.
    "Cowboy hat?” Joe asks.
    “Yeah,” Ryan says. “He liked you.”
    “Really?” Joes asks.
    “Yeah,” Ryan says. “I mean, he really liked you.”

    Matt and Jenna, from Canada
    “Welcome to Nashville,” I say. “Did you come here to see a real hockey team?”
    They laugh politely.

    Zack, a local dude. I ask “How’s it going?”
    “Awesome,” he says, “so, like, man, like where’re we goin’?”
    I smile. “You’re supposed to tell me.”
    “Oh…yeah.” He pauses and takes a breath. “Home,” he says.
    I look at the app; it says Oneida Avenue. I tell him that’s my address.
    ‘Awesome,” he says.
    The hippy-dippy weatherman lives!