Sophie Lynne Creations

It’s terrifying when Aunt Flo walks in the room; her hair is far too curly and her eyelids are far too blue. Steven could see her making her rounds, red lipstick and loud smooches. He observed the hubbub of the living room from his safe haven in the kitchen. Gary bounced his new and wailing grandson on his hip, eyes darting around for help. Matty wiped his snot on a crunchy sleeve and hut-hut-hiked a pillow into a lamp. Flo continued to make her sticky, red rounds. 

Steven was content lingering by the drinks, topping off his seltzer after every few sips. There was predictability in the kitchen, washing, stirring, doing. He watched people mingle from afar, as he listened to the chorus of it all. Crescendos of rumbling laughs and swells of “you’ve gotten so big”s. And then a loud cymbal crash– 

“How ya doin’ my Stevie?” Aunt Flo croaked.

“Oh I’m good, thank you, Flo. Uh, how are you?” Steven steadied his hand, though it begged to wipe the lipstick off his cheek. 

“Still alive, my dear!” she sang, her laugh bouncing around the kitchen. She pranced away to find her next canvas.

His safe haven contaminated anyway, Steven left his post and made his way towards the dining room. 

Everyone knows that the kids’ table at Passover talks about the important stuff: Netflix specials, fast food deals, celebrity sightings. They sneak mounds of charoset, jiggle the fat on the brisket, giggle at mispronounced Hebrew. 

Steven sat at the adult table (surprising, given his ripe, boyish age of 63), laying the cloth napkin across his cargo shorts. His hang-nailed hands appeared from under the table momentarily to straighten crooked silverware, then returned to his lap, bobbing up and down for sips and itches. 

Cousin Ben sat to his left, a psychologist. Steven pressed his hands against his napkin; it was understood that there would be no hiding anymore. Steven liked Ben, respected him even. And yet he often felt like any moment he might slip and fall under Ben’s microscope. It didn’t happen until the matzo ball soup round– a new record this year. 

Ben nudged him with his right elbow, Steven’s spoonful of soup splattering on his shirt. A flash of a forced smile crossed Steven’s mouth. 

“You been okay, buddy?” Ben offered, a sense of pity dressed up as a question. Steven’s skin itched.

“I’m doin’ okay, Ben, thanks. Same old, same old, you know?”

“Good, man. What are you doing to pass the time? I know I’d go damn near crazy if I was cooped up with no plans all day.” Ben picked up his soup bowl to slurp the last sip. The way he held the bowl with two hands and tilted his face right into it reminded Steven of a toddler. Ben continued, “Oh you know what?” (He assumed, of course, that Steven didn’t know what.) “You could be an usher for East Meadow Theatre right down the road! I’m sure the pay is bad but you could keep a little somethin’ coming in!”

Steven blew on an already-cold matzo ball.

“I don’t know, I’m not sure that’s my thing,” he shrugged. Images of the East Meadow ushers flashed in a little powerpoint in Steven’s head. Elderly and decrepit, with a certain smell about them. 

Ben kept his foot on the gas. “What about Uber driving? Uber’s definitely a growing company. Besides, you’d meet a bunch of new people. You should think about it!” He patted Steven on the back, topped off his Manischewitz, and turned to put his PhD to use elsewhere. As much as Steven wanted to hate the idea, he knew Ben had a history of being right. Steven had been feeling slightly antsy now that he was retired. His plants were getting sick of being watered and his TV was sick of the news.      

The rest of the night tumbled on: glasses clinking, guitar sing-a-longs, small-talk. Steven Irish-goodbye’d, countering hugs with fist-bumps when he could get away with it. The introduction of the fist bump was revolutionary for Steven. Specific, low-risk, minimal sweat involved, in and out in seconds. A few of the kids would knock his knuckles and then hug him anyway. Five percent of the time it made his heart jump and ninety-five percent of the time it drew his attention to how far the kids could get their hands around his midsection (namely, not far). 

Steven was almost out the door when Matty ran up to him with his hands behind his back. 

‘Wait, Uncle Steve!” Matty sang, screeching to a halt. “Pick a hand.” 

“Hey buddy. Uh, left!” 

Matty’s left arm slowly unraveled from behind him as he held out a mug, painted haphazardly with the words, “Best Great Uncle Ever.” A smile grew on Matty’s chapped lips, tugging at the corners of Steven’s as well. 

“Aw thank you Matty.” Steven turned the mug over in his hands. FЯOM MATTY was painted on the bottom. Matty wrapped Steven’s legs in a quick hug and beelined back towards the living room, socks slipping on the wooden floor.

***              

After he got home and washed up, Steven plopped himself on the edge of his bed. He took off his glasses and gave his eyes a rub like tired old men do in movies. He saw black for a few seconds until his vision reset and he swung his legs into bed. After a few tosses and turns, his chest eventually gave way to a steady rise and fall.

In what felt like minutes later, Steven’s arm emerged from tangled sheets to slap at his alarm clock on his nightstand. 9:00am: the time by which Steven felt like a lonely old man should be up and at ‘em. He groaned and starfished in bed, flexing his feet and spreading his toes. He was up, but definitely not yet at ‘em. 

A stream of Nespresso filled his “Best Great Uncle Ever” mug. The smell of the coffee softened his scowl. He took out his iPhone and clicked on Safari. 

How hard is it to become an Uver driver? 

Did you mean: How hard is it to become an Uber driver?

Okay smart ass, yeah, I guess I did. Steven tapped the corrected option with a tense finger. He sipped his coffee and adjusted slipping glasses. For the next hour, he scrolled through information about Uber, holding the phone low and far away from him like grandparents reading dinner menus.

He brushed his teeth. 

What happens if you get robbed while Uver driving?

God dammit, yes I meant to hit the ‘b’. Get over yourself. 

He pulled on his sweater. 

How much can you make while Uber driving?

How to do the Uber app?

Should I drive Uber after retiring?

***

It was raining as Steven scrubbed the back right of his rear window two weeks later. He held the Uber sticker between his teeth and wiped the last bit of pollen from the glass. Looking down, he chuckled and shook his head. He felt crazy, really. He knew he didn’t need the money, but also knew he craved socialization. Steven had been working since the summer after he graduated high school. A lumber salesman. Nine to five to nine. Four months retired and he already missed the feeling of purpose. 

Smoothing the Uber sticker down with his credit card, he stepped back to admire his work and snapped a picture with his iPhone. 

Text to: Ben Adler

Image attached

Message: Here goes nothin’

***

Steven jumped the first time his iPhone “blooop”ed– Uber. A black circle popped up on his screen. New notification from Uber: Ride requested nearby. Press to accept. 

The last phrase didn’t resonate as concretely as it should have, as Steven soon found himself pressing the button because of the classic “I see a button, I push a button” phenomenon. Wiping his hands on his jeans, Steven cleared his throat and put the key in the ignition of his beige 2006 Toyota Avalon. 

He drove Bradley Zamer four hours and nineteen minutes to Cape Cod. For four hours and nineteen minutes he listened to him blabber to his hot-shot friends on his hot-shot phone. Steven’s mouth remained bone dry as his eyes darted into the rear-view mirror more than Bradley said “man.” Steven was immediately transported back to how he felt all of high school: small, unimportant, and used. People like Bradley threw balled-up papers at his face freshman year of high school. They’d chomp their gum and run their hands through their greasy hair. “First one to hit his nose wins!”

The next few times the black circle of risk appeared on Steven’s iPhone, he paid much more attention to the Duration of Trip information. Fourteen minutes to the grocery store for a young couple. Twenty-three minutes to the mall for two teenage girls. Thirty-two minutes to a physical therapy appointment for an elderly man. Hi’s and how are you’s and not much else. But the sense of purpose was, he admitted, slowly returning. 

Steven clicked the black circle again on a Monday morning. This was the product of a failed attempt to fall back asleep after an early morning pee. It was 6:15am. 

***

When she got in the car, she smelled like ginger. A blue yoga mat was tucked under her arm and her gray hair was swept into a loose ponytail. She plopped down into the passenger seat, wearing all black except for a pair of big purple glasses. Looking at Steven’s stubbly face, his tired eyes now wide and blinking, she smiled. 

“Hi there!” Her voice made it worse. Steven’s cheeks now beat right along with the music that softly pulsed from the radio. Her voice was leather. Timeless and sexy. 

“Steven, right?”

“That’s me,” Steven managed to squeak out. 

For the next twenty-eight minutes to Focus Yoga Studio on Granite Ave, Steven forgot to fiddle with the air vents. He forgot to keep his eyes forward and his mouth shut. Her name was Melissa Santoro and she was real. Steven turned the radio off and listened to her laugh. It sang a song he didn’t know he loved and needed. She asked him questions he hadn’t been asked in years. Window rolled down, Melissa danced her right hand out into the breeze, letting the air whip between her fingers. Her left hand brushed wisps of hair from her eyes. Steven noticed the absence of a ring. 

Tuesday through Sunday wasn’t much of anything. Same old, same old, as he’d say to Cousin Ben. The first Monday that came around again, Steven sheepishly knew what he was going to do. He set his alarm for 5:50am. Nespresso hit the bottom of the mug by 6:07am, teeth brushed, clothes on. At 6:15, he hit the black button as soon as it appeared. Focus Yoga Studio. 

Pulling up to her curb, Steven could make out a smile growing on Melissa’s face. 

“Well, well, well! Look who it is again!” She laughed.

“Hey, if I can’t sleep and you gotta get to yoga, we make a pretty good pair.” Steven felt the last word leave his lips and his heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t tried to flirt in years. Melissa ducked into the car, her hair down this time. There was a new air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror.

***

For the next month, this became their routine. Each Monday, the twenty-eight minutes felt like two. Melissa spoke with big hand gestures and curled her feet up in her seat. By minute eighteen, they had somehow always covered more topics than Steven had ever covered with old buddies in the past. 

In week three, Melissa grabbed Steven’s phone and hit Create Contact, adding her number with a smiley face next to her name. He started driving her each Monday, without even opening his Uber app. Her right hand always riding the air, her questions were personal but respectful. There was not a hint of acting about her.

Steven could never lean into the small talk of dinners, of friends catching up. There was so much acting in it all. He would watch from his safe haven, never understanding how everyone pretended to have so much fun, to be so interested in one another. With Melissa, she said what she meant. She had intention behind her questions and her eyes; she had such gentleness in her intonation. Often, when Steven managed to say something that made her laugh, she’d whack him on the right shoulder, letting her hand linger for just a moment. She did it like they do it in the movies: her fingers would trail behind, leaving his skin tingling under his polo. 

At minute twenty-eight of week four, she leaned out of the car, pausing for a moment. 

“Wear a t-shirt and sweatpants next Monday. And cancel any plans you have until 8am. It’d be rude to turn down a personal invite to the class I teach!” She shut the door and made her way into the studio, effortlessly swooping her hair into a ponytail as she walked.

Steven drove almost a block before remembering to exhale.

The mirror that hung above Steven’s bathroom sink saw more of him in the limbo that was Tuesday through Sunday. Things became less of the same and less old. Tweezers unsteady between big fingers, shaving cream splatters, a haircut on a Friday. He watered his plants in the back garden and filed groceries into the fridge. And, what felt like twenty-eight years later, along came another Monday.

5:45am: up and at ‘em. 

6:02am: Nespresso hitting the mug. Best Great Uncle Ever. 

6:10am: Toast crunching. 

6:15am: A text to Melissa; On my way!

An hour later, Steven found himself staring down at calloused toes that hung awkwardly off the end of a blue yoga mat. He swallowed and pulled his hands out of his pockets. Melissa wore a headset microphone at the front of the room, turquoise leggings clashing playfully with the sunrise that poured through the window behind her. She set up her mini stage, winking at Steven as he stood at attention. Moms and millennials poured in around him, each settling into a stretch or a pose as if they were in on some secret. The only stretch that Steven could think of was a classic arm-across-chest from gym class warm-up circles. And that didn’t feel nearly as elegant as the moment required. So he stood and watched, sweating by the first sun salutation.

Melissa said to think of blue skies and happy places, so Steven thought of her. During savasana, she came around and pressed her hands gently on everyone’s shoulders. She whispered about giving into gravity, letting the floor completely hold you. Steven fluttered one eye open to track her gliding around the room. She turned to look at him, giving him an eye his mother used to give when he’d sneak candy after school. Melissa floated over to him and crouched down by his head. She pressed his shoulders into the ground, trailing a finger like she would in the car. Steven’s mouth slipped into an unbridled smile as she stood up. 

“Eyes closed,” she whispered, using her foot to give Steven a playful poke after scanning the room for other peekers. He accidentally laughed. Not a quiet, nervous chuckle, like he’d practiced for most of his life. But a loud, ugly, chortle that slipped out before he had time to self-moderate. Clearing his throat, Melissa shot a smile back at him that lodged right into his chest. Scared to exhale and lose it, Steven held his breath for a moment and shut his eyes. 

***

New text from: Ben Adler

Message: Excited to hear about how it’s going 🙂