At Post and Buchanan, in front of the Japantown Peace Plaza, three obviously drunk guys and a totally wasted chick stumble towards my car. They are blonde, Abercrombie and Fitch types. I’m waiting for a guy named Raffi.
“Are you our Uber?” one of the guys demands.
“Are you Raffi?”
“No. I’m Steve.”
“I’m looking for Raffi.”
“I can be Raffi.”
“Sorry.”
The girl approaches and asks why they’re not getting into my car.
“This isn’t our Uber,” the guy tells her.
“Why not?” she squeals and leans into my window. “Can’t you be our Uber?”
“Sorry.” I smile.
“C’mon. I’ll show you my tits.”
“Sorry.” I shrug.
“Don’t you want to see my tits?” She pushes her shoulders together to emphasize what little cleavage she has. Gyrates her shoulders and winks like she’s Marilyn Monroe, not some drunk preppy girl who probably works in PR because it fits her bubbly personality. “They’re kinda great.”
She’s a B cup at best. I resist the urge to tell her I’m not impressed. I have a pair of DDs waiting for me at home.
Her male friend careens closer and chimes in, “I’ve seen them and they’re fantastic.”
“Look,” I say. “I’m sure your tits are awesome. But I can only pick up designated passengers. Sorry.”
The girl continues to jiggle her goods at me until a couple approach my car from the other side of Post. This guy looks like a Raffi.
They slide past the drunk girl as they get in the backseat.
“Sorry about that, Raffi,” I say.
“That’s okay.”
The drunk girl waves and shouts as we pull away.
“That girl is pretty drunk,” I say with a chuckle.
“We know,” says the woman with Raffi. “They were in the restaurant.”
I can tell by her tone of voice that the girl and her rowdy friends had interfered with their night out. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay. We’re going home to watch the new Game of Thrones.”
I drive them to a high-rise in South Park.
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