I often wonder what people think about the place I live. The people staying here for AirBnB right now seem neutral. As a rule, I’m often unaware of how my guests really feel. Today presented a very special opportunity for my housekeeping skills to be judged by the religious right.
Fairly soon after I awoke today, a man was at my door, knocking. I was half asleep yet. I looked out the window to make sure it was not the police. I opened the door. I invited the man inside. I saw his wife in a truck parked out front. I told him that my home is a shoe-free house. He removed his shoes. We walked to the kitchen. I bade him sit on a stool, but he firmly declined, instead electing to remain standing across the kitchen table, gazing at the refrigerator.
I went to the glovebox of my Honda Fit, parked in the back yard. I retrieved the cellphone I had left there early in the morning when I stopped driving for Uber. I walked back into the house and gave the man his cellphone.
Jim, the man in my kitchen, had been my last fare, along with his wife.
I picked them up on Demonbreun hill and shuttled them to the house Jim’s sister-in-law owns in Lenox Village, about a half hour away. They themselves live in Spring Hill, fifteen minutes further south. Jim had drunken hiccups and kept apologizing. After repeatedly avowing not to vomit in my car, he then passed out. His wife and I conversed about why Brentwood was a good place to grow up, and the virtues of suburbs relative to cities. She said that suburbs are “family-friendly.” She indicated that she commuted from Spring Hill to work downtown at Lifeway, formerly the Sunday School Board of the Southern Baptist Convention.
The woman did not want to give me the address of her sister’s house; instead she directed me at every turn. Eventually, we pulled up near a line of townhomes in suburban Lenox Village. It sits vacant most of the time since the sister has recently moved to Chicago for a new job. Jim and his wife were sleeping in the house for just this one night for the sake of convenience. They planned to go back to Nashville the next day to retrieve their car and go to church; Lenox Village is a cheaper Uber fare than Spring Hill. Because the woman was concerned I might break in to her sister’s house, they had me park down the street where I couldn’t see which townhome they entered.
They got out. A half block up the road, I stopped to see if Jim had, in fact, puked in the back or left any trash. Instead, I found his cellphone. I drove back to the line of townhomes. I rang several doorbells, but got no response. Uber tried to get in touch with Jim on my behalf, but Jim didn’t get the messages since he didn’t have his cellphone. And his iPhone 5 was locked with a code, so I couldn’t use it to look up his wife and call her.
iPhones have a “find my phone feature.” An iPhone owner can track the device on a map. That’s how Jim, the family-friendly husband of a faithful Southern Baptist, ended up standing stoicly in my kitchen, gazing from across the room at my “Magnetic Dress Me Up Jesus” fridge magnet set. And this happened before my first cup of coffee.
I wonder if he liked my house, or if it was insufficiently family-friendly.
