Are You My Uber?

With apologies to P.D. Eastman

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A foppish hipster fell off his barstool. The floor rose up to meet him. “I must call myself an Uber,” he slurred. And out of the bar he went.

Outside, the streetlamps blurred and the ground seemed to wobble. There were many cars like colored eggs, but none that sought him out.

“Where is my Uber?” the hipster asked. He plodded along the curb, but did not see his Uber anywhere. “I will go and look for it.”

A neon blue mini-fridge pulled up. Inside, two faces floated in a cloud of smoke. “Are you my Uber?” the hipster asked. “No,” said a dancing cigarette. “I am a smart car.” And off the smart car went.

The hipster kept on until a powerful wind shivered him still. The ghost had appeared without making a single sound! “Are you my Uber?” the hipster gasped. A blonde with short-cropped hair answered: “No, I am a Prius.” The hipster squinted at her COEXIST bumper sticker as the Prius drove away.

The hipster was getting chilly. He wrapped his scarf tighter and squinted into his phone. He regretted eating so much poutine.

On the other side of the street, a brontosaurus was wading in a brown lagoon. The hipster ran across shouting to a red helmet inside the dinosaur. “Are you my Uber?” he asked. “I am not your Uber,” cried the red helmet. “I am a goddamn crane. Move it!”

Just then the hipster saw a phalanx of women in mini-skirts and high heels. They clattered down the sidewalk, falling over each other, LOLing and validating and waving their phones like air traffic controllers swatting flies.

A yellow box rolled up and lowered its window. On top was another box that read TAXI . A man inside had gray eyes and a non-ironic beard.

“Are you my Uber?” the hipster asked.

The yellow box driver said, “SNORT.”

“Oh no,” the hipster said. “You are a scary Snort!”

The women piled into the backseat. One of them asked the Snort if he could take them to a club called Swag. Another invited the hipster to come with them.

“I’m searching for my Uber,” the hipster said.

The Snort scanned the hipster’s skinny jeans and coiffure.

“Sixteen years I’ve been driving this cab,” said the Snort. “People like you never set foot here. Now who can afford it? You treat the city like a fucking playground.”

A woman in the backseat puked.

“Christ!” yelled the Snort.

Suddenly, from behind the Snort came a tan sedan driven by a man with a friendly wave. The hipster stammered “Goodnight,” and he ran from the yellow Snort. He ran right up to the tan sedan. The driver smiled and welcomed him by name: “’Sup, Adam. Know who I am?”

“I know who you are,” the hipster said. “You are not a Smart Car or a Prius or a goddamn crane. And you are definitely not a Snort! You are the tan sedan I saw in my app. You are my Uber!”

The driver nodded, handing him bottled water. The hipster climbed into the back seat and passed out.