On the couch with Dr Henry, Uber rating 4.91

I’m not sure if there’s something in my personal make-up that makes me sing like a canary the minute I flop into the seat of a silver, late-model Toyota Corolla, or if everybody feels inclined to share their darkest secrets with their Uber person.

That’s certainly the way I proceed. It’s almost like the minute I open that app, and that clunky little car image starts homing in on my position on the map of greater Auckland Park, and I brace myself for the arrival of Gabriel with his registration starting with GN, with his impressive 18,341 previous trips at an almost unbelievable 4.91-star average… The minute that happens, it’s like I have consumed truth serum or something.

By the time I open the door and confirm, “Gabriel?” I’m basically ready to start spilling the beans on every one of my darkest secrets.

My divorce? Dude, I will open with that. From there I will segue into the power dynamics of my office, my relationship with my father, and how things are going on the househunting front. I may mention the time I got arrested, and finally I will explain how I used to have this weird problem with my ballbag, but it’s much better now.

For me, there really are no taboos in an Uber. I don’t know why, though. I kind of wish there were.

I guess I seal my own fate by always sitting in the front passenger seat. I know other people go back seat, and try set up a bit of a chauffeur-driving illusion.

“Back to the estate, James.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Not I! I plunge into that front seat as if my R200 trip from Hells Kitchen back to Sandton entitles me to half an hour of therapy combined with some freestyle political analysis by yours truly.

When I’m in an Uber, it’s like Dr Phil meets 702. There are no holy cows. Often I will encounter a willing foil, like Henry the other day. He spotted me early on as one of those ones who like to talk, and we got amongst it.

He asked me to explain the challenges facing the president. I explained them. I then made a quick detour into solving climate change, before delivering a short TED talk on intersectionality as it applies to the middle-aged dating scene.

To be honest, I got on a roll and I couldn’t stop myself. I mistook transparency of self for knowledge. You know that strange trick of the mind where you become so sure that you know yourself, that you start believing you know everything?

Basically, I was five to whitesplaining the hardships of the struggle against apartheid to a black man. That’s how far up my own arsehole I was heading. Look, those draughts from Xai-Xai had a lot to do with it, but for a while in that Uber, sitting next to Henry, and explaining the world to him, I felt pretty omniscient.

I was covering so much ground, that we basically ran out of things to talk about by the time we took the Grayston offramp. The last few kays were driven in silence. All the boxes were ticked. All the issues of our age had been demystified, thanks to my honesty and my political insight.

Unless of course … Was it possible that I was being a bit embarrassing? Offensive, even?

Me? The Stephen Grootes of the highway? Maybe I’d bungled it a bit, to be honest, and not quite done justice to that thing about politics that I read on Twitter.

Maybe I was also starting to descend from the clouds of bravado and euphoric omnipotence into the tropopause of early sobriety and a gentle hoofpyn. I started getting embarrassed.

“Anyway,” I said trying to cover my tracks. “Not that I know much about anything. I certainly don’t have all the answers.”

There was a beat. Our trip ended, and Henry said, “Indeed sir.”

I got out and started patting myself down for my house keys. They were either on top of the bogs at Xai-Xai, or on the front seat of that Corolla. The one heading back towards the M1.

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