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  • Brian D. Hinson

The Fighting Wives of the South Valley


The time and miles between drop-offs and pickups have been very long these past few weekends. Most Uber drivers are staying inside due to the plague. It’s not an exaggeration to estimate that it’s just me and one other driver running the whole town. If it weren’t so, there would be another Uber ready to do that pickup fifteen minutes away from me.


And it was a good fifteen minute drive to the South Valley address at this late hour, but it looked like a long ride to their destination. I pulled into the drive. The garage door was wide open, the interior white paint spilling reflected light out onto the street. Inside were four people and no one was happy. The two women were screaming and pointing at one another. The men looked awkward, embarrassed and kept their distance. From inside the car, I couldn’t discern any of the words, but I could tell this might come to blows.


The men talked a bit, then engaged in a sudden hug.


One of the women took a swing at the other, but didn’t land it, but now their arms were all tangled and their husbands pulled them apart. They were released and went back to screaming. The volume was toned down somewhat and the women went back inside the house after another minute. The men came walking out to me.


“Sorry, bro, we won’t be needing the ride. But you still get some money, right?”


“A cancel is just over three dollars.” I was shamelessly hinting for a cash tip. The entertainment was not enough to cover the drive over.


“I’m really sorry, man.”


“All right. No problem.” I wished them a happier night and left.


Albuquerque, man…

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