Alright Kayla, just 20 more minutes until you’re home. You think we can last 20 minutes? It’s just five minutes four times. That’s nothing! Heck, sometimes I open my phone and the next thing I know 45 minutes have gone by and I’m still on the toilet. We can get through 20 breezy minutes.
I mean, surely five minutes have already passed since I started this internal monologue. Oh, it’s only been 30 seconds? Well.
Hey, that’s ok. 30 seconds is still progress. Let’s think, what should I say… maybe I can thank her again for taking care of Timmy tonight. I know I said that three or four times already, but it certainly can’t hurt to repeat it. She did us a favor by watching him so we could see the Shawn Mendes documentary in theaters.
Apparently, Timmy was very well-behaved! That’s shocking to me because normally when we leave him with a sitter, he throws a tantrum so big it’s recognized as an international nuclear event. But not tonight.
Not the one night I’m desperately searching for any common ground with the teenage stranger sitting next to me. Great job, Timmy. I’m “proud of you” for “being a big boy” or whatever.
Has it been five minutes yet? Two. Terrific.
Well, I already asked her about school, her parents, her brother. Everyone’s fine, she said. That’s completely unhelpful, Kayla. Are we working together here or not?
What do you even ask teenage girls about, periods? Acne? That new pop star with the big red hair? Is that the girl from Brave? I didn’t realize she could sing!
Shoot. We’re stopped at a red light. All the more time for us to notice how deafeningly quiet this car is. Maybe I’ll cough. That’s not exactly talking, but it’s not not talking.
Oh no, Kayla just said bless you.
“Sorry, that was actually a cough.”
“Okay.”
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, DEREK? Correcting her politeness? Jesus Christ, this is why no one at work invites you to happy hours.
Oh, why don’t I just put on the radio? That’s an obvious way to fill the silence. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that earlier. Fucking idiot. Let’s see, what station would make me seem hip and fun-loving, but not like the kind of guy who earnestly uses the phrase “hip and fun-loving.” Pop hits? Rap? This American Life? I’m thinking about this for too long. Let’s just turn it on and see what happens.
NO! NOT “BABY SHARK” AT FULL VOLUME!!
I hate my life. No more radio. I’m sticking with the devil I know.
God, I hope Kayla’s not uncomfortable. Maybe there’s something I can say to reassure her that I’m nice, safe, not a creep, and totally regular. Something simple that doesn’t backfire as soon as I say it. Surely you can think of one thing to say, Derek.
“That dress is—you look great in it!”
OH MY GOD. You look great in that dress, are you kidding me? Why didn’t you just finish the first sentence “that dress is nice.” That would have been semi-normal. But you’re not normal, are you? No. You’re Derek. A 47-year-old data analyst with no personality and a clinically dangerous number of rashes.
How has it not been 20 minutes yet? This is torture. They should replace Guantanamo with sitting in a car for 20 minutes with a teenager you just met.
Wait a minute, there’s her house! Oh my god, I can’t believe we made it. I really thought I was gonna have to pull over and tell the 15-year-old to drive herself home, for both of our sakes. That was brutal. But we did it. I’m proud of us, Kayla! Now’s the easy part: wishing her a normal, relaxed, routine goodbye.
“Thanks again Kayla. Have a good night. Love you!”
FUCK.