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He turned quickly to look over his shoulder when he heard the door open as if I was walking in on a secret conversation. We made eye contact and I smiled fast- just so he knew it was okay to continue whatever it was he was doing.

“It will be that much an hour, yes. Yes, that’s for the drive,” he said into his phone.

“You want a flat rate? I could do that. Let me check with her and I’ll get back to you.”

On my way back from tossing the umpteenth bag of garbage in the dumpster, I thought about what I’d just witnessed. I imagined, in his spare time when he wasn’t crafting the fat beats that shook my apartment floor, that he worked as a call service for an escort company. He was going to check with his ladies and see what their price would be for a flat rate… which included the drive.

I had to carry out another bag to the dumpster. He didn’t seem as bothered by me this time. “Yes, the flat rate will be… hello? Are you there?” silence followed. “Hello? Hello?” His voice was much more nasal than I would have expected from someone who crafted fat beats and worked the call service for an escort company. He probably was doing something much more boring. Like working for Uber. Or a tech company… since they spend all day talking about drives. At least, that’s what I’d guess.

“Hi- yes. We must have a bad connection. The rate will be $202.99. Yes, that includes the drive. No additional fees.” He paused for a response. The person he was talking to must have thought that price was reasonable, because then he said “Perfect!” in an even higher pitch.

When I came back from Target that night, the hood of his car was up and so was the hood of the car next to him. His battery was dead. I crossed my fingers for him and hoped he worked for the escort service… or the tech company… not Uber.

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